Or at least our house. Okay, maybe it didn’t really shake anything more than poor Tricia’s little tushy. But that poo was something else, I’ll tell ya. Oh, stop grumbling, I’m going to tell the story, my preciouses. If nothing else, I’m hoping you can learn from my mistakes.

So, a few days ago, Bill and I come to the realization that Tricia hasn’t poo’d in a while, much less had any sort of poo episodes. We start wondering if this could be the cause of her (very unusual) crankiness. I mean, I’d be pretty dang cranky, if I hadn’t poo’d in a week.

We decide that we’re not going to give her prune juice for a couple of reasons:
1. I don’t want to introduce anything into her diet just yet because my breastmilk alone gives this kid gas that could be used as a biological weapon, so God alone knows what prune juice will do; and
2. Prune juice isn’t necessarily fast-acting.
Mostly it was that last one. The girl was miserable and making us feel miserable sheerly for our own ineptitude in helping her.

In a sudden flash of what I believed at the time to be genius, I say to Bill, “Hey! Google about giving her an enema. Those are pretty safe, and they work pretty fast, I think.” Bill, being even more clueless than I am about poo matters, does so.

Poor, stupid, lost souls that we are, we decide to implement these directions post-haste. After all, she might be a little rat, but she’s our little rat, and she’s miserable. We need to fix this for our girl, the sooner, the better.

Okay, my first mistake wasn’t (as you might suspect) the idea of an enema. That was actually a pretty good idea. My first mistake was asking Bill to do the research and then accurately report back, but I’ll get to that.

So, Bill tells me we what we need to do. Except he leaves out a few crucial details. Like how much water to use and how long we might expect this to take. Since I’ve never had an enema or administered one, I was counting on him to accurately direct the process. I mean, he was the one who Googled it, for goodness’ sake!

We start the process. (Fair warning — it’s about to get graphic up in here.) Now, I’m not really feeling so great about having to take a bulb syringe of lukewarm water and put that in the girl’s booty, but I’m a momm-ay. Sometimes, we get the crappy jobs. (Crappy. Hee. Get it? Hee.) I administer the enema, and we wait.

Now, here’s where mistake number one leads directly to mistake number two — we didn’t wait long enough. Mr. Can’t-Be-Trusted-To-Read-And-Retain-Instructions either failed to read the part about “it might take several minutes” or he failed to retain it.

So, not seeing any results within a minute, we decide adding more water might be good. Now Bill tells me the website didn’t mention anything about adding more water, but we figure what the hell? It’s water. It can’t hurt; right? So we add more water, and we wait another minute. Still nothing.

I decide that maybe one last bit of water will do the trick, and I add more…and I promptly get sprayed by said water since Tricia’s booty is not taking any more of that nonsense, thank you very much.

I have now resigned myself to the fact that my daughter’s booty is irretrievably broken and that I have only made matters worse. I take her to the changing table to put a new diaper on her and ponder strategies to make the poo happen. I’m a little dejected and more than a little worried about what an excess of water in her bowels might do to her and how I’m going to explain to the ER doctor why there are six gallons of water in my baby’s booty.

Right about the time I’m lifting Tricia’s butt up to slide the towel out from under her, the enema begins to work. All over the front of my shirt. Having had a little boy, my “cover up the liquid producing orifice quick!” reflex kicks in. I cover her with the towel and wait.

Just when I think it’s safe and so move the towel, more poo comes out. Lots more poo. But my “cover it!!” reflex is a little quicker on the draw now that it’s been hauled back into use after so many years, so no more poo winds up on me.

I wait a little more and think the poo must surely be over. Oh, no, my friends. This was the poo that never ends. Well, that’s what it seemed like as I was standing there with a baby bathtowel covering my daughter’s exploding booty while my husband laughed hysterically — from a safe distance.

It is finally over, and I give my girl a bath and get her dressed. Her mood is remarkably improved, except for the fact that she is now starving and none too happy about it. I can’t say I blame her. If I’d poo’d six gallons of water and three gallons of poo, I’d probably be pretty ready for a meal and a nap myself.

After I get Tricia fed and settled in for a nap, I come into our office and see that Bill still has the website re: enemas open. I read a little and discover that the instructions Bill gave me were not the instructions he’d read. For example, one to three tablespoons of water do the trick just fine. And the site clearly stated that it might take a few minutes to work.

I’m still plotting my revenge.