Getting to the Bottom of It

So, weirdness with The Boy. Since the weekend, he's been his normal, high-energy self and then BAM! he's down for the count. He gets all wobbly, visibly sick, and complains that his "belly hurts." Does he feel like he's going to throw up? No. Seems to happen after every meal but it's not limited to post-noshing.

At first I was all, "Save the drama for your...oh. Right. That's me. Well, whatever, go play Jedi, you'll be fine."

But then Crazy Christy caught wind of it and started stewing. And stewing.

You know how my combined hypochondria and hysteria go -- ulcers, stomach cancer, Mexican parasites from imported produce -- and my breath got shorter and my eyebrows went higher as the list went on and on.

Weird, though, stomach pain but no pukey feeling? Hmmm. Let's question the patient further:

"Hey, bud. When was the last time you pooped?"

Oh. My. God. You'd think I asked him to moon Anakin Skywalker or something. He looked positively scandalized and got all huffy with me. "I don't KNOW. WHY would you ask me THAT???"

Good Lord, sometimes I feel like I gave birth to Queen Victoria. Then there are the times I wish I had, like when he asked if I wanted to do the chicken dance, pulled down his PJ pants and started swinging his junk around singing, "Cock-a-doodle-DOOOOOO!"

How in the eff did he even come up with that because believe me, nobody, but NOBODY, uses the boy c-word* in this house. I don't think Tommy Boy or I could say it with a straight face even if you were going to pay us $100. Well, maybe for that, you know I love to shop but...

ANYWAY.

He insists that he has no idea when he last pooped. There is no way he's going to let me trot off to the toilet with him each time he takes a bathroom break so I made him promise to tell me the very second he drops the kids off at the pool. He reluctantly agreed. I forgot to check to see whether his fingers were crossed. Shoot.

If only he'd eat a Fiber One bar or three. More than one of those can do some damage as Natalie shared with her friend's mom on our playdate earlier: "Emily, we have Fiber One bars! Do you want one? You can only have one though because they make you poop. One time, my Dad had two and oooooooh boy!" I sort of, kind of forgot to tell Tom about that little sharing session. Yep, I think I'll keep forgetting, too. Whoopsie.

*sigh*

Hopefully, Jack Attack will be visited by Santa AND Mr. Hanky very soon.

*For the record, the girl c-word is also verboten around here. I've got a bit of a potty mouth on me but that's one I just can't say out loud.