Its true, mes amies. Our furry little friend with no discernible asshole does, in fact, drop the occasional deuce.

It must be true, because I have in my possession a book that not only states it but shows a picture of the little red fella climbing onto his very own potty, belly full and round and obviously ready to unload a serious stinker.

This all came about one day when Piglet announced, in a rather frantic tone, ‘New bum new bum new bum!’  (this means, essentially, new diaper, and is usually said after she’s shat herself.  Understandable – who would want to cruise about with a full load in their pants, right)  But she hadnt shat her diaper, because, as per our usual morning routine, she was naked.  (she will pee in the potty this way, no problem.  Half the time Ill be washing up the breakfast dishes and suddenly hear the splash of her dumping her own potty full of pee into the toilet. Its great.)

So for her to suddenly demand a new bum without an old one on… sparked a few thoughts.

‘Do you have to go poop, honey?’

‘NO.’ Frantic head shaking.  ‘No. No no no no nonononono.’

Pretty sure that translates to yes, YES yesyesyesyesyesyes.

‘How bout we go to the potty and try?’

‘No!’ More frantic head shaking.  ’No, no mommy, no poop, nonononononono. New bum.’

Excited, now, knowing all signs point to go, I took her by the hand and led her into the bathroom.  She was clearly scared, the word ‘no’ on repeat from her trembling little mouth, so I kept reassuring and soothing her with gentle murmurs of “mommy’s here”s and “it’s okay”s, hoping against hope that this was the day.

I was careful not to force her, and luckily she sat right on her potty without prompt even, but the crying was on high.  Several more “new bum’s” came tumbling out of her mouth, so I knew a poop was on the horizon.  I was simultaneously bubbling over with excitement at this milestone and terrified I was going to handle it all wrong.  I hadn’t had to do anything for her to pee on the potty – I just put it out there for her to see and get used to and away she went – and I hadn’t started looking into poop training methods yet, nor had I received any of the ever-infallible ‘Well in MY day we used to…’ stories.  (which I love.  Of course.  Winkity, wink wink.)

Anyway I was wildly unprepared and caught completely off guard (which is hilariously ironic considering what a big play poop has had in my life lately).  So after 45 minutes of tears despite gentle coaxing and hand holding and reassurance, I did what any nervous-self-doubting-first-time-mother would do: I consulted the Internet.

My method thus far had been to ensure above all that she knew she was safe and okay, and not being forced to do anything, while trying in vain to rouse in her an enthusiasm about the prospect of pooping on the potty.  I offered up some special stickers as reward, and even dropped trough myself in hopes of pinching out a loaf for her to see.  (no dice.)

I skimmed this and that and discovered, to my surprise, not much advice at all.  Most offered up things NOT to do, the biggest being forcing/physically restraining the child on the potty, and getting angry or punitive.  (who is doing those things?) Many suggested reward incentives, which I’d done with stickers, and all talked of staying positive and encouraging, but other than that there wasn’t a whole lot out there.  Every child is different, blah blah blah.

I felt a little flush, realizing I was – on my accord and direction – doing it right, and despite being nearly an hour into this heartwrenching venture was now fueled with pride (in both of us) and determination.  I’d almost broke – a million times, if I’m to be honest – but I knew that poop was just around the corner, because she kept asking, so frantically, for a new bum, then panties, then jammies – anything she could poop in.  God granted me small but sweet reprieves in her clever, adorable lookings for anything to distract me:

“I want go park!”

“I hunry!” (hungry)

“I go play toys?”

“I hunry!”

“I want go pool!”

“I want daddy!  Daddy car white.”

“I want juice.”

“I want book.”

“I want Yoe Cay!” (Zoe & Cade)

“I hunry.”

“I want bath!”

“I want see Ashey Bookyn!”  (Ashley & Brooklyn)

“I want watch Elmo!”

To each of which I answered “Okay!  We will go to the park/eat/have juice/read books/etc… Right after poop.”

Poor girl.  She was so annoyed.

And then I remembered the book.  Elmo’s Potty Book, it’s called, and I must say it was a huge help.  I brought it into the bathroom (where it now lives) and sat on the floor beside Piglet’s potty and we read together, and by the good grace of God it shows Elmo’s potty beside a regular toilet, so I was able to point to that and compare it exactly to our bathroom.  ‘Elmo’s potty; his mommy’s potty.  Piglet’s potty; mommy’s potty.’  Her tear stained little face looked soberly from the picture to our bathroom, making the comparison.  I could all but see her little mind working.  Finally her little lips trembled out a hesitant ’Elmo poop?’

My excitement was uncontainable friends.  “YES!  Elmo poops!  In the potty!  Just like Mommy!  And Daddy, and (insert the names of everyone she knows) and YOU, sweetheart!”

She continued to look back and forth from the book to her potty and my toilet, and I eagerly pointed out more things on the pages (Elmo flushes, washes hands, gets to wear big boy pants, etc) while she drank it up like college kid at a keg party.

