Oh. Dear. God.
But let me start from the beginning.
When Quinn was only a few months old, he stopped pooping regularly. He would hold it for as long as two weeks and then explode. I’d told his doctors this. Whatever. Then ’round about 8 months old I took him to the doctor because he had a cold. The doctor found a hard spot in his abdomen, consulted with another doctor, sent him down the hall to get an ultrasound, and then told me they thought he might have something called Wilms tumor. Long story short, we took him to Children’s Hospital in DC, got him admitted, gave him a CT scan, and emerged slightly more than 24 hours later with the knowledge that he had what the doctor eloquently referred to as a “stool ball.” We put him on a laxative and then weaned him from it.
Fast forward to February 2007. Quinn goes to the emergency room because he hasn’t peed for over 12 hours. And, true to form, he hasn’t pooped for awhile. His poops had gotten more regular, but this time he’d gone for a few days. The doctor gave him an enema and 15 sweaty minutes later he felt much better. We put him on a laxative and are keeping him on it. He still holds his poops for a couple of days and then explodes, but it’s far more regular than before.
Today: A couple of tiny poops. I know that the big one is coming. I have an appointment and the receptionist is watching the kids across the hall. When I go to get them I know before I even open the door that it has happened. And I see from the large wet spot on his pants that I shouldn’t even attempt to clean him before I get to the car. And, oh boy, am I right. 20 minutes and a pack of diaper wipes later, we’re on our way. Quinn is sans clothes:
So they’re hanging out. Sam and Jack are playing computer games. Quinn is watching. I am getting started making some delicious baked green chili chimichangas for dinner. There was a slight smell coming from Quinn, but since he had erupted in such a tremendous fashion earlier, I felt confident that he was just gassy. A bit later Sam yells, “Mom! Quinn pooped!” I assume Sam is alerting me to a smell. I walk into the TV room confident that I will find a farty Quinn.
What I find is Quinn sitting in a pile of shit on the floor. As I stand there trying to figure out how Huggies could have failed us so badly, Jack says, “He pooped on the floor!” Imagine that in Jack’s cheery little voice.
So I opted for a bath instead of dinner, and now they’re eating macaroni and cheese from a box in front of the television.
And there you have too much information.