I thought I knew what I was getting into with this fatherhood gig. I expected the sleepless nights. I anticipated losing the roles of man, husband, individual, in favor of the bigger title of Daddy. But I never anticipated having to lubricate a little girl's anus so that she could drop a turd.
Before you call SRS, hear me out. She hadn't crapped in two weeks. I have been giving her laxatives for the last five days, hoping for a less invasive solution. I have upped the fruit quantity through the roof, and she eats a cup of shredded wheat on the way to school every morning.
But today, despite the best efforts of a reassuring and loving Daddy, it had to be done. She didn't eat all day, and refused to play in favor of sitting on the floor trying to shove the poo back up into her body by sheer force of toddler will. So at the advice of the local nurse practitioner (read: saint), I bought a small bulb of glycerin suppository complete with narrow tube.
She trusted me, the deed was done, and after a few moments of futile angry struggle in which our tiny-fisted soldier knew the gates were opened, the beast was released.
I will spare those of you with weak stomachs, or the ability to do math well enough to know that no 27 pound child should have their weight cut in half in a few traumatic moments. Suffice it to say she still put up a valiant struggle.
She sleeps now, our soldier against defecation. Her belly newly filled with apologetic ice-cream with sprinkles. She lost this round, but I promise she is happier for it.
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3 comments:
I, however, don't give a damn about upsetting a few weak stomaches. First, from a distance, the event would easily have been mistaken for a long neck bottle of Budweiser. Second, the first poo was quickly followed by another event that, while about half the size of the first, was nearly equally traumatic.
Damn the separation of miles. I should be with my little girl during these horrid moments.
What we have learned today is that once the gates are opened, it is apparantly tough to get them closed again...
I owe the day care a pack of pull-ups and a six pack of beer.
Assuming your daughter ever remembers what happened, I'm sure she'll pay you back when you get to the diaper days of old age. Now that I think about it, being old is similar to being an infant. Especially the part where you try to escape from the nursing home and the staff hunts you down with dogs.
Don't beat yourself up over it. You did what you had to do. As long as you love your child and have her best interests in mind, then I'm sure the judge will be lenient on you.
bsz
P.S.--I keep hoping that I will wake up and the San Antonio move will be just a bad dream.
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