I remember it like it was yesterday. My husband was on the couch with his laptop, one child was playing a game and another was eating yogurt. It was your typical suburban mom day. Or so I thought.
No parent likes to see their child in pain and, for someone like me who has battled bowel disease for over 20 years, digestive discomfort is an especially sensitive one. "Digestive discomfort". Seriously, I say that like you’ve just overeaten and need some tums. Or to just let one rip. Either way. What I’m referring to is constipation.
I watched my chubby little babe strain and grunt with nothing but a pained look and the occasional cry and knew it was time to pull out the big guns. "Big guns" being a laxative. See, after a few kids, you learn that Pedia-Lax should come with every infant first aid kit because no amount of prunes and water can solve every problem. So, after getting some help from an older child we managed to empty the contents of the little bulb right where the sun don’t shine.
I break off here to say that, when I was pregnant with my first, I read all the books. Really, I did. I learned so much more about that stupid mucus plug than I ever needed to know. And you know what they don’t talk to you about?
Poop. Sure, they’ll compare that first exciting diaper change to black tar (nail on the head with that one) and they’ll tell you all about the difference between formula and breast milk poops but that’s about where it ends. You don’t get to hear what happens when you introduce solid foods and deal with the olfactory assault that comes with a whole world of new deliciousness.
And they sure as shit (see what I did there) don’t tell you about the occasional hard-as-rocks poop that comes with these new tasty treats.
Back to the incident at hand.
“Now, what?” my older daughter asked.
“Now, we wait...”
While waiting, I explained the science behind what this magical liquid was doing to the wee ones bowels.
“....and then it’ll come right out.”
Truer words have never been spoken. For, at that moment, I made the error to open up the diaper and check our progress. As I held those two tiny ankles up, the baby arched her back, and out shot the largest, roundest cannonball of a turd -- directly into my gut. The accompanying explosive sound made my daughter and me scream. My husband thought our baby had exploded.
“Tell me she’s still here!” he yelled out.
There was a silence, and then we all lost it, and laughed until we cried. The giggling continued as I surveyed my shirt and found the mark where the projectile had hit me.
The child eating yogurt promptly left, dry heaving on her way to the kitchen as the rest of us tried to figure out whether you flush a cannonball or throw it away. We opted for the trash because I had visions of this thing requiring a plumber. Could you just see the look on the face of some poor dude as I cried/laughed while recounting the Tale of the Ass Projectile? Actually now I sort of regret not trying it...
Be that as it may, I don’t regret using the baby enema. Struggling to poop is hard. Parenting is hard. But remember we’re all just one Crap Cannon away from a story we can tell to their future significant other one day.
Danielle Trapp is a mother of five living in Oregon. She cheers the loudest for her kids, even when they drive her to drink. She also owns a completely natural skincare line called Halisi that you should totally check out. You can find out more about it here.