I am a fan of the overshare in real life. On the internet? Not so much. I’m not sure why.
But today? Overshare it is, y’all. And potentially gross-out overshare at that. (I’m sorry for all the non-baby poop talk that’s gone on this week, but whatever. It’s my blog. And I need to get this out. Literally and idiomatically.)
I’m sick and tired of having an audience when I go to the bathroom. Sick. And. Tired.
Monday I wrote about my inability to go. I tried every remedy left in the comments except for Blair’s (who got this from Kals in our good ol’ BOTB days) Magic Lemon Shit Water. And I bought the lemons. But I was saving that for last.
Then, my period started. But I knew that would happen this week because I’m on the pill and if the period doesn’t show up by 1:00 on the dot on Thursday during the inactive week I am running for the nearest drug store to buy a multi-pack of pee sticks because that is not normal.
Like clockwork, the period makes me have to go. (What’s the worst feeling in the world? Period poos. Hands down. There is nothing worse in this universe and any other universes that may exist that is worse than that. And convincing me otherwise would take an act of Congress and God.)
But then, y’all, then? I couldn’t go. I would “go” but it would be the kind of “go” where you still feel all bloated and full and disgusting.
This morning? The coffee-oatmeal-Dan isn’t home-combo did the trick. And I felt it. And I knew it would be good.
And it was.
Except it wasn’t.
Because Dan wasn’t home. So I had to close all the doors to the hallway and leave the bathroom door open and bring Joshua with me. And bringing Joshua to the bathroom with me might be worse than shoe shopping with him in tow.
He decided to bring This Toy with him. And throw it repeatedly against the floor. As hard as his little toddler arms would let him. Which made the LOUDEST SOUNDS EVER in the confines of our bathroom. (Because run up and down the hall, or, ::gasp:: stay in the living room watching Yo Gabba Gabba? Never. Of course not.)
And then? He tried to climb into the bath tub. And then? He grabbed the toilet brush and started waving it around. And then? He grabbed the toilet paper holder stick thing and started trying to install it. And then? He tried to climb into the bath tub again. And then? He tried to grab the tampon from my hand and was more than a little upset when I wouldn’t give it to him. And then? He threw the ball around some more.
Y’all, I was in there for MAYBE seven minutes. (And they were obviously not seven minutes of heaven.)
And while we were in there, I’m pretty sure the dog was out here eating Joshua’s banana slices that were in a bowl on top of the TV tray table. Which means she climbed onto the couch, stood up, ate the bananas from the bowl without knocking anything over, and then climbed back down and away from the scene of the crime.
I suppose it’s equally as plausible that Joshua actually ate the banana, but I’m not holding out much hope for that one.
(Does anyone know if bananas are a no-no for dogs? Am I looking at some sort of serious gastric distress here that will add even more poop talk to my life?)
Those were some stressful seven minutes.
I just want to be able to poop without an audience. And without trying to wrangle a toddler out of the bath tub and away from the toilet brush from the throne. And without worrying that the dog will be sneaking bites of whatever foods may be left within her obviously non-opposable-thumb having reach.
(On the upside? I no longer feel as bloaty as I felt all week. Apparently, the prunes worked.)
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