Thursday, June 07, 2007

The one with all the poop

Seriously, y'all, something weird is going on in Internetlandia. Why, just the other day I was gifted with a wonderful picture from the Mayor of Spiffytown in response to a post I wrote, then yesterday the WVSR had a QotD about pooping, today Hyperion admits to a certain fascination with bodily odors, and I'm about to write a post about poop.

What's up with THAT? Have we all gone crazy from the heat?


Here's the picture the Biff sent.

This is news to me, y'all! Good GRIEF, I've spent the better part of my august years engaged in such behavior, sometimes to exceedingly good effect.

It was not always so.

Let me explain.

I briefly mentiond the other day that I was born with something called Hirschprung's disease, which, in short form, means that parts o' the colon don't work right, and therefore ya can't poop. The alternate term for Hischrpung's is "congenital megacolon," and while that might be a terrific name for a garage band or superhero (look! up in the air! it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Congential Megacolon!), it is NOT something you want to experience fo realz. Think about it....."congenital megacolon." Look the words up if you must, and cogitate on the impact it might have on your life.

Really now.

The long and short of it, for me, was that for 4+ years my folks wondered why I wouldn't poop unless fulla ExLax. They were told I was being stubborn, that I was being manipulative, that nothing was wrong with me.

Um, yeah. That's right. I AM stubborn, I'll admit to that, and I can be manipulative, but foks, I was a little little kid, and therefore not well skilled in manipulation (yet). All's I knew was that it was damned hard work to do something that should come naturally, and it mad my Mom mad when I didn't poop. My poor Mom. She was so frustrated. They had no idea what was wrong with me.

(Let me just say now that if I never see another enema bag in my life it will be too soon. I'm pretty sure my Mom feels the same way.)

Soooo, when I was a little over 4, one of the nurses in my doc's office went to a conference, sat in on a presentation on Hirschprung's, the lightbulb of recognition went off for her, and pretty soon I was in the hospital getting my icky bits cut out.

Gratifyingly, it worked. Three weeks after going in, I was coming out with a whole new plumbing system. A one-shot surgery took out the wonky bits and left me with a shiny new fully functional late-model lower GI tract.

Road testing that puppy was quite the experience. Every time I sucessfully "pulled into the pits," as it were (to create a terrible metaphor that I now feel compelled to stick with), the crew would come racing over to check on status and declare me either fit to get back out on the track or told me that I needed to spend a little more time fine tuning the machine.

Y'all, this went on for years. I relied on that pit crew to OK my performance. I sweartogawd, my folks finally had to TELL me that they didn't need to inspect my daily output, that everything was fine, that I could take care of that part of life all on my own from now on.

Yippee!! Free at last! I was OK.

Since that time all's been fine and dandy for Tiff's alimentary system. I'm sure you're as glad as I am at this bit of info. Well, maybe not AS glad, but certainly a little glad, because y'all, I could tell some stories if it wasn't.


When my children were tiny things, I, like all Mommies and Daddies, did a lot of diaper changing. It was a very informative time of life.

I did not realize that a baby could crap approximately half its body weight and still live. Good God, what those Things managed to produce would have made ME proud, and they were only a fraction of my size!

What amazed me then, and still amazes me now, is how a fussy baby at 2 pm can yell like they're on fire for what seems like hours, poop at 2:15, and be a happy baby at 2:16. Pooping makes them feel good. NOT pooping makes them feel bad. A stunning realization. Yay for pooping!

When they got old enough to potty train, the amazement continued. There were moments during those formative times when I had to call in reinforcements to ogle the results of ther efforts, not for "good boy" type praise, but for stunned appreciation of the sheer size of the sewer sub our child had just launched. At times, I will admit that I was JEALOUS of what was comin' out of them. Holy cats, y'all, a 2-year-old can crank out some tonnage. I had no idea that their GI tracts were so effectual as to actually produce MORE volume by weight in poop than they were taking in in food. Three bites of chicken nuggets and half a peanut butter and jelly sammich can turn into quite the impressive fecaloaf.

How does that happen? I'm still wondering.

Now of course I have no idea what they're up to in the bathroom. All's I know is that it takes an inordinately amount of time, involves magazines and singing, and just lately requires a locked door.

As long as they turn on the fan when they're done, I'm fine with not knowing what they do in the smallest room in the house.


A last thought on this whole pooping thing. Several years ago now, my SIL emerged from the MIL's bathroom with the following line:

"Did you ever take a dump so huge your PANTS fit better?"

I can answer in the affirmative to that question. And, like a baby, I felt better afterward. How about YOU?


Thus endeth the poop post. Please gather your coats and belongings and exit to the right.

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