We are having some serious poop-related issues in our household at the moment – baby boy can’t go, I can’t go, and Little H goes for too much at the moment. Although maybe that’s just jealousy on my part. You know things are bad when you greet your husband home from work with a rundown of the day’s toileting activities, rather than a welcome home kiss.
And add to it H, who seems to getting ready for a potty, is now getting to the point where she occasionally lets me know that she has pooped – there’s no need to brag girl, I’m getting into weeks let alone days here!
A visit to the doctor resulted in some tablets for me, medicine for the boy and a pat on the back for H. Queue 24 hours later and the porcelain throne became my new best friend/worst enemy. A five minute trip to nursery to collect H became a battle of wills – me vs my bowels (and I’m glad to say there were no accidents, or I may have been shamed into resorting to adult nappies, besides how can you look your daughter in eye during potty training knowing I’ve clearly not mastered the art myself?).
So it is with some anxiety I gulp down another three of ‘those’ tablets (the packet says take one to two my problem is clearly that bad the doc resorted to prescribing three!) and not-so-eagerly anticipate another day back and forth to the bathroom – does that count as my daily exercise?!