Azita has been on hunger strike for the past few weeks. She has gone entire days eating nothing more than a strawberry or two or a toddler-sized handful of cheerios. She even turns down cake and cookies. Just about the only thing she wants is milk, which I do try to limit to around the recommended daily serving size. All of this is to say that Azita is constipated. Yes. I’m going there, people.
Want to know why I am venturing into this usually untouched (at least by me) territory? Well, let me tell you a little story.
This morning Azita was crabby. She hit. She kicked. She screamed. She hit and kicked some more. She threw scrambled eggs in my face. No joke. She even threw her precious pacifier on the floor and kicked it when it was down. Sure she’s a toddler and she’s teething and has therefore been somewhat unpleasant at times. But this morning she took things to a whole new level. I couldn’t figure it out.
And then she pooped. Well kind of. She tried to poop. She lay there and cried and cried while she strained and her face turned scarlet and then even a little violet in color. I felt so horribly for her, and so helpless as I sat there and rubbed her belly.
Eventually, she did the deed. And before I even put a clean diaper on her little bum, she was smiling and trying to tell me a knock knock joke. I even got a big hug and a pat on the head from my little cupcake before she scampered of to the living room in search of fun.
It was at that moment that all became clear. Next time I face a surly customer support person or a tantrum-throwing husband or a grouchy, demanding coworker or any other person exhibiting an unpleasant demeanor, I can only assume they are are constipated. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to offer them a nice tall glass of Metamucil?