There were still a few more cries/attempts,(“I hunry I hunry I want juice!”) and I knew we had to be right there when she started getting desperate (“I want go night night!”) but finally, fiiiiinaaaally, 90 minutes (or was it 9000?) after it all began… a happy shout:

“Mommy!  I poop!”

I swear I nearly pooped myself, I was so excited.  I ran – yes, ran, the seven steps to her potty – and looked and sure enough – she had!

*This is where I put a little tip/disclaimer for all you potty-trainers out there; if your child is anywhere near this stage, it would be wise to refrain from feeding them beets until it’s all over.  No further details needed, I’m sure.  You’re welcome.

We laughed and whooped and hugged and high fived.  We covered ourselves in stickers and danced all around.  We phoned Daddy and Gramom and left screechingly happy messages.  We then both promptly passed out.  God bless nap time.

What I’ve learned & have to pass along…

We repeated this entire process the next day but skimmed 30 minutes off the top; we took another 30 off poop #3, (which is saying a lot as we were at someone else’s house) and by poop #4 (3- yes THREE- mins!) I had figured it out – it was something so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.  It was the element of privacy.  Who wants to poop with someone – even if it is their own mother - right beside them?  So even though she cried at first at my leaving the room, it was never more than 30 seconds until the inevitable ‘Mommy!  I pooping!” came shouting through the door.

I’ve also employed a little bit of a, um, exaggeration-of-the-truth tactic.  (NO, it’s not lying!)  I simply refer to her pull ups as ‘panties’, so that when she has them on she still asks to go pee. She once peed in real panties and likely remembers the unpleasantly soaked feeling, so.  At night, I make it clear that we’re putting on a ‘diaper’, since (for now, anyway) there’s no chance she’ll wake up dry, so I want her to really distinguish between panties and diaper.

Also, I only ever get ONE mention/ask from her; she says something like “I want/go poop” and when I ask it back (You have to go poop?) fear takes over and she says no.  Every time.  (No poop no poop no poop!) But because she does bring it to me once, it’s important to stick it out so she doesn’t get confused, so down go the crayons/off goes the movie/in we go from the park and to the potty we go.

I’ve found it’s all the more encouraging for her to see me using the potty, even just to pee, and especially at the same time as her, so I’ve been knocking back the coffee/water/diet pepsi by the gallon so that I can pee on demand.  I don’t know that I would recommend this method as it can be very cumbersome when you have to make three trips to the bathroom in one grocery shop and the staff starts thinking you must be the worst shoplifter they’ve ever seen.  Ahem.

I also found it helpful to stay one track minded.  I answer everything she says with ‘Did you poop?’ so she knows none of her distraction tactics will work.  “I hunry!” “Did you poop?”  “No.”  “Oh.  Okay.”  “I want go park!”  “Did you poop?”  “No.”  “Oh.  Okay.”  “I want play toys!”  “Did you poop?”  Etc, etc…. etc.

Now by no means do I think I’m any kind of Prostar of Potty Training because Piglet made it through four poops in a row, and I’m sure all of you who have been through it before are laughing at my optimism, but, while I know there will be setbacks and accidents, I feel like we’re pretty much on the road to success.  She recognizes the sensation of having to go, and I think both her and me maintaining a positive attitude about it is the other half of the battle.  (easier said than done, I’m sure, the first time she poops in real panties in public… we’ll see how ‘positive’ my attitude is then, right? Ha.)

Alas – onward, on this next big milestone path for both mother and daughter… Here we go!

I would like to mention that this post was written over a week ago, before I went to work and commuted Piglet to Calgary, with Daddy and a new dayhome… I didn’t get to hear how things went at the dayhome, and BD said she only pooped once in her sleep for him, but we got home Sunday night and come Monday morning… “I go poop”… followed by 2 mins on the potty and a cheerful “Mommy!  I pooping!” and then a proud little Piglet leaping off the potty and bending over for me to wipe her bum.  All I can say is that it’s about bloody time poop gave me something to cheer about. 

You know when you’re looking so forward to some quality, quiet alone time and the very moment you’re about to start reveling in it some tool comes along flapping their lips in your face and ruins it?

Annoying, indeed.

This annoyance is magnified for those who work in any kind of service/public industry, and particularly those that combine both like that of, say, a flight attendant.

Insert scene: Me, fresh off a 6+ hour flight, stripped of my suffocating uniform and finally without any smelly strangers yammering in/crowding my space, happily flip flopping solo down the street to catch the sunset.  In Maui, of course.

Most would know better; but most also concern themselves with the state of their physique, and lately, well, I just don’t care about that.  And so, rather than fussing with clothes & coverups I simply sailed out the door clad only in a bikini, not giving a rip about cellulite and thunder thighs and my mini muffin top.  It should have come as no surprise, then, when some greasebag in a rental squealed up to a halt beside me on the street.

