NOW who's a wet blanket?

When you wake up suddenly in a pool of your own urine, it's normal to wonder where your life took a wrong turn.

Was it just last night? When I drank too much elderberry tea to boost my immunity, and then failed to use the bathroom before falling asleep? Because I was already in bed with the fussy baby and the shifting of the mattress might rouse him to a scream? Again?

Or were the seeds of the problem planted far, far earlier than that?

Was it my failure, from day one, to sleep train Elijah? Putting me in a sleep deficit, night after night? Where any slight irritant, a cold or a tooth or an upset tummy, means the child demands to nurse every hour, on the hour? So I only get 40 minutes of sleep at a time, and when an unexpected long stretch comes, say between 1 and 2:30 in the morning, there is nothing rousing me, NOTHING, not even the urging of my own insistant bladder?

Or does it go back to his birth, which I chose to make at home? Or the births of my other two children, also at home, all of which in their own unique way normalized on the release of bodily fluids onto my mattress?

Or was it the choice of that third baby, was that the thing that pushed me over the edge? Mentally, in terms of exhaustion, but also physically? In very nitty gritty terms? In terms of the ability of my sphincter muscles to hooooold it in until my mind regains consciousness?

It's hard to know exactly where I went astray. All my decisions seemed like good ones. Maybe peeing in my bed is the natural result of a life well planned. Maybe I should count a few midnight accidents among acceptable losses.

When you wake up suddenly in a pool of your own urine, it's normal to wonder: Who am I? How did I get here? Where oh where did I take a wrong turn, and how can I possibly backtrack to sanity?

Then again, my children piss their beds all the time. They just get up, shower, and ask for breakfast.

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misery on the mountain

I am up in the middle of the night berating myself for not completing a marathon yesterday Well, that's not entirely true. I am up in the middle of the night because Zion came into my bed and woke up Elijah, and then Elijah woke up Zion, and then back and forth for an hour until I asked Zion to go back to his bed, and then Dan had a disciplinary moment with Zion over using the potty and me and Dan had a little argument about it, and then I put the baby back to sleep after that, and NOW I am berating myself about not finishing a marathon yesterday.

Because when your life is a series of sisyphusian struggles, night in and night out, completing small goals becomes arbitrarily important.

Anyway, I thought I would run this marathon yesterday.

a competitive field at the start of the race

I had a good running season 2014. I logged two 20 mile runs and at least a dozen half marathons. A tight marathon would have felt like a nice little cap on my accomplishments. More than that, a timed event that would have rendered "official" the work that's been heretofore private, shared only between me and the trail and my gps watch. Okay and also on Strava and Wellcoin. I'm not very good at the private thing. But STILL. I wanted someone to hand me a medal and say, "Well done, Leah, You've FINISHED something. At least today, at least in this very inconsequential area of your life." (They don't really say that when they hand out medals, I just in my mind imagine that they do.) So I looked up all the fall marathons in New England and narrowed the list to events on a Saturday within a 3 hour drive. There were two options. Both were trail races.

What's a trail race? I thought. That doesn't sound too hard.

"Rolling hills over foot trails in the beautiful Pittsfield state forest." Based on the website description it sounded positively relaxing! I'd be out and running first thing in the morning and back by the afternoon to help the kids get ready for dinner.

Or so I thought. This is what the Pittsfield state forest looks like.

up up up

The rolling hills mentioned in the website are up and down a 2700 foot mountain. To this lookout.

what am i doing here?

The path down follows a rocky riverbed.

down down down

It was a beautiful place to hike but a mother effing IMPOSSIBLE place to run.

By mile five my legs felt like they had gone ten miles. My back hurt, even though I can usually run three hours normal without feeling my back. By mile six I realized everyone was walking up the hill. In fact the name of the game seemed to be walking up hill. I kept looking at my watch and it kept telling me incredibly depressing things. Like: "15 MINUTE MILE!" and "You were crazy to tell your family you'd be done in four hours! You aren't going to finish this marathon EVER!!!!!"

Sometimes my watch went into auto-pause mode. While I was moving. Like as a little extra bonus fuck you.

By mile eight I had some hard questions to ask myself. Like, what do you do when you are right in the middle of a self inflicted disaster? What is important for decision making here? How much do I weigh my longing to complete something against my responsibilities to my family and/or the health of my knees?

