So. You’re having an enema…

I wasn’t sure what to expect when we gave Aitch an enema last night. It was a first for everyone. Please, for the love of all that is holy, let it be the last.

In an uncharacteristic move, I did not google enemas until after the fact. The pharmacist simply told Sparring Partner that if he wanted quick results, this would guarantee it. Aside from that, I honestly had no idea what to expect. When it was all over, I THEN decided to google.

I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised that “what to expect when giving a toddler an enema” provided little information. So as a favor to you and the googling-world out there, I’m going to share our experience of administering an enema to a toddler. You might want to put down the Nutella for this one.

1) Do not tell your toddler that you’re going to give them medicine in the tushy. No good will come of it especially when tushy = pain.

Sparring Partner was out of town with Doodicus and wouldn’t be back until late and Sunday night was Poo-Night, one way or another so I brought her into the bathroom and showed her the medicine and explained why we needed the medicine and she promptly lost her shit. Her mental shit. “I’ll go poop before bed! I want more apple juice!” so I gave her a reprieve. Poop before the end of whatever the hell was on Nickelodeon Jr. and no tushy medicine. It’s a deal!

That was at 8:30, already 30 minutes past her bedtime but I figured with Grandma Day coming up, she could sleep in. By 8:50, I accepted the fact it wasn’t going to happen on its own. Plus, Sparring Partner had just walked in the door!

2) A second set of hands will be necessary to hold a feral child about to receive an enema. Also, shut the door to the other children’s bedroom because the screaming… oh my god, the S C R E A M I N G !! You might also want to warn your neighbors if they live within a four-block radius.

We took her into the bathroom and tried to let her lie on the floor, but she was having none of that. Sparring Partner had to lay her across his knees, tummy down, as I had drawn the short-end of the stick, per se. MAKE SURE TO READ DOSAGE. It’s not prominently marked, and in this case it was ½ the contents of one bottle. This brand didn’t mention how far to insert the tip, either, so I barely went half-way, squeezed out the contents and then we released her.

When she stood up and faced me with tears running down her red face, she asked if she had pooped. No, I told her, not yet, and she seemed relieved as if, hey, that wasn’t so bad and she calmed down quickly. We put her in a diaper and waited.

3) “Results in 1 – 5 minutes” is no exaggeration, people.

Within a couple of minutes of getting the diaper on, the screaming started up again. She literally was jumping up and down, hands protectively placed over the front and back of her diaper. She became a whirling dervish of poo-potential. I brought her back into the bathroom where she refused to even get close to the toilet, so I shut the door and sat on the floor as I tried to soothe her. She was having none of that, either, and would push my hand away when I tried to rub her back, softly telling her to just let it go and that she was going to be OK. At the same time, she would grab onto my arm in an attempt to brace herself. She bowed her legs and stood on her tiptoes trying to control what was now out of her control. Did I mention the screaming?

When it became imminent, she leaned into me and I felt her still momentarily, before her body began to quake with exertion, and I wondered if this was what it was like to give birth. When she was done, she cowered against the wall glaring at me. The tears hadn’t stopped. I had just earned Mother of the Year. Sparring Partner brought me the changing pad, a diaper and wipes (our HOMEMADE wipes, thank you!) and I arranged it all on the floor.

4) Do not rush your child in the aftermath of an enema to do anything. If it says, works in 1 – 5 minutes, that doesn’t mean you’ll be able to move on with your day in 1 – 5 minutes.

I asked her gently a couple times if she was ready for me to change her. After grumpily replying “no” several times, I just reminded her that when she was ready I would help her. And I continued to sit on the floor quietly and waited for her to calm. I asked again if she wanted to lie down so I could help her, and she nodded. I asked her if she wanted to walk over and lie down or she wanted me to lift her. “Lift me,” she whispered. I picked her up, stiff with pain and anger, and eased her to the changing pad.

She physically flinched when I wiped her even thought I was very, very gentle. “I don’t want you to put medicine inside me again,” she told me. I replied that I hoped we would never have to, and that poop isn’t her but what her body makes and it’s OK to push it out because that is what is suppose to happen.

5) If you offer a bribe to your child, they will not let you forget it, especially after you give them an enema. Even if it is now two hours after their bedtime and Target closes in 45 minutes.

“Since I go poop, I get a dolly, right?” “Yes. We can go tomorrow when the sun is up and after I get home from work.” “I want to go now!” aaaaannd cue more tears. It’s now 90 minutes past her bedtime. What’s another 30? I dress her in her jammies and some socks. She won’t walk because she’s tired, sore, clingy, so I carry her across the house to go get my shoes from my bedroom. The aftershocks start. There is more screaming as the cramps work her intestines into knots. It’s a good thing we hadn’t left yet.

