Somehow, when Bear was a baby, I had enough storage in my memory banks to keep constant track of how many times he had nursed in a day, at what times, for how long and on which breast. I also could tell you at any given moment how often he had pooped, at what time, and the color and consistency of the poop. I kept this up until he was well into solids, and can remember laughing with my mom's group about how we all did it. I had given up the practice with Thumper until a recent confluence of events put me on poop patrol once again.
Part one
The first part of this story began yesterday, during my usual Monday morning trip to Trader Joe's. Thumper was seated in the cart for the first time, and I was pushing it with one hand protectively at his side, while trying to keep Bear from running between the legs of the other shoppers in his quest to find every picture of a parrot or toucan in the store (there are a lot.) When I turned back to Thumper, he was busily gnawing on my shopping list, which now sported a hole in it the approximate size of Thumper's mouth. "Some of this list is missing" I said. "Where is it?" Thumper looked at me and grinned. I pried his mouth open and stuck my finger inside just enough to feel the paper right before he swallowed it. Immediately I began to imagine the resulting bowel obstruction, the disapproving looks of his doctors, the accusations of Munchausen's syndrome by proxy (he has had a very eventful first 6 months), and the eventual CPS investigation...
So this morning the boys both woke up at 7:30. I got Bear settled in with his requested "Chocolate" cereal (it's granola in a dark brown box, but if it makes him happy to call it chocolate cereal, whatever) and went to retrieve Thumper from his crib to change his diaper. A cursory scan of the contents didn't reveal any paper, but the mere presence of a poop was enough to allay my fears of an impending abdominal surgery. Upon closer inspection, however, I did uncover uncover the letters m-i-l in my handwriting, and all was right with the world again. Luckily, I did also manage to remember to pick up the milk, even without that part of the list.
Part 2
On to part 2. I returned to the kitchen where Bear was finishing up his cereal, and decided to finish up the last of a 3-day-old loaf of ciabatta by making french toast. Bear, always interested in the cracking and mixing of eggs, began sliding a kitchen chair toward me, so since he is never that interested in french toast I helped him make scrambled eggs. By the time that was done and I was ready to get back to making french toast, Thumper was fussing. It seems mommy forgot to feed him. After nursing the baby and sitting him in his highchair out of harm's (namely Bear's) way, I finally finished making the french toast, cut up some fruit and was about to sit down when...Thumper was fussing again. A glance at the clock told me it was nap time already. I went to put him down for a nap and returned sometime later to the kitchen where Bear stopped me to ask for a hug. I bent down to hug him and as I stood up I noticed something black on the sleeve of my shirt. "Sh*t."
Literally.
Let's back up a few months. Right after we got Bear's diagnosis, while I was in panic mode and reading everything I could find on autism, I learned a couple of things - 1) Autistics are possibly the hardest group of people to potty train, which has proven to be true in our household, and 2) A large percentage of people with autism have leaky gut syndrome and/or food allergies, something that set off alarm bells in my head because Bear's poops have never, shall we say, solidified.
So yesterday we ran out of regular diapers and Bear was back in his pull-ups. Yesterday he also ate about half a pint of blueberries for breakfast. The combination of his normally runny poop with the large quantity of berries led to a massive, black, oozing poop, breaching the levy of the flimsy pull-up.
After stripping us both down, washing up the poop, getting redressed, throwing the bathroom rug onto the back porch, and washing my hands with antibacterial soap 37 times, I was finally able to eat my breakfast and clean up the kitchen in peace.
It was 10:30. As I flipped through the Ikea catalog and pondered if it was worth trying to save a $15 rug, even one that matches the color of the bathroom walls exactly, and which I happen to know is no longer available in that shade of cookie monster blue, I heard a thumping noise in the back of the house. I went to investigate and found a giant Thomas balloon getting the crap beat out of it by the ceiling fan, Sir Topham Hatt still dangling helplessly from the string, Bear nowhere to be found. Suddenly, squealing from Thumper's bedroom.
Round 2 begins.
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