We're going on day ... 40 maybe? ... of a poop strike.
Our eldest has decided that he isn't going to go poop. At least not without a fight. The expression that crosses his face several times a day might lead one to believe that he is creating a huge poop masterpiece. But upon examination of his diaper, all that is visible is a small skid mark. Evidence that the poop daylighted, but only for a moment before being violently withdrawn in to the bowels of my child.
This morning, after watching him struggle after eating a huge breakfast, Charlie plopped him on the potty despite his desperate cries. Five minutes later, the prize was a poop no larger than a quarter. Since that time, I've watched him stand in the corner in apparent distress, on his tippy toes, with a bright red face and a blanket shoved in his mouth.
He will vehemently tell me, "I NOT GO POO-POO!" And he means it. It's his choice alone to refuse the poop and he will exercise that right.
Usually he's got control. Until he is standing in our bath tub and the diaper that catches the poop before it rebounds, is absent. Or, there is so much mass that has accumulated he doesn't have the capacity to store it all. But he sure does try. Doctor Arnold Kegel himself would be impressed.
Little does he know, the spoonful of Hershey's chocolate syrup he just ingested was 75% laxative. I plan to continue this regiment until he realizes that his resistance to poop is futile.
Because although he may not give a sh*t about how pooping is a good thing and will improve his life considerably, I do. I'm his mom. And I care. But mostly, I'm tired of looking at him grunt and groan.