My entire career, before becoming a zombie mom, was spent in nursing homes, assisted living facilities and retirement communities (yes, there are distinct differences distinguishing the three). One odd and funny commonality I noticed at each place I worked was the obsession older women have with poop. Poop, bowel movements, BMs, kaka, feces, defecation, whatever you wish to call it. I never understood why. Why are older women obsessed with bowel movements? There is the resident of my first facility who literally sat on the toilet all day until she was successful in moving her bowels for fear she might die otherwise. She would sit there patiently planning her funeral until that moment. She told my co-worker one day, through the bathroom door of course, that she wanted her and me to attend the memorial following her impending demise. She chose to decline activities that day as she sat patiently awaiting the inevitable, a successful BM or death. In the same facility, there was also the prim and proper Southern woman who could not bring herself to say the words "bowel movement" and was furious with me when she referred to it simply as a BM and I did not know what she meant. Seriously, I didn't. This was my first real job out of college, and my first experience with seniors and my first exposure to this odd obsession.
Fast forward 21 years and I totally get where this obsession originates. I'm not proud of this fact. But I get it. The one thing all of these poop-obsessed women had in common was motherhood. Until you are a mother, you really could not possibly care less about poo, especially someone else's. But then you have that first baby. And you find yourself at your first social gathering after his birth discussing the frequency, smell and God help us, the effort put forth into his BMs. After your dinner guests leave, you are happy to have had a conversation with an adult other than your spouse but mortified that you spent the whole evening talking about baby poop to a childless couple who, guess what, could not care less about your child's shit. And it continued to get worse for me. M was easy. Regular. Pooped at 4:00 pm daily. You could set your clock by that little guy. But then along came C.
C started out with problems, only increasing my obsession with baby poop. He didn't for the first several days after he was born. Odd since M pooped within his first 8 hours of life and he was my only basis of comparison. Then C developed an intolerance to his milk based formula. He spent a weekend sharting bloody stool. I called the doctor on Sunday and she said to give it a few more days. Um, no. By Monday when the bloody sharts seemed worse, I wrapped a freshly sharted diaper in a ziploc bag and bundled up my little pooper and carted him off to the pediatrician at 1 and 1/2 weeks old. He was put on a special formula that made his pooping issues only get worse. When he wasn't eating, he was crying, mainly for 2 reasons. The special formula never filled him up so he was always hungry, and he couldn't poop or pass gas. It was horrible. Imagine eating every 2 hours and not having a BM for 52 hours. He would sleep only in my arms the first 3 to 4 weeks of life. I was constantly on the phone with his doctor trying to solve his pooping difficulties. She said, "Give him 2 ounces of straight prune juice." That worked. No, really, it did. Pure liquid oozed out of the diaper and all over the place. The hubs and I decided to instead add prune juice to his formula so that he would get a constant more diluted dose. By this time, the doctor had recommended infant suppositories. First off, do you have any idea how hard these things are to find? I finally located them at the 3rd pharmacy I checked. Once, visiting my in-laws, it took 7 stops before finding the holy grail of laxatives. C was only happy having pooped daily. If he went beyond 36 hours, he screamed as if he was being murdered until he was able to express his bowels. My instructions were clear, a daily suppository. Now, while I have an older child, M was super easy in every way. I never had to shove anything up his butt to make him produce. So I arrive home that first day with my prize, ready to give it a go, imagining instant relief for my ailing infant. Upon opening the jar, I was shocked at the size of these things. I was supposed to put this where!?! My poor baby! So thinking I know what's best for C, I cut it in 1/2. First mistake. They are specially shaped for ease of entry apparently and cutting them changes that shape. Now, for the faint of heart or childless reader, you may want to stop reading. While funny if you can get the visual, this story is about to get even more graphic. Our babysitter was at the house, having watched the boys while I was on my hunt for the coveted glycerin plug. After several attempts at inserting that maimed suppository, I gave up and used a whole one. My sitter, noticing my troubles offered to help. Being childless, she is even more novice than I am. So she held C's feet out of the way with one hand, and after I inserted, she would try to hold his butt cheeks closed before he could squeeze things shut and pop the plug back out. We went through this drill several times. I was practically dripping in sweat and close to tears, saying out loud I'm afraid, "I'm a terrible mother. I can't do this!" One last attempt at insertion resulted in C offering a violent fart that blew the suppository across the changing table and a gust of wind across my hand as I screamed and jumped back about 3 feet, sure I was about to be covered in baby poop. Nope. Just a good strong fart. Retrieve the plug and try again. Poor kid. This time there was some grunting. I looked at the sitter and said, "It's working!!" It was like striking gold!! C had been crying the entire 45 minutes this comedy of errors lasted. The sitter was a calm and quiet helper, and M, being very new to the big brother role was standing by in stunned silence, probably hoping he wouldn't be next. And I was vacillating between despair and determination to help my child relieve himself. The days went by and we continued this ritual, although I have to say, it got much easier. I could usually have success the first try and C didn't cry. We had some projectiles that were shot over the changing table, over the diaper pail, landing dangerously close to my fleece slippers. I am very thankful for hardwood floors. And that M, who always hovered nearby during these days, was never directly in the line of fire. C started pooping on his own as his digestive system matured. The first day, M and I actually cheered, "Yay!! C's pooping!!"
I was unaware of the damage my obsession with C's BMs was doing to M until one evening at supper when M randomly cheered, "Yay!! C poop!!" and clapped enthusiastically. The next morning, when C pooped, I asked M, "What do we say when C poops?" M replied matter-of-factly, "Peeuuw!"
I am happy to say that our bad pooper, C is having daily BMs and is happier than ever. Our good pooper? He goes several times a day. Today was 7, the final one dropped on the bathroom floor right before getting in the tub. Nice. Well, at least it wasn't in the tub.
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