Bad Plumbing

I've been constipated for a couple of days. Actually, it's been on and off. But mostly on. And by on, I mean my digestive system's been off. So it's been on because I've been off.

There's not much Mommy and Daddy could do to help me. They're sympathetic when I'm trying to cry and push myself through it, but sympathy doesn't make poop drop out.

It's gotten so bad that every time I fart, Mommy and Daddy check my diaper for a gift, and are disappointed when there's nothing there. Could you believe that? They hate it when they don't have to change me.

That's how far this has come.

And yet, every day, I watch them walk in and out of their own bathroom, sit on the toilet, read a magazine, pinch one out, wipe themselves clean, wash their hands and then return to me.

Showoffs.

Look at me, Wyatt! I can poop! And I can read about Jennifer Aniston while doing it! And you can't! Nah, nah nah, nah naaaah, nah!

That's what made today so awesome. This morning, their toilet overflooded. So Daddy took out a plunger and tried to get the clog out. Then he used something called a snake and tried getting it out that way too. Then he called a plumber, who told them that the clog was because something in the tank busted and that we needed a new toilet altogether, but we couldn't get one in until tomorrow morning.

Which meant, for tonight, Mommy and Daddy would be just as constipated as I was.

So, at 9PM, when I pooped a large thick and sticky beige poop that would put most other poops to shame, and they had to not only see it but also clean it up, they weren't so happy about it after all. Because only they know how tight their butts were clenching at that moment.

When they saw me smile, they thought it was because I felt better.

But I was too busy showing off to be relieved.