"You ever take a dump made you feel like you'd just slept for twelve hours?"
--Ricky Roma, Glengarry Glen Ross
Not to be too graphic, but the last place you want to be is between me and the bathroom after a bowl of All-Bran and a pot of coffee. The human body has an entrance and an exit, and it was built that way for a reason.
So it's inconceivable to me that our child refuses to poop.
I mean, come ON! You're wearing a freakin' diaper! Do you know how many of us pine for the convenience of just relaxing the bowels in the middle of a meeting or during the third quarter of a football game? You have the gift of total freedom, a gift that will only last a few more months! Why squander those precious hours with your sphincter squeezed tighter than Heather Mills' fist on Paul McCartney's checkbook.
Imagine, if you will, what it would feel like to hold in four days' worth of food. You'd feel as bloated as a Macy's parade balloon, and you could bounce a quarter off your belly. Meanwhile your confused, half-digested food would be stumbling around in the dark, desperately looking for a way out. Wouldn't the claustrophobia lead your food to take matters into it's own hands and take an alternate route out?
Cheeky cares not about these things. The whimpering and whining is heartbreaking for the first 3 hours, but quickly becomes grating after the 78 consecutive hours that follow. She'd walk around with her blanket shoved in her crotch, and we'd hold her and gently remind her that she's a veteran crapper who just needs to let her natural talents take over. No luck.
Imagine what your mood would be like if you were corked up for four days. Now imagine if you had no sense of rationality, decorum, or accountability. Now imagine you've inherited the emotional exuberance of your half-Italian father.
The human body, thank god, has the capacity to overcome our mental limitations. After days of coaching and a doctor's visit Cheeky finally relented. Unable to hold back the massive forces churning inside, her rectum let loose a blast so powerful it could be heard in four states. After-shocks continued for the next several hours, as half of Cheeky's body mass was jettisoned, and after each her mood improved dramatically. Our perky little daughter was back.
Dumbfounded and relieved, Oodgie and I prayed the crisis had passed, and prepared to return to our bucolic life of peeling stickers off appliances and watching Family Guy reruns.
Until a blanket gets shoved back into a crotch.
"My tushy hurts."