And out from the window: “Hey!  Hey, you staying at this hotel?  How you like it?  Where you headed, girl?”

Um.  Seriously?!  Did this douchebag just pull over – without even bothering to get out of the car – to hit on me?

“Where you from, girl?  How long you staying, what-cho-gettin’ up to tonight?”

Yep.  It would appear so.

Wordless, still, caught somewhere between annoyance and hysterical laughter, I stood, stupified, as this idiot climbed out his econo-rental.  He caught his visor – which might have been sexy had it been for a real purpose like golf or beach volleyball, but judging by his lanky, lack-of-muscled body, was clearly not – on the door frame in the process, landing it askew across his forehead and messy mop.

Undeterred, grease monkey adopted a cocky stance.  ”What’s your name, girl?”

Smirking and not hiding it, I answered.  Apparently my three syllable uncommon name was too much for him, because he asked me twice to repeat it.  I flat out laughed.

“I’m Gabe,” he said, nodding in self approval, apparently very pleased with himself.

I nodded too, laughing harder now, which Gabe somehow interpreted as the green light to ask for my phone number.

Dear friends, this couldn’t have been more fun.  Between laughs, I managed to say that I don’t give out my phone number, but no problem because Gabe was all too eager to offer up his.

As the seedling of this post sprang up in my mind, I wavered only for a moment on whether to be nice – let poor pathetic Gabe off the hook – or whether to have a little fun.

And so, dear friends, if you ever find yourself ‘in the San Francisco Bay area and looking for a good time’, call Gabe!  At:

510 – 301 – 4405

And a note to all you fellas out there – if you really think hollering out a junky car window at a girl is a sure fire way to get some – it might be best not to be wearing a wife beater.  ;)

Aloooooooha!

I once went to this wedding where I did more hanging around the food bar than socializing, and happened to be right at the ready when they set out the coffee & tea bits; some suited fella set a plateful of Mighty Leaf teas right in front of me, and, knowing these lovelies go for nearly $20 a box, I naturally knicked a couple for a pick-me-up at a later date.

Today is that day, and while the steaming London Fog I made is certainly lovely… it’s not magical, and thus, melancholy I remain.

It is very very early right now; still dark, and being a holiday, most everyone is still sleeping.  I should be, and would be, were it not for my internal self loathing, self destructive alarm.

I miss my child, dear friends, and even as I write that I know it’s both the biggest understatement of the year and the oldest story in the book.

I laid awake for an hour, trying to sort a way that I can see/have her before I go flying on Tuesday.  Bottom line; it’s not doable.

Nature has conspired against me; I tried to do the right thing, leaving her with BD on Boxing Day to fly home solo and give her some rest & time with family, and my busted up back  a couple days of much needed rest too.  I’d planned two days of in-bed-with-books-and-movies (and no bending or lifting whatsover) to recuperate; imagine my surprise when, five minutes into this plan my ‘sore throat’ becomes wildly painful, massive, pussing tonsils rendering me unable to swallow; enter, Tonsillitis!  And just try to find an open Walk-In during the holidays.  So my two days of bed became two days of clinic hopping. (We’re closed.  We’re full.  Doc’s in surgery.  Come back in six hours. Etc.)

By the good grace of God the anti-biotic took effect fast, and after four days of seriously next to no food or water, I tentatively started eating, and, hallelujah, resting.

But now Piglet has taken ill.  She’s vomited in the night and has the squirts, BD tells me, and while I once would have said there’s nothing worse than your child being sick, there’s nothing worse than your child being sick while you’re not there.

I fucking hate this child sharing bit.  I hate it.  I’ve been so focused on being good and fair and looking out for the best interest of everyone except for me, I’ve run myself into the ground as a result.  After this week of sickness and tomorrow’s pairing, I’ll have gone for a 12 day stint without seeing Piglet.  How.  Is.  This.  Possible.

After realizing this in bed this morning, (insert pathetic sob scene) I got up, (anti-biotic, swallow, anti-inflammatory, swallow, decongestant, swallow) parked myself in my green chair in the window, stared outside, and vowed to make this better.  I will not be a part-time parent.  I need to be with her as much as possible, and more importantly, if I may be so bold, she needs me.

Is the answer to move back to Calgary?  Is it? I am absolutely filled with despair at the thought of it.   It will definitely solve one problem – this horrid commute – but it doesn’t change child-sharing, and will open up new problems in its wake, and I, and more importantly, Piglet, love(s) the life I found here, and haven’t I said this all before, is this broken record never going to end? HOW are you still reading me, faithful friends; I admire (and appreciate) your loyalty.

