Poop.

(Parker at about 4 hours away from relief.)

Poop is a very important thing. Faint of heart, move on, move on. The rest of you know that when you have children, poop is a popular topic. Entire days, moods, and schedules can be affected by poop, or the absence of it.

Saturday morning started out pretty good. We went to a downtown park while Richard, aka Running Man, ran a St. Patty’s 5K race. This is not something I will ever do, but I am happy to watch. Parker had a blast. He pet ponies, jumped in a bouncy house, and took a train ride (all the while shouting, “Choo, Choo!!”). Very exciting stuff.

Little did we know at the time that the poop was backing up. Parker was constipated. The constipation monster started to rear its angry head when we decided it would be a good idea to have lunch at a downtown restaurant. We didn’t know yet that he was constipated, so we just thought Parker was being a major asshole (no pun intended). Pretty soon after we arrived at the restaurant, we realized that we had to get the hell out of there. We needed to scatter from public like cockroaches and get back to the privacy of our home in a hurry.

I was irritated, annoyed, and hungry. We had to pack up and leave the restaurant, which put a wrench in plans and just delayed the whole schedule of the day. I do not deal well with “changes in plans.” No. Changes in plans are not for me.

We got home and things did not get better. Parker would not eat his lunch and was still being an asshole. The Running Man and Grandpa both discovered that the best thing to do around the Asshole Child and Pissed-Off Mom was to be very, very quiet.

Suddenly, I realized what was wrong with my poor, baby child. He started grunting and pushing and turning red and crying. He couldn’t even sit down because his bottom hurt so bad. I thought, “Oh, he is constipated! Oh, I am so sorry, you poor, poor thing!”

Major guilt for thinking my child is an asshole.

Then, the WORRY BEGAN. I cannot help myself. I am an expert at worrying, and once it starts, it is a mad train speeding toward disaster. I practically had a panic attack.

“Oh. My. God.” I thought. My thoughts started to race and in a bullet speed kind of way. “He is constipated. He is in pain. He refuses to drink any water. He will not be able to nap. He will be a wreck. His birthday party starts in three hours. He will be fussy and in pain for his party. Will we have to cancel it? Will he take a nap only to wake too early because he finally poops? Are we going to have to wait until he poops to put him down for a nap? Is he going to poop soon? How long will this go on?”

My dear, dear husband took our poor, baby child from my arms, took him upstairs and just rocked him in the dark while he cried.

My husband is a good, good man (you see, you need to give examples of the good, dear husband soon after you write a post calling him a Fucker repeatedly).

Parker went down for a nap. He slept a good two hours. He woke up and pooped.

Ahhhhh, the POOP!

Relief for ALL.

We were happy. We celebrated. We were rested. Poop relief was ours. The party was fabulous. The party was fun. All is well. The poop came, and all is well.