I was not physically trained for the race I was in. I was a little nauseous and I had a stomach cramp which made me think I was not processing the lactic acid coming from my legs. Which meant I was working anaerobically. Which meant, for a distance event, I was DOING IT WRONG.

I had told everyone I would be running a four hour marathon. I had completely misjudged the course. And also my ability to jump into any physical challenge and come out swinging. My dad was planning to pick me up for lunch. My kids were expecting me home for dinner. No one, not least myself, wanted me out on that mountain I didn't know was a mountain for six fucking hours.

Strava says the elevation gain for the part of the race I completed was 2900ft. 2900 feet! I should have looked that up before I gave ultramarathon.com my credit card number.

I called my dad at three hours in and told him I was almost at the halfway point of the marathon. He had gone to an art museum nearby and was already on his way back to pick me up for the finish. He said something to the effect of, "What???" Which I took to mean, "What the honest to goodness fuck, child, you are always getting it wrong and disappointing me." I said, with as much emotional coolness as I could muster, that the race was too hard for me, that I should drop out at the half, that we should call it a day and go out for lunch.

It seemed like the smart move. It seemed like something a rational person would do. But when I came down the hill and the guys at the aid station were cheering I just waved them away and shook my head like, "No, you guys, you dont' get it. I didn't sign up for the half marathon, I'm actually just a quitter."

What if I had pushed through the second loop? Would I have fallen and destroyed an ankle? Would I be running through a different set of questions in my head? "Why do you hate your body so much, Leah? Do you want to be able to walk into your 50s? Is endurance athletics a redirection of a secret death wish?"

Instead I have these questions to torment me. "Why are you a perpetual failure, Leah? Why are you so quick to jump on any excuse out?" And just for misery sake, the kicker: "How can you justify eating so much, you disgusting fat pig, if you don't even finish your stupid marathon?"

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What happens after you get everything you want?

We have been running a free summer camp at our home this summer. It is lovely. The children are doing great. They are learning new skills, testing their physical limits, and improving their hand-eye-coordination. They are growing in bravery, growing their friendships, and problem solving all sorts of mechanical and social situations. The adults who stay and sit on our lawn drinking while I serve them coffee and try to entertain their babies? They get an informal support group twice a week. They feel immediately understood when they share about just how all-encompasingly difficult this time of life is.

For me this is the closest to "living out a calling" that I've ever experienced. People come to my house, and I find a way to fulfill a deep need that's been eating them up inside. In this case, the need for free childcare that doesn't make them feel like they're betraying their hippy morals. Plus I get to make coffee, lots and lots of coffee, and if someone forgets their lunch my Jewish nature is fulfilled by finding something in the kitchen that I think they might like to eat.

We are living the panacea — giving ourselves to others and seeing positive results.

Also, quite often I'm really miserable.

The moment a child smiles at me because something clicked in her brain and she finally "got" basket weaving? That's followed by a moment in the kitchen handwashing a stack of dishes and cups. And let's be honest, the breakfast dishes and the muffin tin too, especially if some campers showed up an hour early and I didn't have time to bus the morning table. My bathroom? It smells like a camp bathroom. Wet bathing suits leave marks on every conceivable surface in my living room. Sometimes kids cry and I am default mama to them. Sometimes my own kids cry because they are over-extended and they just want everyone to leave their house.

What happens when you find yourself living the life you wanted and it kind of sucks?

I have been thinking about this question for a while, as I see other friends finally "making it" to their callings, not just 'good jobs' but the thing they always imagined they wanted to do with their lives. Smart do-gooder friends finally work for the government. Missionary friends go overseas and find their unwashed masses. Friends who always wanted a baby finally adopt the perfect child God prepared for them from the foster care system.

These people, they tell me that they are sooooo incredibly blessed at this moment. God has come through and given them everything! Everything he put on their hearts to desire! And then they tell me their complaints. The first is how God-awful TIRED they are right now. Oh my goodness, I would LOVE some coffee, yes, I've just switched from two cups a day to three. Also, money is a little bit of a stressor right now. I just had no idea how much I'd need to spend on parking / bribes / advocate services / dinners out. And I cannot even tell you about the paperwork. Reams and reams of paperwork. Just when you think you are finished with one round, there's another email in your inbox / letter in the mail / lawyer at your door with a dozen forms you have to fill out EXACTLY PERFECTLY.

