When It Rains, It Pours (and sometimes it pours out of places it oughtn't)

I feel badly for my sister-in-law, who wrote a gut-wrenching expose about the "Cough Syrup Incident of '09" on her blog. In it, she describes the frustrations that go along with trying to convince toddlers to partake of nasty medicines to help them feel better, but having to convince their heightened gustatory senses that if they just muscle past that first HORRID taste, everything will be A-Okay. It sucks.

I'm writing this post in an effort to commiserate with her as I describe the wretched "Diarrhea Incident of '96." If you are squeamish about bodily functions, turn back now... Do not pass Go... Run for the hills... You are advised not to proceed. But, if laughing at someone's abject misery, despite the mention of excrement at multiple moments throughout the telling of the story, join me in my humiliation and feel free to laugh at my expense.


It all goes back to the days of Nathan as a toddler.

He was a cute little guy, but certainly had strong opinions about things. When he was feeling crappy, he was particularly stubborn. When he was about one and a half years old, we were working as assistant managers at Midway Estates, and he had caught a particularly virulent flu bug that winter--the symptoms of which involved non-stop liquid poop that would shoot violently out of his bum with hurricane force. Did I mention, it would not stop? Not for anything in the world. I tried the B.R.A.T diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) to try to plug him up. I tried to keep him from moving, because if he was jostled at all, "SPLOOSH!" out shot the next detonation. Over the course of the afternoon and into the evening, he had systematically exploded his intestinal contents on every stitch of clothing he owned, every piece of clothing I owned, every piece of bedding, every towel, gone through an entire case of diapers, had a butt as red as a baboon's, and was in dire need of fluids. And did I mention, he didn't want to drink any fluids because he was stubborn and cranky. A frantic call to the pediatrician that night assured me that if I couldn't get so many cc's of clear liquids into my son by morning, he was destined for the E.R.

So all night long, I kept him out on the couch (with what really amounted to a tarp underneath him), and woke him up every 15 minutes to give him droppers-full of water. He hated me, but I knew it was for his own good. I stayed up with him the entire night, and in between hydrating the poor kid, I did laundry ALL NIGHT LONG. From sundown to sunrise, I just kept those machines full... and since I had the key to the laundry room, I was able to do upwards of 8 loads at a time.

By the time the sun came up, I had filled my entire living room floor with a Matterhorn-sized heap of clean laundry, and I had successfully gotten enough fluids into my poor dehydrated son to stave off the dreaded hospital visit. An ounce here, an ounce there, and Nathan was miraculously chipper and agreeable. He had apparently forgiven me for disturbing his sleep. That morning, his little head perked up from the waterproof bedding on the couch, he flashed his winning smile, and climbed down from his perch... right over to the pile of warm, inviting laundry, where he toddled right to the very peak of clean, fresh linens... where his bowels unleashed their final paroxysm on top of the ENTIRE heap in one, final, projectile explosion...

...And I cried. I cried huge, raking sobs. I buried my face in the floor and could not stop for an indeterminate amount of time. Pleading prayers for God's tender mercies poured from my soul. And then I looked at my bewildered little boy, with foul-smelling excrement oozing down his thighs, diaper rash burning beneath his Pampers... And then I wiped away my tears, put on the bravest face I could muster, and started all over again.

So, here's to you, Diana... and to all the mothers out there who can share your misery in one way or another. We feel your pain. I hope Avery feels better soon!