I’m so good at finding all the questions to ask, and never being able to answer them.  Not a great way to start the new year; this post isn’t a great way to start it either.  Shouldn’t it be some sort of New Years & resolutions & reflections & optimistic hoohah?  What a shite blogger I am, a total fraud.  And I don’t have time to work on bettering that element of myself because being a good mother takes precedence; and on that note, I will – (deep breathe, set jaw, head high) climb onto the ever-annoying-cheerleading-New-Years wagon & make some sort of fresh-start/clean-slate/resolutions on how to figure this all out.

(Advice welcome.  Encouraged.  Requested.  Demanded?  Yes please. )

“Mommy!  Santa.”

“Mommy!  Santa ho ho ho!”

“Mommy!  See Santa!  Santa Caus!”

You’ve guessed what’s coming.  Off to see the fat man we went.

Now, before I share this photo, I must plead my case.  Dear friends, let me tell you, I loathe the mall.  Hate it.   Avoid it all costs.

I also loathe lineups.  Particularly lineups full of crying screaming squirming children.

But I LOVE my daughter, so face the music I did.  I bundled her into an adorable Christmas outfit and braved the line and the crowds and the kids and the obnoxious parents who think their ugly kid is soooo cute in destroying everything within a ten foot radius, and while there was one moment of panic – nothing terrifies a parent more than a hint whiff of poop, (Oh gahd was it my child?  Was it?  Was it?  -as every index finger in the vicinity is immediately yanking out the back of every diaper it belongs to.) and while history would suggest that it was my child, Christmas miracles do happen because it wasn’t.

However, Christmas drollery also happens because while Piglet has the power of dropping a stink bomb that could clear a room, (inherited from her father, obviously) she also has a great sense of humour and blames whoever happens to be nearest; and thus, during a collective sigh of relief from many a parent eliminating their child as the offender, she shouted a loud & clear ‘Mommy toot!’ for all to hear.   Ho, ho.

So finally Santa drags his ass around the corner and picture time begins.  Piglet was SO excited: ‘Santa Santa see Santa Santa Santa see Santa see SANTA!’

Until she got a look at him.  I swear it was a mid-breath halt – “Santa see Santa see Sahhhhhhhh…. insert small gasp which she immediately choked on, followed by four tiny limbs death-gripping around my leg.

Come Hell or high water, this child was going nowhere.

Now, dear friends, put yourself in my shoes.  The outfit, the parking lot, the mall, the line the kids the shrieks the noise ahhhhhhhhhh!  Not to mention the fact that I’d already purchased our package and now after all this there was no way in hell I was leaving without it.

Besides – watching this two second transformation was absolutely hysterical.  It was SO funny, friends, in that way that only a parent can laugh at a crying child because they know the cry is not one of real pain.

And so, I whisked us both up to good ol’ St Nick and two teenage elves captured the moment that will forever solidify my title of Worst Mother Ever:

Fa la la la la, la la, LA!

T’was the week before Christmas

And all through the city

People were starting

To get rather shitty

The last minute shopping

The stress of the buys

The last-one-in-stocks

That result in black eyes

The brigade of the parties

The food, and the nog

The Advil and Motrin

Lifting the fog

The kids! – Their concerts

Their shows and their cheer

Has everyone reaching

For a noise numbing beer

The presents, the parcels

The ribbons and bows

The back-breaking wrapping

Is killing; it shows

Family arriving

By land and by plane

All making you wish

You’d been hit by a train

So make room in your purse

(You would be so clever)

And stash some sweet treats

And a flask of whatever

Exhausted and weary

Yes!  But don’t fret

Armed with our vices

We’ll get through it all yet

Santa has it right

That willy old dear:

Visit people -

But once a year.

Ho, ho, HO!  :)

Have you seen Four Christmases, dear friends?

You must.  The movie itself is good – Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon, both adorable as usual but the premise of the movie is to what I’m referring; the idea of skipping Christmas.  Absolutely brilliant.

(Gasp)  This, coming from the girl who prattles on about the lights & the food & the songs & the very essence of Christmas?  Surely you must have read wrong?

No.  You didn’t.  The difference is this:  I do very much love the season of Christmas – all the time leading up to it… I just dread the actual day.  (How sacrilege, right, the birth of Jesus and all. But back up off me, everyone knows He was actually born in April.)

I envy children and their innocent excitement and anticipation, the magic and joy of the morning…

But I am a grown up (sort of – sigh) and a) Santa isn’t coming for me and b) the anticipation, instead of for ‘magic’ is instead for ‘how to please everyone’.

I remember far too well the business of carting Piglet round, trying to make sure everyone got time with her but probably pleasing no one as a result of rushing through things, and then feeling both guilty about that and upset with myself for not just staying put and telling everyone if they wanted to see her they could come to our place.  (oh, to have a set of balls…)

Enter Year of the Separation.  (that word is now tainted forever for me.  Boo.)  Just thinking of sharing and shuffling Piglet to and fro & trying to be fair to friends & family alike while attempting to keep some semblance of happiness makes me want to flush myself down the toilet.

