Last weekend was a tough poo weekend. Olivia tried to poop several times on both Saturday and Sunday. She’d sit for about ten minutes with her magazine and a heater and nothing would happen. She’d declared, “I’ll try again later.”
We’d sigh over the fact that sometimes this is so hard for her and go about our day.
Monday, I came home from work and Alyssa and I went to my mom’s for a little while. Olivia stayed home with Tom to watch Cops Reloaded because that’s just what she does.
When A and I got home, I asked O if she’d pooed that day. Tom answered that she didn’t. Olivia piped up, “I did too!”
He and I exchanged a look. “When?” he wanted to know.
“When you were outside,” she informed him haughtily. “I had to poo, you were outside so I went in and pooed. I didn’t even use the cushy tushy.”
“Who wiped you?” Tom asked, looking at Alyssa.
Alyssa’s eyes widened and she stepped back in horror. It had obviously never occurred to her that she might be asked to wipe her sister’s butt after a poo.
Olivia rolled her eyes at her dad. “I did. I used toilet paper and then flushed it with the poo.”
“You didn’t use a wet wipe?” he asked.
“No,” she told him. “I didn't need a wipey, I only needed toilet paper.”
And that, folks, is why I’m often found telling my husband that Olivia is capable of so much more than he often gives her credit for.
We might be well on our way to being a houseful of independent poopers. Hooray! I’m so ready to wipe that particular skill right off my resume.
A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
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