And it's not that God didn't come through. He sure came through fo rus - he gave us what we wanted. He just didn't change the entire world underneath us while he was at it. He gave us our dreams and made them reality. It's just that we now have to live our dreams in the context of reality. And reality tends to be chaotic and frustrating. Other people make difficulties of us. Not to mention the weather.

Also, he didn't magically give us new selves either. I was a little tired and frustrated before, when I was stuck inside a cubicle making money at a job I hated. Now I'm living my calling as someone who's (who'd have guessed it?) a little tired and frustrated. My friends and I, perhaps we thought that living the life we dreamed would magically make us the people we dreamed of being. We saw another missionary and he looked happy, and we thought it was the mud hut and all that time in the sunshine. We didn't think that probably he was the type of person who was happy to begin with.

I am not knocking dreaming. Life takes dreaming. I am just saying some of us put a lot of eggs in a single basket.

So what are my dreams now? Now that life is wonderful and I still remain stubbornly human? I dunno, different ones. Bigger ones. I'll never learn. But I also have small dreams too, now. Sandwich sized-dreams. Literal dreams of sandwiches. To give me practice getting what I want and not taking it so disappointed.

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a day in my life

5am the alarm goes off, and by alarm I mean baby flailing next to me indicating that he wants to nurse. This is the forth time he's nursed since he went to sleep at 7pm, but it doesn't count as "night nursing" if I wake up afterwards, right? I nurse him back to sleep and pick up the bible from my bedside table that I have been attempting to commit to read. I try to make my eyes focus on the words of a small paragraph in a way that will make these words scan into my brain. Reading, I guess that's called. It's made difficult by the fact that my eyes keep closing. After a half hour I've sort of woken up and sort of read a parable. I pray that I may not be like the rocky soil that's distracted by wants and worries. Also, that the baby stays sleeping when I get up.

Get up quietly so as not to wake both children in my bed. MAKE COFFEE. I thank God for the sweet life-giving nectar, and sit in front of the computer as I drink it. I try to remember what I'm supposed to check on the computer - the weather, the hours for the place Zion wants to go when he finishes his sticker chart, print coupons for said establishment. As I do that I pump out what breastmilk is left. It's for a friends' baby, which is the only way I can do ministry these days (before 6am... silently).

Dan hears the baby waking up and changes his diaper. So I should try to do something nice for him later. Like actually make dinner.

I put the milk in the fridge, take the baby, nurse him, change him into clothes. Our next chore is to walk the dog around the block. It is a nice morning, not too hot not too cold, and I try to be in the moment and enjoy walking. This is sort of possible, except that Elijah needs me to maintain a constant hum of the Mexican Hat Dance. And sometimes dance around a bit.

When I come back Zion is awake, and soon so is Harvey. Dan is busy cooking them bacon and eggs, so I put the baby in his high-chair with food while I run around the house collecting the trash and recycling. Elijah is happy for enough minutes that I'm able to put everything out on the curb. I come back inside and lift my arms in triuph. "I PUT OUT THE TRASH!" I bellow at my family. They look at me perplexed. I say that I am celebrating small wins, and they would too if their life was impossible. The baby is already yelling and I take him out of his seat.

Dan leaves for work and says that after we feed the chickens Harvey needs help lifting the strawberry net. So I leave the breakfast dishes where they are and go outside to make farm crap happen.

jostling for position over the chicken food bin

Elijah wants to help scoop the chicken food, but he is getting in the way, so Zion pushes him down. I order Zion into a ten-second time-out, and he doesn't fight me to sit down, so I guess he's making progress.

We all work on feeding the chickens together. I have to open the door, keep the hens from getting out, and then shut it once the kids have poured food into the feeder. This is supposed to be all Harvey's responsibility, but getting to the feeder takes moving a bunch of sharp heavy fencing, which is to say it that takes an adult. Which is fine, Elijah likes seeing the chickens too.

nothing stands in these farmers way except a complete lack of physical strength

We stand and watch the chickens for a few minutes. Harvey asks if he can take a picture, and soon he declares, "Wow! I got the best picture ever!"

call the photo award committee

Next H and Z pick berries. They need me to move the netting off the strawberries and put it back on again. Meanwhile, Elijah plays in the sandbox.

strawberry picking

I decide this would be another good time for a cup of coffee. I run in quickly and bring out a mug. This time it's decaf.

survive. survive!

