What are you doing in there?! She used to yell to me as I held up in the washroom.

I’m poopin’! I’d call back.

I could sit on the toilet for hours when I was younger. Not that I had anything better to do really, aside from homework or household chores and frankly sitting on the can still sounds better then washing dishes.

I used to make a big production out of my jaunts to the washroom. I’d bring my book and plop my butt down on the toilet, sitting there until my legs went numb from the circulation being cut off by my elbows resting on my thighs. I even went through a stage where I would make sure to have my ghetto blaster (ha! I still love that term - ghetto blaster) and my favourite Madonna tape to sing along to. (Like a Prayer, by far the best Madonna, EVAH!)

Getting comfortable on the toilet always seemed to pose a problem though, the seat: hard and uncomfortable and leaning back against the tank always felt unnatural for some reason. (Apprently they’re not made for lounging. Who knew?) I’d sit sideways so I could rest one elbow on the top of the tank using that hand for propping my book. Chapter after chapter I’d just sit there and read while I - well, you get the picture.

In hindsight, there were much more comfortable places to sit and read, but for some odd reason the toilet seemed to be where I’d find the most peace, with least distractions.

Of course now, I’d do anything for solitude I used have in the washroom. Now there’s things to do and children to care for making sitting on the throne, for the most part, nearly impossible.

While Carter’s been potty training, I’ve spent more time in the washroom over the past three months then I had since I was young. I try and find comfort on the ledge of the tub or the floor while he sits practically spread eagle on the toilet. We talk, read books and laugh while we wait for him to pee. He’s become far more efficient these days, so much so that he climbs up on the bowl and is practically climbing down midstream because he remembers that he was mid-play with McQueen and company.

I’ve read and heard that the thought of pooping in the toilet can be frightening for a child - and if he’s not in a pull-up he’s not pooping, so he seems to fall right into the statistical realm of a regular toddler.

saturday morning, Mike and I decided to conserve water by having a shower together.

Don’t judge. Carter was adequately supervised by the television and the baby was asleep.

That was until I heard a shrill scream and he came running into the bathroom in tears screaming that his poo hurt him.

Yup. Constipated.

Awesome.

Off and on throughout the day he’s complained of stomach pains and how his poop can’t come out. It’s a horrible feeling when they suffer in pain like that and you can’t do anything about it, but we’ve managed to keep him drinking some prune juice and gave him a warm bath which yeilded only a teenie bit.

My first thoughts for looking for advice to deal with toddler constipation was my faithful twitters. I can’t believe I even live twittered a portion of my son’s struggles with shitting.

New low my friends. New low.

It seems the prune juice worked its magic because Sunday morning, at 3AM, Carter came creeping into our room reeking to high heavens. The smell, permeating the room let us know right away that everything was going to be alright.

And that, my friends, is my stereotypical mommyblogger post about my child’s shit.

Am. Awesome.