I love the days when a blog post forms, all by itself, in my mind. When that happens, my fingers are simply a vehicle for the story that needs to be told. I can never tell when it is bound to happen, and I can't be sure of the subject matter, but today's post falls into one of those times. Unfortunately for you, dear Reader, it also falls into the I can't believe she had the guts to write that category. As I always say, you can't say that I did not warn you.
A couple of months ago, I wrote a post that had to do with getting older. I put together a blog post about anticipated and unanticipated changes that have occurred with me as the years have flown by. Some changes might be considered funny, depending on to whom you talk. That is the great thing about a blog; it lends itself to some sort of anonymity. I can admit to growing 1/2 inch long hairs on my face, and not worry about complete humiliation.
And so I keep writing. About things that might never be said aloud in certain company. Aren't you glad I don't consider you certain company?
That is a very long-winded ramp up to today's topic: poop. (Yep, I know. You could tell by the title. I never said I had to keep you in suspense.) With four kids and 2 animals (that feels strange to say only 2 animals...maybe I should throw Tim in there to put it back up to 3) we've had plenty of poop around here. We don't usually use that word, but my neighbor runs a daycare and calls the messy diapers poopy, and I just find that funny. Hence the title and the use of the word poop. But I am not planning on speaking of the enormous piles of poop that have made their way through our home's pipes. No, instead I plan on talking about the enormous, or sometimes not, piles of poop that have made their way through my pipes.
I always considered myself a regular pooper, to be honest. I don't think I had trouble as a child getting things moving, and I certainly remember as a high school and college student that all was well with my plumbing. Eventually, I found that my body had a routine: just about 10:30 in the morning, every morning, my body found the need to eliminate its leftovers. That time has changed, since I now get up earlier and other parts of my life have changed, but until the kids came, I could count on my bowels like I could count on Greyhound. Of course, after housing babies inside of me for 9 months at a go, things were bound to change.
The first time I noticed the change was after the C-section I had with the girls. Of course, I also had to undergo general anesthesia, which can wreak havoc with your system. In fact, the medical staff won't let you go if they are not hearing intestinal sounds from your body. They continually asked me if I had to pass gas, which I found hysterical. And I had to document for a couple of days if and when the stools arrived. Once the anesthesia was fully out of my system and my insides were somewhat back to normal, I hoped that my daily habits would also reinstate themselves. I was so wrong.
Prunes became my friend, and sometimes, I'd increase the caffeine in my coffee (when I wasn't nursing, of course). I added fiber to my primarily vegetarian diet and tried to walk more. And things did return somewhat back to my normal, until I got pregnant with Aaron. And then round 2 started. I won't bore you with the details, but I can say that when I found out I was pregnant with Melina, I realized there would be no hope. Round 3 was the same as rounds 1 and 2.
And now, here I am, at almost 39 years of age (really quite young still, if you ask me), talking about poop. My own poop even. Despite my vegetable intake and my running schedule, it only takes the slightest change in my diet, say perhaps not enough water or fruit for 1 day, to mess with my plumbing. I admit it, I own it, and I will not shy away from you at the grocery store if I have a bag of prunes in my cart.
A couple of months ago, I wrote a post that had to do with getting older. I put together a blog post about anticipated and unanticipated changes that have occurred with me as the years have flown by. Some changes might be considered funny, depending on to whom you talk. That is the great thing about a blog; it lends itself to some sort of anonymity. I can admit to growing 1/2 inch long hairs on my face, and not worry about complete humiliation.
And so I keep writing. About things that might never be said aloud in certain company. Aren't you glad I don't consider you certain company?
That is a very long-winded ramp up to today's topic: poop. (Yep, I know. You could tell by the title. I never said I had to keep you in suspense.) With four kids and 2 animals (that feels strange to say only 2 animals...maybe I should throw Tim in there to put it back up to 3) we've had plenty of poop around here. We don't usually use that word, but my neighbor runs a daycare and calls the messy diapers poopy, and I just find that funny. Hence the title and the use of the word poop. But I am not planning on speaking of the enormous piles of poop that have made their way through our home's pipes. No, instead I plan on talking about the enormous, or sometimes not, piles of poop that have made their way through my pipes.
I always considered myself a regular pooper, to be honest. I don't think I had trouble as a child getting things moving, and I certainly remember as a high school and college student that all was well with my plumbing. Eventually, I found that my body had a routine: just about 10:30 in the morning, every morning, my body found the need to eliminate its leftovers. That time has changed, since I now get up earlier and other parts of my life have changed, but until the kids came, I could count on my bowels like I could count on Greyhound. Of course, after housing babies inside of me for 9 months at a go, things were bound to change.
The first time I noticed the change was after the C-section I had with the girls. Of course, I also had to undergo general anesthesia, which can wreak havoc with your system. In fact, the medical staff won't let you go if they are not hearing intestinal sounds from your body. They continually asked me if I had to pass gas, which I found hysterical. And I had to document for a couple of days if and when the stools arrived. Once the anesthesia was fully out of my system and my insides were somewhat back to normal, I hoped that my daily habits would also reinstate themselves. I was so wrong.
Prunes became my friend, and sometimes, I'd increase the caffeine in my coffee (when I wasn't nursing, of course). I added fiber to my primarily vegetarian diet and tried to walk more. And things did return somewhat back to my normal, until I got pregnant with Aaron. And then round 2 started. I won't bore you with the details, but I can say that when I found out I was pregnant with Melina, I realized there would be no hope. Round 3 was the same as rounds 1 and 2.
And now, here I am, at almost 39 years of age (really quite young still, if you ask me), talking about poop. My own poop even. Despite my vegetable intake and my running schedule, it only takes the slightest change in my diet, say perhaps not enough water or fruit for 1 day, to mess with my plumbing. I admit it, I own it, and I will not shy away from you at the grocery store if I have a bag of prunes in my cart.
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