Elijah freaks out all of a sudden, so maybe he's sleepy. I take him inside to try for a nap, but the attempt is aborted when Zion comes in screaming that he needs a bandaid. He got several splinters from playing with a fiberglass tool that he's not supposed to touch. Washing and bandaiding his hands takes ten minutes. While I work, Elijah takes everything off the bathroom shelf and chews on some math manipulatives. I don't THINK they're choking hazards. I have no idea why they're in the bathroom.

Nap attempt #2 fails when Harvey and Zion see the neighborhood boys riding their bikes to the busstop. We all go out and ride bikes with them, sleepy Elijah included, and then we keep riding after the bus comes. Elijah gets a second wind from playing outside, and I realize that I am starving. At a moment when they all look safeI run inside and shove a hot dog in my mouth.

the boys make a course of obstacles with skate boards

At quarter past 9 Elijah decides he's actually tired and starts climbing up the stairs to go inside. I am tired of worrying about the boys safety during nap attempts, so I offer Harvey and Zion the ipad, which they gratefully accept.

Elijah is asleep, praise Jesus. I change into my workout clothes to do a new 30 minute video. Unfortunately, the video doesn't work and I spend some minutes online troubleshooting a return. Then I do some push-ups and take the ipad away from the kids. Harvey wants to do his workout. I put in the kids workout DVD and it turns out that NOTHING is working in my computer. Crap. I offer to lead him through push-ups but he asks for a snack. I hang up workout clothes in disgust, cut fruit.

I figure I should get some homeschooling in during nap time, so I make myself a smoothie for courage and read to H&Z until Elijah wakes up, which is only another two minutes. I ask Harvey to sounds out some words. Then I hold Elijah on my lap and nurse him, while I finish reading the book. He is okay until he wants to eat my smoothie too. I feed him spoonfuls of smoothie while reading while trying not to get food on the book. Harvey says he wants smoothie too. I get up to make them more smoothie, which they don't like as much when it isn't in MY cup. While they eat or push smoothie around in their cups I set off to do the dishes. Elijah plays on the back porch. I wash two dishes before Zion comes to me screaming that he needs a new bandaid. When I come back into the kitchen with the bandaid I see Zion kicking Elijah. I tell him he needs to sit on the couch for a time out. He runs around after me yelling for five minutes before he complies. So, maybe not learning so much. New bandaid finally applied. Meanwhile, it looks like the baby has hurt the lime tree on the back porch. Also, what happened to his pants?

honestly, where did they go?

Everyone calms down and Zion does the two cleaning tasks that are necessary to finish filling his sticker chart. None of my cleaning tasks are done, but we head out anyway for his chosen reward destination. And he chooses... ChuckECheese.

(After I strap the kids in the car I go back into the house for a cup of coffee. This is the closest thing to a ProTip that I know of.)

gamer faces

We spend $30 on a token/lunch package and Harvey has a great time with a pirate video game while Zion has fun riding the merry go round and asking me to win him tokens. He decides he wants to win a tootsie roll pop, which costs ten tickets. He has six tickets so far, and when I ask him how many more he needs he goes to his fingers. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10." he says. "Basically, that's all my fingers."

The boys eat pizza and I try to make the salad bar worth its price by eating my weight in salted nuts. This only results in making me sick, however, and after two hours I'm really ready to go home. Zion turns his tickets in for a tootsie roll and a plastic spider. Harvey has trouble picking a prize and it makes him cry. Everyone is tired.

On the ride home the boys are each eating a slice of pizza. I have this surreal conversation with my middle son:
Zion: "Where can I spit this?"
Me: "What do you need to spit? You're eating pizza and drinking lemonade?"
Zion: "It's yucky."
Me: "I don't know. Spit it into your hand and put it into your cup holder."
Zion: "Nooooo! My spider's in there!"
Me: "Well I don't know, we don't have a designated spitting area in this car.

When I get home I have my 3rd cup of decaf coffee.

