Warning: This post discusses bowel movements. Might get graphic.
For most of her life, Elspeth has had issues. Since she was in nappies, she’s either been constipated or has withheld – that is, she either couldn’t or wouldn’t take a dump. It’s hard to know which, and sometimes I think it fluctuated between the two. We’ve thrown out countless pairs of underpants, stained with overflow after holding it in too long. As a result, I am extremely attentive to her diet and making sure she gets loads of fruit and plenty of fluid. Elspeth’s diet is one of my major preoccupations. (There’s a whole different problem: you can give a child sustenance, but you can’t make her eat. Stubborn thing.) A little while ago I made it a Rule: she has to “produce” something every night after dinner. With the strict attention to her diet and the nightly bowel movements, she’s been improving quite a lot and we haven’t had any problems for a few months now.
Until today. You knew that was coming, right?
She couldn’t go to the museum with daddy until she’d produced. (I like that euphemism.) She didn’t manage it last night, for the first night in a long time. So the condition was: keep undies clean overnight and poop in the morning, then she could go to the museum. So this morning… nothing. Aidan’s had to go without her, just taking Evelyn. (Not for the first time for the same reason.)
So we’ve got meltdowns and tantrums and “I wanted to go to the museum!”
Well I want to have my own meltdown. I wanted to do things today too. I’d anticipated being alone, doing some study, taking an adult-paced walk, having a quiet and peaceful house. I was looking forward to today too. I wanted her to go too. My plans have been foiled too.
I’m so over this. I don’t talk about it much, because honestly, who wants to hear about shit all the time? Nobody wants to know this. But it’s been probably three years or so, three years that I’ve spent thinking constantly about fruit and poop. I am so absolutely over it. I’m allowed my meltdown.