And so, I’ve thought long and hard about this.  For months actually, even as far back as last year when BD and I knew we were over I’ve been imagining what this would look like.

Such endless musing has led me to wonder what the actual percentage is of people who actually enjoy Christmas day.  Book after book and movie after movie have been written about it – some humourous anecdote or another highlighting the miseries, agonies & anxieties of family, the drunk uncle, the bitch sister, the meddling mother the perverted grandfather & the crazy brother.  And the gifts – Oh gahd.  Tie rack, anyone?  Foam cowboy hat?  Bunny slippers?  Handmade-something-awful? You lose either way – you either get some junket crap you don’t want or your carefully-thought-out-gifts don’t land.

And the dinners; the luncheons, the breakfasts and the brunches.  What are the chances 10-20 people at any such gathering are all going to get along, or even like each other?  Enter the real Christmas Angels; rum & eggnog.  Beer & wine.  Spiced whatever.  Liquor sales soar during the holidays, and it’s no surprise why.

Isn’t it just so sad that a time reserved for family & get togethers is so widely dreaded by the masses? Thank God for collective misery, masquerading as humour.   Ho f*cking ho.

And so, after careful consideration… I’ve decided to…  skip it.  Reign in that judgment, please, and hear me out.

I’ll be the first to say what a great dad BD is.  I knew in marrying him that he’d be an active and involved dad, that his children would be lucky to have him as their father.

His family loves her too, and a whole heap of them get together for Christmas day, and it would be wonderful for both them and Piglet to have that time together, and… for the sake of my daughter… I feel I should bow out gracefully.

Of course, my own mother and brother love her immeasurably too, and isn’t it fair that they get some time too?  Well yes, it would be… but as I said before, the thought of all this sharing and shuffling makes me want to take a long walk off a short pier, and – Piglet is only two years old.  She loves saying Santa and Snowman but really doesn’t get it.  Every other Christmas, for the rest of her life, she will; and I’ll have it no other way than to be a huge part of it.  But this year… I’m really struggling, still, with getting over everything,  (obviously) and I seem to need some sort of – escape – to really move on.  I’m in a transitional period; I’m not where I wanted or hoped to be; and childish as it may sound, I just want to run away and deal with all the hoohahs of this calendar year by myself.

And so I’m working.  I will drop Piglet off with BD on the 24th and pick her up on the 26th (though hoping he’ll do the nicety of dropping her off as I’ll have worked the redeye in).  I know he and his family will be so happy to have her, and she’ll be showered with love and attention…

So I’m trying to feel good about this decision.  I just wish my own mumsy had something on the haps; I feel horrid, terrible, for leaving her… after she’s been so good to me.  She deserves better than a shit daughter like me.

The high road, then?  Or just the cowardly road?  I’ll tell you one thing.  I’m already planning for next year; I’m planning and booking a flight to Sand & Sunshine for me and Piglet from before to after this bloody dreaded day.  I can’t take this heartache again.

But let’s part on a happy note:  Santa has the right idea.  Visit people but once a year.  ;)

Hello dawlings!  Have you been on the edge of your seat, just dying to hear if I shat the bed yet?

Well. I didn’t.  (my mother breaths a sigh of relief)  But – settle in.

So I arrive at the place and am shown to my room where I drop trough and climb into the bed.  The RMT comes in and I’m delighted to see she’s an incredible hulk of a woman.  Looked like she could crush a mailbox between her thighs.  I was excited.

Fast forward an hour and, to sum it up, it was a little disappointing.  I mean the massage itself was nice, just not as painful as I’d hoped or anticipated; more ‘lovely day at the spa’ like.  Boo.   (not to sound ungrateful.  She did do some amazing work, kept saying how my lower back was ‘so tight!’, and it felt great to have both the validation and to have a lot of those muscles to release.)

So I redress and drink some water and am shown to the chiro room, and fortunately had a few minutes to spare; I’d gotten so relaxed from the massage I’d near forgotten about my chiropooptic anxieties.

So I quickly dash to the loo, spend ten minutes and half a roll of toilet paper building a ‘nest’, looked upward to the sky and prayed for a poop.  By the good grace of God I was able to dispense a mini-deuce, which was enough to assuage my fears but also only a fraction of what I hoped for.

So onto the chiro bed I hop, while a 250lb brickhouse of a man bends me up and jumps on me, snap crackle and popping (oops – almost wrote ‘pooping’ there, one track mind or what) me into place.  (And for whatever reason, I think it’s the sound, but I find this procedure absolutely hilarious, and giggle like a schoolgirl throughout the entire process.  Buddy thought I was nuts.)

And out I went, limber and aligned and still full of drugs, so feeling like a million bucks.  It was still earlyish so I decided to pop into the giant dollar store up the hill to grab some Christmas wrappings for all the pressies I had to mail.

