Poop Talk with a Happy Ending

I realized that I have been encouraging my daughter to “push” gently ever since she stopped breast feeding. It seemed like the day I introduced solid foods she became constipated, and the story continues. I remember the stool softener mixed with juice in the morning was just a “short term fix” in my mind. Children with Down syndrome have their sluggish systems and lazy bowels, but I haven’t found any quick fix or magical remedy besides trial and error, perseverance, and tons of encouragement.
I remember the camping trip with my family where they saw me dash into the tent twelve to fifteen times in one day to change diaper after diaper when the stool softener loosed enough cargo to spill forth. I can talk this way because it has been my daily grind, my thought pattern, my fear, and my joy. You bet, there is a whole lot of joy when a little child, constipated beyond belief, actually poops. The Steve Martin happy dances, the high fives, the trumpet blasts, the shouts to the entire family, are pretty much common protocol around our house.
Now, at age six, my question is, “When will we get out of Pull-Ups?” I held my aching head with my hands, elbows braced on my knees as I sat on the toddler stool by the bathroom sink. My daughter sat nearby on the throne, blowing softly on the pinwheel, to express the air needed to push a bowel movement out. We weren’t making any progress.
“You can stop blowing, now, sweetie,” I said, “The air you blow is only helpful when you are trying to poop.”
Okay, good effort, but I still felt like her latest withholding was erasing all of the summer’s progress we had made. We had journals of BM’s and Pee; smiley faces and stars marking occasional success. We moved on to daily success when the gastroenterologist recommended two natural laxatives each evening and stool softener in juice in the morning. Real progress, but with a hope that it also was a short-term remedy. We have ruled out allergies and diseases through tests and procedures, built a diet of healthy foods, water, and exercise, but even that doesn’t always trip the trigger.
I went upstairs to get the bedtime routine started. Instead of pushing forward, I scooped my little one up and plopped down on the floor with her in my lap.
“Okay, we need a plan,” I said looking into her scared eyes. “I heard you talking to your sister and we are not going to go back to the doctor.”
“Okay,” she said, looking more relaxed.
“The doctor wants you to do these things at home and at school,” I fibbed.
“Okay,” she said.
“First, the doctor wants you to drink more water,” I added our signature, “Check?”
“Check,” she said.
“Second, the doctor wants you to go to the bathroom as soon as your body tells you to go,” I added, “Check?”
“Check,” she nodded.
“Third, the doctor wants you to eat more…prunes!” I added with tickles, “Check?”
“Check,” she squeaked out, “Check!”
I went to bed praying that the stage we were in wouldn’t last forever. I prayed for her confidence and control to be put to good use in her life. I prayed that any message of frustration or anxiety that I relayed would be forgotten, and that only the message of, “I am here for you,” would stick.
The morning bell went off at 6:00 a.m. with tiny flat-footed steps making there way to our bed.
I heard the sound of her voice, always on my side of the bed, “Mom, I’m awake,” as I felt the arms, legs, and body move their way over my turned face to the middle spot. She burrowed down in the warm abyss between my husband and me.
“Mom, I’m so hungry,” she said. A sure-fire plan to get me out of bed, she thought.
I knew what was coming next, her delicate, beckoning, “Mom, get up!”
“All right, I’m up,” I said. I kissed her head, and felt my own head still pounding slightly. A shower, some coffee, a fresh start was just what we needed.
I made the “Popeye” egg and toast as requested, served with stool softener, fiber powder, and juice. “Mom, sit with me,” she said, as she served me a taste of her breakfast.
“Umm, great,” I said, wondering when the timing would strike.
After breakfast we went through her mental checklist that helps organize her transitional exit to the car. “Are you dressed, check? Teeth brushed, check? Hair brushed, check? Socks on too, check? Shoes…,”
One look at her face, master of control that she is, I could see that the time was opportune to run to the bathroom. I scooped her up underneath her arms and ran-walked her to the bathroom. “Hurry, you can do it!” I shouted, “Blow stick out…,”
“It’s coming…,” she said, blowing her pinwheel with real effort, and seconds later she added, “And, that’s it.”
Her face beamed with success as we connected our high five and I did my happy dance. We started a new sheet for the collection of her pumpkin stickers that would eventually buy her a day at the park, or that pink soccer ball she wanted. We would chart away and continue to keep our heads on when the going got a little tough.