6) Shortly after the enema works its doo-doo voo-doo, it has going to come out, too. Most likely, a diaper will not contain it because it will not be moved gently.

I carried her back to the rocking chair during this second wave. I cradled her body in such a way that her bottom was not “restricted”. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion and hair was stuck to her face in sweaty wisps. We were not making a trip to the store anytime tonight. I felt it on my lap that her diaper had leaked, and I got up and carried her to the changing pad again. I worried that this was going to continue all night.

7) Your child may not be able to figure out the whole pooping (or peeing business), but they know what 1 + 1 equals.

As I cleaned her up, she asked, “Did I poop again?” “Yes, honey, you did. I got you in a nice dry diaper.” “Since I pooped two times I get one (she holds her hand up and pops up a finger) and two (she lifts up a second finger while using the other hand to hold the remaining fingers down to give me a wobbly peace sign) dollies! Clever wench. “How about ONE doll and ONE piece of candy?” We reach an agreement. “I want to go now.” She is so tired that I know that she will hardly make it down the driveway in the carseat before falling asleep. We bargain some more and we will get her dolly tomorrow. “I can have a fairy doll?” “Yes, you can have a fairy doll, or a mermaid doll, or a Sleeping Beauty doll. Whatever kind you like.” “OK.”

8) While your toddler is brave and resilient, you as the parent is frightened and pained. While your toddler will likely forget the whole horrible experience within a few months, you as the parent will have it permanently scarred into your brain. Your toddler’s body will eventually function with the rhythm that is natural to them. But you as the parent? It’ll make your heart skip a beat trying to justify the means to an end.

Give me a P! Now give me a PooP, dammit!

When Aitch turned three, I celebrated her turning into a “big girl” by taking her shopping for “big girl” underwear. She hadn’t been showing any interest in potty training at home or daycare, but I saw my other friends on facebook celebrating the last diaper in the house and I decided I didn’t want to be the mom with an eight year old just starting potty training. It was on this birthday outing that she picked out a package of Disney’s princesses, Sesame Street (boy’s) and Thomas (boy’s). She was so excited that I was sure the next day she’d wear the new underwear to daycare. The next morning she declared she was wearing diapers because she didn’t want to get her new panties wet. We couldn’t even convince her to wear the pink, princess pull-ups. The girl was mega-frustating.

I think it was that very weekend that she finally put on underwear. How did I get her to do it? She wanted to watch Princess and the Frog and she happen to have a pair with Princess Tiana on them so the deal was she could only watch the movie if she wore the underwear.

And just like that, she was in panties.

Except it was QUITE that easy. The following week we went to Colorado so I worried she would regress from all her time in pull-ups or diapers, which long drives seemed to necessitate. I was pretty darn happy that she actually did so well, even keeping her diaper dry on drive home, which took the whole day.

She still wears diapers at night and has only had one totally dry night since she started wearing underwear exclusively during the day, so we’re still waiting for that switch to fully engage. For that I’m truly in no hurry because that’ll mean middle of the night wakings and moving her from a crib to a bed and ohmygodmybabyisnolongerababy!

This is where the story of potty training hits the crapper. While the girl is day-potty trained, we are ONLY talking potty. Aitch went from being a very routine pooper (right after lunch and before her nap) to a once every two-, three-, and even a four-day pooper. When she first started holding it in, I would put her in a diaper because she said, “my poop scares me!”. I didn’t want to make her feel pressured or punished for not using the potty. I dealt with Doodicus’s potty training problems until he was nearly seven. Giving Aitch a few months into her third year to figure out the whole pooping business seemed fair enough.

Unfortunately, as time goes by, she’s becoming more and more anal retentive. As the days pass and the urge gets stronger she becomes more and more fearful and more and more hysterical. Hysterical, you ask? She will scream and cry, writhe in pain on the floor, and hold her hand over her bottom for sometimes 30 minutes at a stretch or at least until that urge passes. The first time this happened I was nearly in a fit myself watching her in so much pain and with nothing I could do except hold her (if she’d let me) or wipe her snot and tears from her face, sweaty and heated.

We now give her pedia-lax tablets twice daily. A liquid laxative goes into her apple juice. Fruits and vegetables are handed out generously and yet…? The girl must have a bionic sphincter is all I can say. We even took her to the urgent care a couple weeks ago because she was in acute pain and it was time to get the party started. Conveniently, she pooped right before the doctor came into the exam room. He only charged $120 to our insurance for his service which was to confirm that we were doing everything we should. Thanks, doc! *two thumbs up and a wink*

As I write this, Aitch is asleep in her crib. It’s Saturday evening and her last BM was Wednesday evening. Two boxes of baby enema solution are now housed in the medicine cabinets. We have read The Story of the Little Mole Who Went in Search of Whodunnit a thousand times just to impress upon her that everyone and everything poops. We go around our home making excited announcements of our own successful poops hoping SHE will want to poop, to! We are ridiculously and obsessively thrilled about POOP here!