This dollar store really is massive, and brand new so it doesn’t have that awful moth ball & Pine Sol smell.  I was very much enjoying myself perusing the aisles for Christmas bags and bows and boxes, despite the store being packed with narky people and screaming children, and I was happily inspecting a package of bows when – there it was.

I froze; my eyes flew from the bows and fixated right in front of me, on nothing in particular as every ounce of my attention was focused inward.

Oh… Oh, my God.  OH my God.  Omigod omigod omigod; the Shat Ship had arrived and docked and was about to disembark, right NOW.  RFN.

I literally whirled, dear friends; my hair did one of those fly-about Pantene commercial whips.  I barreled my cart down the aisle, bows still in hand, as my entire abdomen grumbled and growled loud enough to wake the dead.  My face was crunched up in a grimace and judging by the looks on people’s faces as I elbowed them and their children out of the way, I must have been quite the sight.

I two-wheeled my cart around the corner, knocking someone’s screaming brat right off its feet & earning myself a gasp from both kid and mother, (to which I might have replied ‘at least he finally shut up’ had I been able to think about anything other than finding a toilet) my eyes flying about for the bathroom.  I finally located an employee, by which I mean acne-ridden-near-unemployable-high-school-dropout-pissy-teenager who was merely gaining cash register experience for her future of counting and collecting loonies, rushed up to her and breathlessly demanded ‘Wheresthebathroom?!’

Her scowling little face never left the box of deodorant she was unpacking, and with a dramatic sigh to showcase her great annoyance at being disturbed by some dumbshit customer, she shook her head.  ’Don’t have one’.

No.  I wasn’t having it.  I knew there was one and I needed to find it NOW, but I didn’t have time to argue with this skank.  After a (fortunately faster) back and forth involving my ‘You don’t HAVE one?  Nowhere, anywhere, not for the staff even?!’ and her (incredibly snitty) reply of ‘NO, we DON’T’ I moved immediately to Plan B; I had to get the hell out of there.  I was at the back of the store and could see the door; unfortunately, between me and it was a huge family at the till buying frigging everything, with three carts, completely blocking my way out.

I heard myself actually whimper.  I was absolutely stricken with panic, picturing worst case scenarios and rapidly concluding by the violent contractions in my abdomen that I wasn’t going to make it.  I analyzed quickly; the family was done paying, merely loading their stuff back into the carts.  It would be quicker to wait the thirty seconds for them to get out of the way, pay for my own stuff in the process and get out in a semi-civilized manner than to shove my cart sideways and attempt to hurdle ten feet of people and carts.  And, I figured I could ask the nicer-looking till girl for the bathroom here and possible save myself.

Why, why, would this plan work out for me.  Thirty years into this game of life and I’m quite certain my entire life purpose is to be a horrible example.

I literally threw the contents of my cart on the counter, realizing I’d forgotten wrapping paper and grabbing the first one my hand landed on in the box beside me, deftly digging through my purse for my wallet with the other.

Naturally, this girl could not have moved slower.  I wanted to kill her.  She was bubbly and cheerful and admiring every single bit and bow I was buying, and I honestly didn’t think I could wait one more minute and rudely cut her off by asking if I could please use the bathroom.

“Oooooooo, ohhhhhh, deary, I’m so sorry, but -no…” Big dramatic expression of regret, as though she herself was about to shit her pants.  She looked at me a second too long and concern – perhaps disgust – crossed her face.  I was sweating.  Badly.  And sortof panting.  My lips were dry, I kept licking them, tears were brimming and I was squeezing my ass cheeks together so tightly I’m sure the burn-equivalent was 40 minutes on a treadmill.  The pain in my guts was incredible; I was concentrating SO hard on not unleashing a shitstorm in this dollar store I could barely get through the debit transaction.

Back in the days of cooking-for-family, when I’d make something that looked ‘too healthy’, Babydaddy would refuse to eat it with the joke-reason that it would cause ‘anal-leakage’.  I would scoff, annoyed, saying that anal-leakage doesn’t even exist.

Well friends, I’m here to tell you that it certainly does, and it is noooooo fun.  I stood, frozen, my legs glued together while this wildly unaware, imperceptive cashier lined my receipts up in the stapler with the dedicated attention of a surgeon, now afraid to move at all for losing control of my own body, as a small yet very alarming, very unwelcome, warmth, if you will, made an appearance in my pants.

If there was ever a moment in my life that I wished for the earth to simply open up and swallow me, this was it.  I suddenly realized that this girl was holding my receipt out to me, while I was staring blindly up at the ceiling with my lips pursed and praying for death, and I ripped it out of her hand and flew out the door.  I looked wildly from left to right; I knew there were a couple big box stores here, London Drugs and Home something, and I ran in that general direction, (and by ‘ran’ of course I mean hobbled, penguin-like, my legs unable to release their death grip but also propelling me forward with admirable fervor) through the snow and the first set of doors.  I blew in like a storm, immediately located the bathroom signs and again ‘ran’, Christmas bags and bobbles bouncing all about me,  through the door.

