Thursday, October 27, 2011

Going through the Big D

And, as it goes, I don’t mean Dallas. Nor, however, do I mean Divorce. There is no judge who has anything to tell us. I’m all on my own on this one. I’m talking about the BIG D, which will not be contained by the little d -- the diaper. Much too little for the big, big mess. It’s been weeks on end, and I’m in poo poo hell.

I just want to say for the record that I am not a big fan of poop stories. My replies have always consisted of: “Your kid poops, good for you,” or “Yeah, that is really disgusting and must have been awful. Thanks for sharing.” So, I wasn’t going to write this, although I thought the title was clever (haha). Because really, who wants to hear about this stuff? I don’t even want to. But it is seriously taking over, and this is my blog, so I’ll write what I want to. And I just might cry about it, too. My life has devolved into a cycle of laundry, bathtubs, and bleach wipes. Lots and lots of bleach wipes. I get a moment of reprieve just after the mess has been dealt with, when I know I won’t be cleaning up again for a minute, and in that small moment I have some peace. But as time goes by and I hear that familiar sound, it all comes back, and I’m thrown back into the ring. Me v. Baby Girl’s Diarrhea. And the D-word is winning.

She had her one year checkup yesterday, and I thought, oh good, some answers! Little did I know that her Doc would say, “Normal!” Like she says to everything—I’m beginning to wonder if maybe she is a fraud. It seems like every ailment I come in with, she says the exact same thing. How can this be normal?! And then she tells me, Toddler’s Diarrhea. Really? She’s one; she’s barely a toddler! Plus, not that I would say that every child who has diarrhea has a bad diet, but I’ve tried really hard with her food intake! She never even really had refined sugar till her first birthday!
I can count on one hand how many times she’s had extremely watered down apple juice, and she hasn’t even had that for two months at least. Arg. And here’s the best part. What do I do? Nothing. Don’t change anything, it should just go away on its own in the next few weeks—FEW WEEKS, meaning three? THREE MORE WEEKS! Oh gee, thanks, that’s awfully helpful. Meanwhile, I'll just continue with my pseudo-house arrest, since I never know when she's going to explode.

Whoever came up with the word diarrhea anyway? Who would take such a pretty word and turn it into such an ugly thing? It sounds like a mixture of two very beautiful women’s names: Diana and Rheannon. Who decided it was a good idea to make that mean . . . well, you know what it means. Really, I think if I’d come across that word without the association, I would have thought it would make a really nice name. But don’t worry, I’m not that cruel. I’m not on a crusade to change semantics. Especially since I absolutely hate that word now and forever. Hate, hate, hate it.

My final conclusion is this: there are some things that only belong in the toilet. Big epiphany, huh? But seriously, no human being should be made to clean this stuff up, and yet I do. Every day. Why can’t we just digest everything in our food? Why must we get stomach bugs? Ugh—I know these questions will never be answered to my satisfaction, and yet life goes on. And one day, baby girl will go poo poo in the potty, and I will give her a sticker or a piece of candy and this torture will be over. One day I’ll look back on these diarrhea chronicles, and I’ll laugh. I’ll say, “Sweetie, you were one messy baby!” and we’ll both have a good chuckle, and baby girl will say, “Moooom. Stop it, gross.” And I’ll say, “Yes, it was gross, honey. It was really, really gross.” And all of this will ameliorate into that one humorous anecdote. Okay, I’ve said my piece. An end to the potty talk, and a solemn promise—no more.

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