By Heather O.
I don’t really count, I suppose, because I will be on meds FOR LIFE (I used all caps for dramafication, didja notice that?), and, following that logic, you can’t really count the dog either, as she is also on meds FOR LIFE (this time, add a touch of exasperation to the drama). But it’s been a rough week or so for the male contingent of the family. With vastly different medical issues (J stepped on a rusty spikey thing, DH got bursitis in his elbow), they are on the same antibiotics. Except DH is taking about 8million mg a day in the form of huge green horse pills, and J is on a small dose in the form of foamy pink stuff that tastes like bubblegum and gym socks.
Both meds, however, make my family poop. A lot.
Throw in the fact that it’s blueberry season, and blueberries are my daughter’s pretty much all time favorite food, and the result is a serious party in the bathroom. And a truly startling use of toilet paper. Who knew one family could squeeze the Charmin so quickly.
TMI? Sorry. Really, I am. That’s not a sarcastic apology. I realized that we may have gotten too loose (ha!) in our household discussions of all things poopy when my son used the word “diarrhea” in his talk on The Holy Spirit in Primary. It all started out innocently enough—he was discussing why he didn’t feel the Spirit when he went to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. He said he didn’t feel the Spirit there because it was dark, and “too fancy”. Then he went on to discuss the Garden of Gethsamene:
“At the Garden of Gethsamene, I didn’t feel the Holy Spirit either. At the Garden of Gethsemane, I was mostly feeling nauseous, because we all had traveler’s diarrhea.”
He tried to save the talk, and stated how he felt the Spirit at The Garden Tomb, because it was peaceful and beautiful, but by then, the adults in the room were laughing so hard it was hard to hear. It took all I had to not fall on the floor myself, but whether it was a hearty guffaw or a nervous laughter of panic that I would get struck by lightening at any moment is hard to say.
I thought the day that Little Sister grew out of her poop picasso stage would mean the end of my poop stories. After all, I looked at that as one of the perks of not being able to have more kids—less crap on my hands. Literally. And yet, I’m starting to realize that sadly, being a mother means that no matter what, you are always kind of going to be up close and personal with #2.
Little Sister has a well-baby visit tomorrow. If the doctor finds something wrong with her and puts her on antibiotics, too, I may just move to Australia. It would be the break that I need. After all, I hear the toilets flush differently down there.
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