There was no ten-minute nest building here.  There was only a blur of bags and clothes as I flew into the first stall, letting go of rather than putting down my bags and being vaguely aware of them skidding all across the floor, yanking my coat up with one hand and my pants down with the other and…

I absolutely destroyed this bathroom.

The job that had started itself was now finishing itself and all I could do was whimper, my head between my knees and my arms gripped round my ankles for dear life.  I looked left and noticed for the first time my last-minute wrapping paper; Disney’s Cars.  Awesome.

When my bowels finally finished trying to kill me, I tidied myself up, (let this be a lesson for everyone to carry baby wipes in their purse) flushed away the evidence, (yeah, alright, it took a couple) thought about it for only a moment, then peeled off my decimated underwear and flushed them away too.

Finally – finally – I emerged, closing the door quickly behind me lest the Gascon 3000 stank emerge and knock someone out, my eyes downcast and darting left to right as I was absolutely awash with shame, certain everyone knew what I’d just done.  I even briefly felt like I should buy something to compensate.

Quick and quiet as a mouse I snuck out, retracing my steps back to the dollar store where I walked calmly up to the counter and casually asked to exchange my wrapping paper.  I looked over and saw the skank from before in the same aisle; I waited till I caught her eye, smirk- smiled, and kicked over the box of wrapping paper rolls so they spilled up her aisle.  Ha, ha, bitch.

And there you have it, friends.  No matter what life lobs at you, take it from me-

You haven’t really lived, until you’ve shit your pants in public.

Well!  Look at all the thoughtful comments!  Thank you, dear friends!  I also received some texty texts from well meaners, suggested prunes and prune juice, and (for back) deep tissue massage.

The update…. isn’t much of an update, sadly.  On the bright side, there were two – ahem – ‘movements’, if you will, though they weren’t of epic proportion like I’d expected (and hoped) and since then there has been nothing again.  I’ve had three absolutely horrendous days of my back rendering me a cripple and for the first time ever, I was happy to do the Piglet hand-off with Babydaddy, as chasing/lifting/having her cry because I can’t carry her around 24/7 was simply killing me.

So, between the blockage, (you know it’s bad when your sweats are snug) the broken back, (I’m a hunchback, friends.  At 31.) and a stormy couple of personal days, (insert chocolate and PB out of the jar)  I am in a rough place.

Enter Operation Fix-Me-Up.  Informed work and mumsy that I would be flying in to Calg to situate self on couch while she catered to my every wish and demand, (ordered that she run out to collect me prunes and juice and chicken noodle soup) and scheduled apt after apt; family doc (for better drugs) chiro (bend and snap) and deep tissue massage (which is said to be excruciatingly painful but effective, and thus I can’t WAIT.)

I landed in yest and ‘prepped’, hoping to start today ‘fresh’.  ’Cleaned out’.  Ahem.  I ate fistfuls of dried prunes, (and stewed prunes which by the way are a rather lovely little snack, I recommend everyone give a go) drank a whole heap of prune juice (the real nectar stuff, my mumsy spares no cost) and brewed up some more laxative tea and let it steep for 20 minutes.  I was mildly afraid of shitting the bed – literally – but took my chances.  (my mother would shat herself if she knew that – I was sharing her bed.)

This morning, then?  Nada.  Zip, zilch, not a pooplet to be seen, and it is now 1pm.

Devastation, obviously.  I’ve my deep tissue & chiro apts back to back in one hour’s time, and I’ve just polished off another glass of prune juice.  My usual chiro girl is off on Mondays so I’m seeing the former NFLer guy, and am now terrified I’m going to be laying on my stomach while he pretzels me into position and the second he jumps on me for the snap-crackle-pop, a big fat stream of sewage is going to come flying out my ass.  Wouldn’t that be one for the books.

Will update with results.  Hopefully they won’t involve me having been asked to leave the building.

I’ve hurt my back, dear friends.  And badly.  I am, without exaggeration, the 60-year younger version of that old lady from the commercial nasty little teenagers used to make fun of : ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’.

Back injuries are the worst.  I won’t bore you with the details, (though I could regale you with the funny visuals of me bending down and having to hand-walk myself back up on whatever pieces of furniture are available, grimaces and grunts aplenty) but I will warn you of some unforeseen… unpleasantries, we’ll say – that accompany an injury like this.

You might see it coming – I didn’t- as I’ve never been a big pill popper I haven’t established a ready mental list of possible side effects that accompany various medications.  But a gf was quick to the draw; I’d been telling her how happy & relieved I was to have finally gotten some ‘real’ drugs (I’d been near inhaling over-the-counter backpain pills before finally getting into the doc) and cheerfully informed her that I was now rotating a heavy duty anti-inflammatory with T3 Codeine.

