PL’s parents… I guess I should call them “The In-laws”… met us downstairs when we came back.
Z watch us come out of the cab and beamed happily at us (I think she was looking at me when she beamed brightest. Will sort this out with PL later!)
Apparently, Z was constipated earlier, and cried piteously as she pooped the biggest, hardest poop she ever pooped in her life, and then was exhausted, broken, and dispirited.
So The In-laws brought her down to wait for us, as a way to cheer her up.
PLs Mum said that after The Long Hard Poop, Z became docile and quiet, instead of her usual boisterous, noisy, bossy self.
This was all hear-say. A funny story about Z, as we took her into our arms (well, PL did), and comforted her.
Not that she needed comforting then. She wasn’t pooping or in pain. And she was happy to see us.
Later that evening…
Z had just finish torturing her poor dad by making him walk her up and down the length of the apartment (like that was a long walk!) several times and had stopped at the platform, standing there by herself, supporting and steadying herself with the platform.
She started to make “poopy” noises – little grunts, or strained noises, and shaking her little butt.
PL and I were watching her, and I pointed out the butt shakes (cute!) and her pose of quiet concentration as she prepared to do the hardest thing she will ever have to do so far in her life.
Then she wailed!
A loud, piteous, heart-rending wail, wrenched literally from her bowels.
And PL & I, being the heartless parents that we are, laughed.
I picked Z up and yes, there was the faint but distinct scent of poop, and she was still wailing.
I knew what I had to do.
I passed her to PL.
Who opened up her diaper and said, “yep. it was a hard poop.”
Yep. There it lay, one of the neatest nugget Z ever pooped. Smaller than a golf ball. All nice and compact in a discrete solid form. Instead of the usual bio-hazard sludge she produces. Cleaning this was easy. No mess, no fuss. No risk of leakage.
Z was still wailing.
I was not sympathetic.
“Good job Z. But why are you crying? Childbirth is going to be a hundred times worse!”
She wailed even louder, as if she understood. Maybe she did.
“Okay,” I told PL. “Next time she does this, she will need an epidural.”