I put Elijah to bed (again) (finally) and as Harvey and Zion play TinTin I take care of some lingering issues. I change the laundry, I finish washing the breakfast dishes, I plunge the toilet. I walk around wondering what I should make for dinner. If I can prep it during nap time the afternoon will be managable, gosh darn it. I decide on cooked cabage slaw (cabage, grated beets, and sliced onions cooked in butter), steamed kale, and chicken parmesan caserole from leftover chicken. And rice, with the idea that everything could go in a tortilla with sour cream. Harvey comes in to ask what I'm making, and to ensure that I'm cooking the vegetables SEPERATE from the cheesy chicken. I put everything on the table, even though it's only 3pm.

dinner. Waiting to get cold for maximum yuckiness

The baby is still sleeping, so I figure we should do some homeschooling. I read a science book about wolves with the kids. They ask a lot of questions about plants and which way is north. Elijah wakes up just as I finish the story and we go outside to resume the game of obstacle course.

this time with neighbors

Dan comes home from work while we're playing outside and immediately goes off to do some farm chores. After that he watches the children while I walk Rascal. When I get back we eat dinner. Spoiler alert: the kids don't like anything except the rice. We spend most of dinner talking about whether it's rude to offer a constant commentary on your food preferences. I vow only to make them single meats and seperated steamed vegetables from now on. Because, honestly.

Harvey had been asking since the morning if we could try out the new fishing rods they got over the weekend (new is a relative term; they came from my parents' basement). I felt like we needed an antidote to our time at the child's casino, so even though it was evening and everyone was testy we headed for a quick swim at Walden Pond.

everyone don't drown please

Dan tried to teach Harvey and Zion to cast out (or whatever it's called) while I kept Elijah breathing air. Both Dan and I were tired from the day and from the rudeness at dinner, so we were not the most giving parents. Still, nature is giving in its own way and I have to imagine being outside and learning new things covers over some relational sins.

let it go!

We stayed until the park ranger threatened to ticket our cars (7pm) and the kids were pretty tired on the way home (espeically Elijah who flailed into his PJs like it was a sport). Still, no one fell asleep in the car so we did a full bedtime upon arriving home. I tried to nurse Elijah down but he refused to sleep so I took him downstairs to make muffins with me. He beat me with a measuring spoon while I put ingredients into the food processor, and then played on the floor with a cup until he cried that he was really ready for sleeping. Another nursing put-down, this time with Zion too lying on top of me waiting for his cuddle. I successfully got one then the other down to bed, then I took the muffins out of the oven. Cleaned the kitchen.

"They smell good," Dan said.
"They don't taste at all good," I said, "but I'm eating them."

While Dan tried to troubleshoot my computer I picked up the toys and clothes from all over the downstairs. Put away the muffins. Vaacumed the front rooms, even though it was late, because I wouldn't have time to do it in the morning and Elijah's developmental specialist comes to the house at 7am.

Got into bed at 10pm. Kind of bummed I didn't get to work out.

I don't know what I expected to learn from an exercise of writing down every single thing I did in a day. Maybe I had hoped to illumine the beauty of tiny passing moments. Maybe I did that too, but reading over my account I am more aware of how I am really really tired.

Tomorrow starts another day. One which will go un-documented, perhaps, but certainly not un-worked.

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on poop

This post is about poop. It is only about poop. Not metaphorical poop, real actual poop that came out of someone's butt and spread all over my home and furniture. This post is about how my child pooped over twenty times last thursday, screaming and kicking and running away from me when I tried to clean him off. But I can't start at that part of the story, I have to go to the beginning. Let me back up.

Haha, get it? That was the first pooping joke.

From the beginning of his life, Zion was a baby who only POOPED every few days. But in between he would (poop) tiny little amounts all the time. Every wet diaper had a (poopy) smear, but no big as the POOP which sometimes emerged only with grunting and hiding in a corner. Still, up to age two the difficulty rarely bothered him, and berries seemed to make a healthy difference. I figured I was doing my best and the streaking would stop once he stopped wearing diapers.

Fast forward to potty training. This transition was difficult. Zion is stubborn and he doesn't like being told what to do. It wouldn't be a stretch to say he views his life in our family as some sort of perpetual fight club. So if I tell him to sit on the potty, he hits me. With Zion, the first rule of potty training is WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT POTTY TRAINING.

He decided he didn't like to poop in the potty, so although he was toilet trained for pee pretty early he waited until his overnight diaper to drop one. When we found out his diaper was dry all night (but filled with poop ten minutes into the morning) we stopped diapers all together. This was easier for me because I stopped getting punched in the morning when I said, "It's time to take off your diaper."

But on Zion it was considerably harder.

Harder, get it? That's another joke about poop. Let's laugh at the fact that my child is now constantly constipated.