She goes, ‘Whoa!  Wouldn’t that totally bung you up?’

Ha, ha you say.  Very funny indeed, how bang on she was.

I actually hadn’t realized it at first; I hadn’t yet experienced any discomfort, I’d been busy commuting into Calgary and I was so consumed with the pain in my back, nothing else even registered.  I’d been to the doctor who, along with writing me my blessed Rx, had sent me for x-rays, and it was the call back from them that first tipped me off.  Apparently, a – ahem – ‘back up’ of significant proportion is visible on an x-ray.  How embarrassing.

So I thought about it for a moment (can anyone – any woman, that is -actually answer right away when their last poop was?) and realized it actually had been a while.

So I carried on, doing what I could to help nature to take its course (which never, ever works by the way.  Fly immediately to prescribed/homeopathic/over the counter assistance, I say) and of course it didn’t, so after a few angst-ridden, wretched days, I ventured, apprehensively, into the realm of poop inducers.

Quite the market, dear friends.  All sorts of pills and tablets and chewable whatnots.  Never a fan of pills and terrified of swallowing a bottle of liquid explosion and blowing a tornado out my ass, I decided to start with tea.

Organic herbal laxative, Senna, it was called.  I figured this was an excellent step 2 to the Organic ginger digestive aid tea I’d already been taking.  The directions said to take 1/2 – 1 cup of brewed tea once daily, at bedtime, and ‘movement’ (props to their marketing team for coming up with that one) should occur within 6-12 hours.

I considered this ’1/2 – 1 cup’ directive for a moment… cupped my rock hard, bulging abdomen with one hand and my broken lower back with the other… and had 3 cups.  The situation was dire, dear friends, don’t judge me!

Besides – it didn’t work.  24 hours later, breaking out in a cold sweat & staring longingly at the toilet, my gaze shifted to the little blue box on the kitchen counter.  I chewed my lip nervously.  Remembered the time – over ten years ago – I dabbled into this box of darkness and ended up wishing for death.

My belly bulged against my sweat pants.  (Hot.  I know.)  I grabbed & tore open the box and tossed a square of the little foil wrapped chocolate in my mouth in one fluid motion, all the while averting my eyes from the Exlax label.

Mission failed.  Who would have ever thought I’d wake up sorry I hadn’t been woken in the night from an earthquake erupting out my ass.  And yet – there I was.  Fat & bloated & hopped up on painkillers.  (but not so much as to interfere with my parenting – I embellish, for the sake of story-telling.)

Of course I also tried natural run-of-the-mill remedies.  Naturally fibrous foods, like oranges, for instance.  Broccoli.  Grainy things.  I’ve eaten Indian, Thai, and Vietnamese, chili peppers on everything.   All of which is vying for room in my guts.

Enter tonight.  Aside from a few misleading rabbit pellets there’s been no action down there and I am in a panic.  I can’t seem to get any movement down there but I can’t stop taking my pills.  There’s nothing funny or amusing about back pain and certainly no way to write it up in any funny or amusing manner, so I’ve glossed over it but the fact is – I’m in relentless pain here, rendered embarrassingly incapable, and poor baby girl doesn’t understand why mummy won’t pick her up all the time anymore.  And this  - blockage, if you will – is only exacerbating the issue.  Bluntly put – I need to poop, and not a little.  We’re talking warn-the-neighbours-obtain-childcare-ensure-the-plumbing-is-up-to-grade-and-stock-up-on-scented-candles, kind of poop.

To be honest – at this point – I’m rather afraid.  I was only half kidding about the plumbing bit there.  I mean my gaawwwd, I’ve got a United Nations food fight going on in my guts and I haven’t shit in over a week. GAK.

So tonight I’m loading up, full throttle.  Fibre, tea, Exlax, etc.  I’m hoping to spend all night on the pooper (have even placed book on bathroom counter in anticipation!) and hopefully you won’t hear from me for few blissful poop-filled days.

Or you’ll hear from me tomorrow demanding remedies.  Fingers crossed.

I think of you each year this day,

Always wishing for a way,

To tell you, show you, all she’s done,

The lovely fivesome, they’ve become.

You’d be SO proud, to know, to see,

The life she’s built; her family.

She’s still strong and so smart-

Still has such love in her heart.

A friend like no other-

The best wife; the best mother.

Inward and outward beautiful too,

All partly because, of life spent with you.

I’m so grateful to know her and thankful to you,

For shaping and molding, and raising her, too.

At first I was sad, then angry you’d left us,

Especially as it was, so close to Christmas,

But after some time, some calm & some thought,

I see that the timing, wasn’t for naught,

What month brings such joy, such love as December,

The time is for family, and now, to remember.

The season brings cheer, love and good spirits,

And now thoughts of you, at all family visits,

Trees are put up, dinners prepared,

Memories of you, are lovingly shared.

Always.

Merry Christmas, PK.