Poop Issues

A few months ago, I wrote a blog post about how Diana followed Luca around the house with a diaper while he decided on a place to defecate.  By way of road testing the post, I told the story to a colleague. 

I thought he’d get a chuckle out of the poo antics, but he suddenly got really serious, looked me in the eye and said, “You better watch out.  You’re going to screw him up like that.”

Aaaaand we did.

Luca now has decided he will no longer poop.  Ever. 

We didn’t even notice it at first.  A few days went by with no pooping and we thought, “Eh.  It’ll work itself out sooner or later.”  But then it became LATER.  We got worried that things were going very wrong in his innards.

So like any parent hell bent on screwing up their child, we started asking about it all the time. 

“Do you have to poop?  Hey, what about pooping?  Oh…if you go poop we’ll take you to Chuck E Cheese.  You know who poops?  Fireman Sam.”

He’d just look at us with a slight uncomfortable frown and declare he did not have to go.

And then the pain began.  For all of us.  Luca spent several hours last Sunday doubled over in pain.  Yet, still refusing to make a deposit.  I was at the grocery store at the time and got a text from Diana that simply read, “Laxative.  Luca is in a bad way.”

I stood at the laxative aisle, trying to find one for kids.  But they all seemed to cater to the geriatric set.  I called Diana and barked over a bad connection, “Which laxative won’t kill a child?  These all look like buckets of sand.”

From behind me I heard a voice, “Miralax.”

I turned to see a guy who looked normal enough.  But why was he giving me advice about Laxatives?  Was he some kind of weirdo?

“My doctor is one of those doctors who refuses to even give my kids antibiotics.  But the only two things he treats aggressively are asthma and constipation.  He recommends Miralax.”

I took the medical advice of the man I’d never met (remember, I’m the guy who marches his sons 2 miles in 104 degree heat) and went home.

By the time I got home, Luca had angrily passed a brick and was laying in his bed, exhausted.

We’ve had him on a strict diet of laxatives and prune juice (after consulting our doctor, but he still hasn’t found his rhythm.  I’m hoping aggressively bothering him about it all the time will do the trick.

Heat

I can honestly say I physically abused my children yesterday.  Not on purpose, mind you.  But unintentional abuse is still abuse, right?

If you are currently reading this blog from anywhere around Chicago, you are most likely reading it in your underwear, sitting in a block of ice in front of an open refrigerator.

It’s hot. Dangerous, check on your elderly neighbors hot.  And what do I do?  Make Elijah and Luca walk 4, count ‘em 4 miles in it.

Let me back up.  One of my co-workers had a party yesterday morning along the route of a charming suburban 4^th of July parade.  It was billed as enough fire trucks to blow my sons’ minds.  I thought, “What the heck?  Sounds like fun.  And it’s not like I’m going to force my sons into some kind of Bataan Death March.”

CUT to yesterday morning.  Because traffic would be nuts, the party invite instructed us to park at the train station and walk east.  I complied with these instructions. It was only after walking an hour that I realized I parked at the wrong train station.

We were exactly one mile from both the train station and the party, so we pressed on.  In 99 degree heat.

We got to the party, completely drenched in sweat, and I allowed Elijah and Luca to drink as much lemonade as they could consume. 

The mercury climbed.  And climbed.  I realized if we didn’t get out of there and attempt the trek back to our car, we may never make it.

Oh, why didn’t I ask someone, anyone for a ride back to our car?  I.  Have.  No.  Idea. 

We began our walk back.  2 miles.  In the blazing heat.  With no shade.  Luca made it roughly 50 feet before he flat out refused to continue.  So I carried him.  2 miles.  He refused to ride on my shoulders, so I had to carry him like a wet sack of potatoes.  A heavy wet sack.

Which meant Eli was of luck.  He had to hoof it the whole day.  I would trudge forward for a few 100 feet and then look back at Eli.  He was usually crumpled in a heap in someone’s well manicured lawn.  At which point I’d walk back give him a pep talk.  My pep talk involved describing that we were all in grave danger and unless he got on his feet, we’d all get heat stroke and die.

At one point, I stood both boys up on the sidewalk and dumped two water bottles over their heads.  It didn’t occur to me that we may want to consume that water.

After 2 hours, we made it to the Einstein’s Bagels across the street from the car.  I told them to order whatever they wanted.  As much as they wanted.  While we sat over our turkey sandwiches and gallon of lemonade, I explained how proud of them I was and how incredibly sorry I was for making them go through that ordeal.

Eli asked if he could have Finn and Rory over to play.  I said yes.

Lightening

You can safely assume every HamannEggs post over the next three months will take place at the Skokie community pool. And will involve the giant red bucket.  And at one point will involve someone (Luca) dropping a Baby Ruth into the kiddie pool.

Today’s entry in the Red Bucket Chronicles?  Lightening. 

The Mercury hit 100 the other day, which is the perfect time to visit the Skokie pool.  This feeling was shared by every other person within a hundred miles of Chicagoland.  I was not prepared for the sheer volume of flesh.  While we walked to the kiddie pool, I felt like I was dragging y sons through a bowl of bacon.  Eli and I immediately stood under the giant red bucket to cool off and wash off the ick.  Luca watched from a safe distance.