The past few months have seen Zion saving his POOPS for once or twice a week, and then (pooping) in his undies all the frigging time. Sometimes he goes through five pairs of pants in one day. When I see some spot on my floor or furniture, I look at it sideways and think, "Is this dirt, chocolate, or poop?"

Kind of like a fun gameshow except ending with considerable more wet rags.

The kicker though, (in addition to Zion himself) is that Zion won't eat when he's all stopped up. So he doesn't eat, he's tired and grumpy, and at his last physical the doctor noted that he's dropped down to first percentile for weight.

I explained to the doctor about his POOP and (poops).

"Some kids do this for emotional reasons," the pediatrician said, "but I'd try giving him a stool softener and a laxative to get a clean start."

So last weekend I started the recommended stool softener once a day. One cap full of MiraLAX mixed in with chocolate milk. Unfortuantely, Zion wouldn't drink more than two sips of his chocolate milk, or anything for that matter, so I kept mixing more MiraLAX with more liquids in the hopes that Zion would consume some.

Two days went by with no POOP. On Monday morning Harvey called me into the bathroom.

"I don't feel sick," he started, "but I think I may be sick. Because my poop smells like it does when I'm sick."

"Is it all watery?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then stop finishing Zion's chocolate milk for him."

On Tuesday I gave Zion a chocolate laxative chew. He didn't poop. On Wednesday I gave him another one.

I was starting to think that Zion had bowels of steel. That maybe he was really and truly holding the universe together with his anal sphincter.

Then the medicine caught up to him and the universe fell appart.

On Thursday Zion pooped his pants while we were out at the Museum of Science. Twice. Then we came home and he pooped his pants immediately upon entering the house. I bent down to take off his shoes and they were covered in poop. That was the first of something like twenty poop explosions. He'd fought me through three baths and countless other wipe-downs, sometimes screaming, sometimes running away, sometimes kicking water in my face like the dog I used to bathe before I had children. There was poop smeared on all the toilets and the floor and we used every single rag we own. Then we used towels. Meanwhile the baby was screaming because he wanted me, or he wanted more attention, or he wanted to put his hand in the toilet. Somehow we survived the night and got everyone into bed. In the quiet darkness Dan and I looked at each other like we'd just been through a war.

I hadn't known until this incident how much emotion Zion had been channeling through NOT POOPING. Not pooping is, I believe, the way he deals with all the tragedy of his current life situation. Not being the baby, not being the fastest, wanting to make his own decisions but needing to sublimate his will to that of his big brother. He loves his baby brother but he's jealous of him too. All that feeling he couldn't deal with he dealt with via not pooping. With the bonus of when he did make a mess Mama had to stop everything and clean it up.

So when the little dictator fell via coup d'exlax he started taking his emotions out on us in other ways. On Friday he pushed the baby down every time he passed him. He kicked each one of us when we tried to touch him, and tried to hit Elijah with the front door. When we got out of the car to go to lunch at the nursing home, instead of walking out to the median strip like normal, he ran ten feet away and hid behind a parked car. I climbed out of the car holding my purse and the baby and Zion was nowhere to be seen. I called, "Zion? Zion where's you?" with increasing levels of panic.

When I found him I was so glad he was alive I wanted to punch him in the face. Instead I yelled at him until I was sure he was crying for the right reasons.

He was too scared to poop in public after that, so we had a lovely lunch. But he shit his pants as soon as we got home. Literally, in the car, in the driveway.

We were having people over for dinner on Friday. I cleaned the bathrooms diligently. I took all the poopy laundry to the basement. Even so there was a lingering smell, and we served food out on the lawn.

While I was eating, Zion ran up to me and leapt onto my lap. Suddenly I felt poop running down my leg. At the same moment of our guests kneeled down to kiss his daughter and realized he had stuck his knee in a small pile of human excrement.

On Saturday Zion napped for four hours and when he woke up he was happier than I've seen him in weeks. Maybe he really did need a cleaning out, or maybe we should NEVER EVER GIVE HIM A LAXATIVE EVER AGAIN. I'm not sure how to interpret the situation.

In reality, I think the issue is bigger than digestion. Perhaps I cannot solve his pooping problem, because he does not just have a pooping problem. He has a LIFE problem. The problem is I straight up f-ed up his life by having a baby. He is mad and he doesn't know how to express himself. Given the opportunity, shitting on everything seems like a good start.

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