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 Get Out Of Mommy's WayPosted 07.26.2006 by Motherload (1057)
Fifteen years ago, shortly after the c-section birth of my twins, I developed IBS. I don't know if it was stress-induced from having newborn twins and another small child (twenty-one months old at that time), or if it was stress from being married to the son of Satan, or if it is just something you get after having all of your guts laid on your chest during the delivery and then stuffed back in after apparently being tied into some sophisticated kind of knot; but anyway, I got it, and I got it bad.
I had several attacks per week, and they were severe. This went on for years, and my children learned to accommodate my needs, such as bringing me a pillow to hug while doubled over on the throne or dragging a small fan into the bathroom to try to help cool me down during those especially sweaty episodes. But mostly they learned that when Mommy says she has to use the bathroom, they need to get out of my way. It was just a routine part of our lives. I suffered with this syndrome for several years. Shortly after my divorce, the attacks lessened in frequency and also in severity. I enjoyed many years of almost normal bowel function. When the twins were seven and my son was nine, I had another child. After some initial worrying about the possibility of the IBS returning, it seemed that things were okay. I still had occasional flare-ups, but they were very rare. My youngest child lived eight years without knowing the life that the other three children had to endure. But one horrible, horrible day, she witnessed what has got to be the absolute worst attack of IBS that I have ever had. At the time, I'd recently decided that things were not any better with the current situation we were in than they had been in my first marriage, so I'd packed up the kids and moved out and was trying to start over again after twelve years with lunatic #2. Stress levels were pretty high. But I had not had any kind of warning signs that there was trouble brewing inside of me. No pain, no gurgling noises... nothing. I had picked my youngest daughter up from school and was driving home, most likely thinking about what kind of harassment we would have to put up with on that particular night. Suddenly, out of the blue, I felt that old familiar feeling. The sharp pain, the sudden rumbling... I knew that the beast was awake and was getting ready to unleash absolute terror on me. What I didn't know was what it was going to do to my unsuspecting daughter. She would be scarred for life by the poop monster. I started silently praying and talking to myself, trying to stay focused. "Please just let me get home, please don't let me lose control right here in my car, oh pleeeeeeeeease let me make it into the house..." And all the while I was driving like a maniac, sweat pouring off me, knuckles white on the steering wheel and my butt cheeks clenched so tight I am surprised I didn't turn myself inside out. Finally we arrived in the driveway -- and maybe a little in the yard, but home nonetheless. My daughter didn't seem to notice the crazy driving or the look of panic on my face, and she just casually got out of the car and started heading for the house. I was trying to muster up the strength to be able to walk through the pain, while trying to keep the impending intestinal disaster contained. I saw her open the front door and go inside, leaving the door wide open as usual. It was time... I had a clear shot... I could do it, I just knew I could... Here goes...! Off and running. Well, not exactly running, but going as fast as I could possibly go in the bent-over holding-my-stomach, clenching-my-buttcheeks, really-gotta-go kind of shuffle-footed poop dance sort of way. I made it all the way to the bathroom, thinking, "Almost there... just hold on one more second..." And then I saw her. She had gone straight to the bathroom and was sitting on the toilet. I told her to move. She didn't. She just looked up at me with her big innocent eyes and said, "I can't. I have to use it." It should be illegal to build a house with only one bathroom in it; but unfortunately it is not, and also unfortunate is that I had not had the good sense to find a place with more than the one. So here we were. Time was of the essence. I knew bad things were about to happen, but I didn't know exactly what. I had to do something drastic, and quickly. Everything that happened next went so fast it was like a blur. I made a quick scan of the surroundings. Bathtub... no. Sink... no. Garbage can? No. And then the moment of truth had arrived. I felt the dam getting ready to break. I couldn't clench any longer. My stomach had distended to unbelievable proportions. The gurgling sound had intensified to more of an eerie, howling noise emanating from my intestines. The beast was coming. It was here. I had to act. Now. I reached down and plucked my daughter from the toilet and set her down directly to the right of it, her little shorts around her ankles. I immediately began the process of pulling down my own pants and simultaneously swinging my rear end around to the right, trying to do a 360 and hopefully land on the toilet. Unfortunately it was just seconds too late. Just as I had completed half the turn, face to face with my daughter, butt to the wall, toilet just to my right, it started coming out. I literally exploded. This stuff was the consistency of brownie mix, about the same color, and at least two full boxes worth. As I was still in motion, I managed to paint the wall and the toilet paper holder, and laid down a nice thick coating all over the seat just as I sat down with a sickening squish. The relief I felt was immediate and absolute. The damage I had caused was unreal. There was poop on the wall, the floor, on the toilet, and beside the toilet. Very little actually made it into the toilet -- it was all over me, down my legs, in my pants, up my back... just a total disaster. This entire event seemed to happen in slow motion, and I believe I must have had one of those out-of-body experiences (no sane person would have stayed in-body for that). Once I had regained my normal cognitive functioning, I looked up at my daughter, who was still just standing there, with her innocent eyes now wide with pure fear. If Freddy Krueger had come up out of the bathtub drain and slashed me to pieces in front of her, she would not have been more horrified than she was at that moment. Somehow I managed to reach over and pull up her pants and turn her around and nudge her toward the bathroom door. I got everything cleaned up eventually, and things went back to normal. She mentioned the event to her older siblings later on, and they simply told her what they had always known: that when mommy says she has to go, just get out of the way. Post new comment
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