We frolicked.  We splashed. We tried not to think of the germs.  Towards the west, I could see some nasty clouds racing our way.  It was getting close to dinnertime, so I was fine with the rain dictating our exit.

Suddenly, the P.A. crackled to life.  “Lightening has been sighted.  The Skokie pool is now closed.  Leave the pool area immediately.  Skokie pool does not give refunds.” 

I shouted at Elijah and Luca to get out of the pool now now now.  I may have laid the urgency on a little thick, but I thought better safe than sorry.

Eli demanded to know what the voice was talking about and why we had to leave.  While I rapidly shoved towels and sunscreen into a bag, I explained that it was going to storm soon and if the water got hit by lightening, everyone in the pool would get electrocuted.

Eli suddenly began shouting at everyone to get out of the pool.  “Get out of the pool!  You’re going to get shocked!  Get out!  Get out!”

He continued his warnings to the pool goers as we exited.  He stopped in front of a fat, hairy man smoking a cigarette and shouted, “If you get electrocuted, we’ll be able to see your bones!”  The man nodded and took another drag.

While we walked through the parking lot, we passed by four teenagers who were busily climbing the fence to illegally sneak into the pool.  Eli stood under them and shouted, “No!  You don’t want to go in there!  You’ll get shocked!”

The teens looked at their hands, thinking Eli was warning them they were climbing an electric fence.  But kept climbing.  Luca joined Eli in shouting, “Get down!” at the kids.

I hurried them to the car and we drove home through the downpour.

The Bucket

One of the things I really liked about living in Denver was going to the Jewish Community Center pool.  It was as close to being members of a country club as we’ll ever get. 

This summer, now that we’re back in Illinois, we got passes to the Skokie Community Pool.  Which has a decidedly more “Caddy Day” at the country club vibe.   Now, I don’t say this disparagingly.  I feel a lot of comfort in having the least number of tattoos of anyone in attendance.  And Diana loves being the hottest woman there.  By far.  By far.

The crowning achievement of the Skokie pool is The Bucket.  Perched high above the kiddie pool is a massive, massive red bucket.  A big pipe pours water into the bucket and when it fills to the top, it flips, dumping hundreds and hundred of gallons of water onto the toddlers below.

I have to hand it to the pool designers.  They were able to convince the good people of Skokie to allow their children to be crushed by a tidal wave every three to six minutes. 

That’s one of the awesome things about The Bucket.  The randomness of it all.  The Bucket has a mind of its own.  Like an angry god who smites his tiny subjects at his leisure.  The Bucket doesn’t care if your rich or poor or black or Hispanic or if you are The Wine Goddess.  The Bucket drenches all.

There’s even this group of Bucket Disciples who sit directly underneath it all day, waiting prostrate for their punishment.

Elijah loves it, of course.  He races around the kiddie pool structure with no care, mocking The Bucket.  And when The Bucket unleashes it’s wrath, Eli falls to the ground, laughing his head off.

Luca, hates it, of course.  He’ll go nowhere near The Bucket’s splash zone.  He walks around the pool constantly looking up at the Bucket.  Checking The Bucket.  Praying to The Bucket.  And when it dumps with it’s mighty roar, Luca screams bloody murder, to the delight of the sullen lifeguards.

I tried to get Luca to walk with me out to The Bucket’s splash zone, so he’ll see that it ain’t so bad.  But Luca can make himself very, very heavy when he wants to.

Luckily, I plan on being there every day this summer, so he’ll have plenty of time to get brave.

Sleep

I’ve heard rumors of these creatures called “Teenager,” who sleep until noon.  Creatures who actually enjoy sleep.  I’ve even heard they get angry when you try to wake them up in the morning.

We have no such creatures here.

Let me take you through a typical night last week.

After roughly (maybe too roughly) forcing a kicking and screaming Luca into his pajamas, we’ll turn out the lights and threaten Luca that he’ll never watch TV again unless he gets some sleep.  Elijah looks pleadingly into our eyes and we turn out the lights.

For the next 2 hours we hear thumping from upstairs.  Dull thumping of a child digging a hole through a Rita Hayworth poster.  Occasionally, we hear Eli begging Luca to go to sleep.  This sometimes escalates into a screaming match, where I’m forced to burst into their room yelling, “GO! TO! SLEEPPPPP!”

After the ensuing cry fit, there’s quiet until about midnight, when Luca decides he’d had his daily supply of 15 minutes of shut eye.

Luca will stroll into our room screaming, “I want to go downstairs!  I want to go downstairs!”

The most sober of us (Diana) then tries to explain that there are no good tv shows on at midnight and he needs his sleepies. 

This results in another bout of screaming.

Sometimes we give him a bottle.  Sometimes we let him sleep with us.  Sometimes we go sleep with him in his bunk bed.  Regardless, no one sleeps.  There are just house of him flopping around like a fish, occasionally demanding a glass of water.  Or to have his diaper changed.  Or to have his blanket on or off or chucked out the window.

This goes on until about 7am, when Elijah wakes up, bright eyed and bushy tailed and requests (rather sweetly) that we all go downstairs and watch Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

Luca is usually fast asleep at this point.