Other than encouraging her both mentally and physically to “just poop already!”, there’s nothing else we are really doing. Sparring Partner keeps wanting to punish her for NOT pooping, which makes totally no sense at all. I remind him of how well he did with potty training Doodicus (big fucking FAIL there) so the only thing he needs to do is clean it up without complaint or drama when she’s done.

Now if you have any suggestions aside from shoving something up her backside, I am ALL ears because that’s literally the last thing I want to do. Tomorrow will be Poop-Day, whether it’s on her own or with “help”. It would seem karma felt her easy potty training deserved to be countered with a possible impaction, right? Doodicus and Aitch have always been opposite children, and this part is no exception. Doodicus was a Happy Pooper! You want me to poop? OK!! Yeah!! Now come wipe me!! But the kid couldn’t hold his water for love, money or Hot Wheels.

There’s no magic bullet for potty training. Well, except the ones that come in suppository form. Aitch was two when she started showing some comprehension, but I wasn’t going to hurry it. I think potty training is much harder when one of the parents is impatient so it’s important both discuss how they’ll address accidents and successes. Bribes are completely acceptable, IMHO, but they aren’t a guarantee for success. We rewarded Doodicus with a new Hot Wheels car EVERY time he peed in the potty. After about 200 Hot Wheels, we realized it only worked half the time so we discontinued that system. The idea of stickers was boring to him, but for Aitch? The girl was cuckoo for stickers, and she remembered to ask for one and put it on the board each time.

So let’s hear it from you. What’s worked? What hasn’t? How long did it take? And why oh why are we always in a hurry to get our kids out of diapers?!

I had a good day? Did YOU have a good day??

Have you ever had one of those days just start off like you were mired in a pile of poo? You know, like the day of your wedding when you realize half-way to the church which is a 25 mile drive from your house that you forgot the slip to wear under your wedding dress and cell phones were non-existent so you have to stop at the roadside bar where truckers stop to have pie and coffee and you’re wearing your big poofy wedding veil because you just had your hair done but you’re still in jeans and a button-up, groddy shirt because you don’t want to mess up your coif? Or how about the kind of day, say like your wedding, where once you DO make it to the church, you then realize you forgot your chicken cutlets that go into the bust of the wedding dress because you’re so flat, water pools on your chest…standing-up but you can’t get a hold of your husband-to-be because he’s already left the house a bit early so he can bring you a stupid slip?

That’s not the kind of day you want starting off not going well.

Today I’m kinda havin’ one of those days. I slept on the sleeper sofa again since husband snores. Why don’t I kick HIM out since HE’S the one that snores? Because by the time I can get him awake enough to comprehend I’m kicking him out to the sofa, I’m so pissy I can’t sleep. So if he wakes me up with his snoring, I can go make the trip with pillows in hand without opening my eyes. I go right back to sleep in the glorious silence that is the front room’s pull-out sleeper.

The downside to sleeping in silence is that the alarm is still in the bedroom. Husband got up this morning, got my son up who has this dry, hacky cough, so he puts him in the shower and then by the time he wakes me, 20 minutes of my morning is gone. I can’t get in the shower because our bathroom appears to be the only one the kids will get clean in even though there’s a perfectly good, but unused, bathroom with tub AND shower in between THEIR rooms.

Instead of a shower, I decide I’ll eat my breakfast first and then take a shower. I eat my blueberry shredded wheat, which isn’t “bad”, but the other day when I told Aitch I was having shredded wheat for breakfast, she erroneously repeated back to me, “You’re having tumble weeds?” So yeah, now I think of my breakfast as great balls of weeds blowing across the prairies.

I finish breakfast and head to the bathroom since Doodicus should be done by now, and while yes, he’s standing there wet from the shower, he’s crying and coughing and generally having a breakdown. Dad gave him his cough medicine WITHOUT. LETTING. HIM. HAVE. SOMETHING. TO. WASH. IT. DOWN. WITH! What kind of jerk does that anyway? Partner exits the bathroom, his eyes rolling and I’m left to comfort Dood who now complains he can’t breathe and the coughing is revving up in frequency and then whoop, there it is, BLOOD!

