Before I had Calvin I really had no idea how much my world would revolve around poop.
As a tiny baby, when he’d leave a little gift in his diaper, I’d be so proud of him and rejoice in his accomplishment with enthusiastic "oohs" and "ahs." When he started eating solid food, though, things got a little hard for him, literally. Even though I was feeding him ample oatmeal and prunes and pushing the apple juice we still had to give him a suppository nearly every other day for over a year. His low muscle tone made it difficult to have a bowel movement unless he was good and lubed up.
At the gastroenterologist we were given a prescription for Miralax. Our goal was to get his stool to be the consistency of apple sauce. Yum. Thankfully, the medicine worked like a charm and I was back to congratulating him with a sweet “good boy, Calvin” every time he stooled.
Among other daily rituals, I log his bowel activity. No poops can mean that there might be an impending seizure or it could mean I need to give him less cheese or more yogurt. In my journal’s margins I include words like “smudge” or “smudge-plus” and whether his offering was a tiny, small, medium or large BM. Sometimes it’s a complete “blowout.”
Calvin’s bus driver seems quite amused, and perhaps nauseated, when I give his Ed-tech the morning’s details. “He had a huge poop this morning,” I say, “it was perfect– just like hummus.” When they bring him home the Ed-tech remarks, “he had another one, it was dark green and very seedy.” The bus driver is incredulous at the conversations we have nearly every day. But I can tell our enthusiasm for the subject is rubbing off on her since she congratulates us, sometimes with a high-five, every time she hears he has delivered us a package, although I’m not sure if she still eats applesauce or hummus.