Back when I was teaching deaf kids, my co-workers had gone on some trip for a conference in the Midwest. While they were there, one of them found this bird made out of petrified cow patties in the hotel gift shop. She of course had to buy it. They brought it home and it made the rounds, as a joke, in various people’s classrooms – it would show up unexpectedly on your desk or bookshelf or whatever. We called it “The Turd Bird”. I miss that little guy.
Poop is always a common subject in my world. When you are a mom, you kind of obsess over it. I think this is because you are confronted on a daily basis with looking at poo in its various forms in a diaper, wiping it off your kid’s butt, tackling the dreaded blowout, or hoping it doesn’t end up smeared on their clothing or your toilet seat. I talk about kid poop with my mom friends and compare bowel movements or lack thereof.
However, I don’t think this is just a mommy topic. As we get older, my friends and I talk about poop all the time. It is a very important part of life. We sympathize if someone says she’s plugged up like a dry Oklahoma well. We share remedies like Raisin Bran and Metamucil and running stairs. We laugh when we tell stories of public places that somehow mysteriously tickle our rectums and make us run for the bathroom. You know, the store or place that right when you walk through the doors YOU GOTTA GO. Yuck. And who loves public bathrooms? I am guessing other people talk about poo just as much, but I can’t be sure.
When I was pregnant with Sloan, I was either constipated and not pooping for DAYS, or I was gunning my car for home because I was afraid I was going to shit Dim Sum all over the front seat. It was especially bad every time I walked into Smith’s grocery store. I would have a cart full of groceries and Beatty with me, and the squirts would hit. I would run my big pregnant body to the bathroom, and he had to stand in the stall with me while I was doubled over. Of course, with my luck, someone would be occupying the next stall and Beatty would yell, “EWWWW, WHAT STINKS??” I would flap my hands around and put my finger to my lips and shush him in silent horror.
My friend was telling me a story the other day about an experience in the hospital where she had to have an enema. They wouldn’t discharge her until she pooped. So the nurse helped her with the enema and told her to “hold it” as she left the room. My friend hightailed it for the toilet. When the nurse came back in and my friend told her that the enema hadn’t worked, she asked her how long she had held the water in. My friend said, “Until the door shut behind you.” Oh my god, that made me LAUGH.
Have you ever had an enema? That stuff BURNS. And hold it in?? Ha ha. Not fun.
Her story conjured up a flashback of my only experience with an enema…about a week after Sloan was born. I think I had blocked this out until now. OH MY GOD. You know, sometimes in life constipation gets really pathetic.
Like when you see your poor baby become red in the face with a look of pain as she’s trying to grunt one out.
Like when you are at the point when a huge baseball poop is sitting there and NOT MOVING FOR DAYS.
Like when you can guzzle 62 ounces of prune juice and three servings of Miralax and not a thing happens.
Another friend of mine, who will remain nameless, taught me a trick with rubber hospital gloves. Yes, having to reach down and do your own minor surgery. As in PULLING LITTLE TURDLETS OUT WITH YOUR FINGER. I laughed and laughed when she told me about having to do this the whole time she was pregnant, then when it happened to me three years later she gave me the leftover box of gloves. She was the bigger person. She didn’t even tease.
Anyhow, this whole bowel mess after Sloan was born had gotten REALLY BAD. Like so bad I was breaking out in a cold sweat on the bathroom floor. Wondering if I would go toxic from the poop stored up inside of me and how the hell the five stool softeners I was taking every day weren’t working. Freaking out about busting some stiches you-know-where. I called Brad and begged him to get me an enema from the store. I thought this would be the magic bullet but had no idea what I was doing. I consider this whole area an outtie hole, NOT an innie hole.
I tried my best with that damn thing, used about half of it and then could do no more. I laid on the bathroom floor, oh, about 60 SECONDS before I jumped up and had to go to the bathroom. Forget about walking around or even twitching. Did it work?? Hell, no. I guess you’re supposed to hold this stuff in for like 5 to 10 MINUTES. That, my friends, would be a feat I will never accomplish. Sort of like doing the Ironman.
All I can tell you is that it sort of greased the chassis for the rubber gloves. Somehow I made it through.
So you turd birds, to pinch this story off right (!)… if you are over the age of thirty-five, don’t deny it, POO RULES THE ROOST. We all talk about it and think about it and laugh at it. Whatever. Here’s to regularity!
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