Two days and counting. That’s how long it’s been since the boy has pooped.
Yes, I’m going to blab about poop and my son. Before kids, it’s an unspoken topic. Well, that is unless you’re in a dorm room drinking and passing around stories that start with “dude, this one time…”
But then when you have kids…it seems so common to walk up to two parents at the playground after school lets out and hear:
“and so he’s taking this massive poop and it’s blue! And so I freak, right? I mean, the boy’s poop is blue! But then I remember…we ate cotton-candy flavored ice cream last night and it totally makes sense that his poop was dyed Smurf.”
My boy has done nothing but poop pellets for a couple days now. And the complaints that his stomach aches are running rampant. And he’s got all the bad genes I could have possibly passed along…the most notorious being the “worry/obsessive gene.” So if he’s home, he’s sitting on the toilet. And afterwards we get the detailed blow by blow.
He comes creeping down, looking over his shoulder to see where his sister is while pulling us into a secluded corner. In the almost most perfect drug dealer talk he keeps checking over his shoulders while engaging the wife and I in a dialogue about the size and girth of the mini-poop he just unleashed.
Then he quickly ends it with, “and I left it for you to go look at.”
“That’s awesome Grayson. Umm… how about you start flushing the toilet since you’re giving us such accurate detailed descriptions of your mini creations,” I quickly tell him.
Yesterday we called the doctor who said we should buy glycerin suppositories, slide them in, tell him to fight the urge to poop till he can’t hold it anymore, then let it ride.
SUPPOSITORIES!!
I laughed at the wife when she uttered that sphincter-tightening word.
After she calmly explained I was never to laugh at her again I headed to the store. Standing in the “laxative” isle looking for these damn suppositories was the equivalent of being announced over the loud speaker “customer in the blue hat can’t drop a deuce and I’m gonna assume it’s because he’s got a Star Wars figure or hairbrush stuck up there.”
Along with my purchase I acquired “Rubber Finger Protectors” which according to the package “are ideal for inserting suppositories, applying hemorrhoidal cream and medication to open wounds.”
None of which I had any desire, what-so-ever to do. That’s when I laid the smack-down.
“I refuse,” I told the wife.
The boy roughly said the same thing to the idea.
Apple juice, 1 ton of raisins ingested, and a whole lot of poop coercing of the boy and he finally gave birth to a healthy, happy turd named “Colon Blow.”
Yes he still obsesses about his poops and I’m sure he will be for some time. It’s in the family genes. In fact, I’d be shocked if he ever pooped regularly again.
But I guess what I’ve learned from this experience is…hell, I don’t know what I learned from this experience. I’m just glad the boy finally pooped and I'm pretty confident this blog post will be found through some very disgusting Google search words.