The warm shower + dry sinuses + coughing + tendency = gushing epistaxis! And while I want to just sit him down and get into the shower because I need to shave today since my mole-check is this afternoon and I can’t be standing there mostly naked with hairy pits, legs and…other stuff…but hey, my kid is oozing blood from his nose, so copiously that it’s draining into his mouth so now he’s gagging. I walk him to the toilet to stand over the bowl and basically drip-dry. Bloody water splatters out of the bowl and onto the walls and toilet. I think we’ve had this discussion before, right? Murder scene over a commode or something, yes?

I stand with him, rubbing his shoulders as he whimpers and gags and spits blood until it slows down. We walk away, his towel now smushed against his face to catch the last of the blood. He sits on the edge of the tub. He feels better so I’m about to shoo him out the room so I can FINALLY get into the shower and shave and smell better.

And then the bleeding starts again, just as heavy but it doesn’t last as long. Christ! Just stop already! I need a shower and I can’t just sit him on the bed while he bleeds all over it so I stop the selfish thoughts of shaving my monkey legs and wait again, but not as long, for it to stop. He says he can’t breathe. He’s still dry-hacking. I decide to take him to the urgent care (after I jump in the shower). I don’t bother to shave. I also decide that since today is a short day at work, I can come home and re-shower properly before my strip-search.

At 7:20 we head to the urgent care, barely a 10 minute drive. At 8:20, we are still in the lobby but the parking lot is empty. Doodicus wants to go to school. He’s bored. I’m bored. Finally we are to the exam room! Where we wait some more and I take a picture of the hideous yellow walls and post it to facebook along with a picture of Dood looking at himself in the stainless steel paper towel dispenser and a photo of the sign that says, “Exam gloves are for staff use only Thank You” and realize they must not like it when moms like me take a glove and blow it up, tie it off, and give it to their kids to play with. MAYBE THEY SHOULDN’T KEEP US WAITING, HUH??!!

He’s in school right now. I’m at work. Not working, apparently. My new shoes are fabulous but they are hurting my feet while I break them in. My hairy legs are snagging my slacks, which are also new and appeared to be tan at the store but are more grey but I don’t care as they fit my current bloated form because hey! Did I mention I also am in the middle of my womanly molt? Where’s the fucking menopause I supposedly was starting no less than five years ago, so said my reproductive endocrinologist.

Finally, can this post get any longer while I try to tell you that basically my day started off in that pile of poo that has surely dried now to a nice crusty pie for me to fling into the prairie of tumble weeds? In short, I am hairy, funky, and period-y and I have to undress for a young man who may or may not take a sharp (hahaha! I typed “shart”) instrument to my skin, which may or may not be trying to kill me. It’s a motherfucking awesome cocksucking day!!

It’s a PAR-TAY!!

Not Exactly The Bell Jar But Just As Crazy

I’ve been looking forward to this week since I knew I’d finally have time to update my blog. My boss is supposed to be at a work-related retreat and I don’t have to be in my office when he’s not there. You have no idea how much I love working for a one-physician office. I don’t care if at this point I still haven’t garnered enough PTO. I’ll take an unpaid vacation for a week, especially since I went 2 1/2 years without a paid vacation.

But now that I have all this time to write, I can’t think of anything to sit and write about. Not to say I don’t have some seriously grand ideas, but you know, that kind of writing takes TOO much thought. The trivial things get written about on FB, which hey, that’s the whole point of FB, right? Which reminds me, that was going to be one of my topics for a post, which also reminds me, I’ve decided to see what kind of potential shit-storms are waiting for me by posting a link to my FB page via my “About” page here on my blog. Find me. Friend me. We can be trivial together. And for those who already are friends with me on FB, TESTIFY!

Weird story that was too long to share on FB: my uncle passed away recently. His wife, my aunt (dad’s sister), passed away a few years ago and rumor had it that she was quite a hoarder. My uncle had cleared out some things but in his 90s, he could barely do more than make enough room for his walker. I don’t think the hoarding was dead-cat-in-the-sofa kind of hoarding, but I found out that now that both of the parents were gone, the eldest went through the house and threw piles and piles of newspapers and bills and records into a bonfire. A shame actually, as my aunt was military and some of that may have been rather interesting.

My sister went to the house and was quite proud of the fact that she was given several old watches that belonged to my aunt, none of them in working order, but nice pieces of jewelry nonetheless. I wasn’t comfortable circling the remains, as it were, and have decided to wait for the estate sale. If there’s something I really want, I should be willing to pay for it.

But then I heard that in the house was something I would have LOVED to have sitting in my cabinet for display, however it is likely it was destroyed for lack of practical value. It belonged to my grandfather (my dad’s dad) who had died when I was just a baby. Something so unique that it cannot be replicated; it cannot be found on ebay or even craigslist. It was…

….my grandfather’s appendix in a jar.

I am heartsick.

Get it?! HEARTsick!!

Yes, I am one sick puppy. Admit it, that’s why you still come back.