Now that Clayton's out of diapers, he's a little more reluctant to move his bowels. (So far he’s had better luck in the driveway, in the back yard, and on the back steps than in the potty.) Last week two days went by without a poop. On the third day he complained, "My stomach hurts, Mama." By evening, it was clear the time had come, but by then things were pretty well impacted. His face contorted as he strained. "Mama, it hurts my nose," he told me from where he sat on his potty in the living room. "It hurts my mouth!"
His little face was so worried and his calls for "Mama!" so pitiful, I quickly abandoned the dishes and went to sit and read with him. "You've got to let it out," I told him. "Just squeeze my hand when it hurts." We read Harry and the Terrible Whatzit together, and when the urge to push came upon him he would grab my hand and squeeze while I praised and encouraged him. (“Remember to breathe,” I wanted to tell him. “Imagine the baby.” )
During one particularly violent episode, Clayton vomited a little onto the floor in front of him. “What was that?” he said with true surprise. (The first time one vomits with full consciousness it must be pretty weird.) I tried my best to explain. “You know how sometimes Dee Dee spits up a little? It’s kind of like that.”
“Mama wipe it up?” Clayton does not like messes.
I set a bowl between his knees to catch any more “spit-ups” and resumed my position beside him. The stench was horrendous. The open floor plan of our house ensured that the whole living area—kitchen, dining room, living room-- now stunk like a ripe latrine. Don had taken over the dishes and was trying not to gag. “It smells like a possum exploded in here,” he said.
Meanwhile Clayton continued to strain, but now when the movements came upon him he leaned over the bowl while clutching at my hand and whispering, “Mama!” In terms of pure grossness, few experiences in my life could rival it. And yet, I felt completely unfazed. It could, I imagine, have felt like one of the reviled but required parts of a parent’s job description, like writing discipline referrals or serving lunch duty are to teaching (just a whole lot grosser.) Instead, it felt like if one could distill motherhood down to its purest essence, this would be it. There was my son, in pain and afraid, confronted with one of life’s basest demands. He was on new and frightening territory, unsure of what was happening to him, and so he looked to me for help, relief, understanding. There was no way I could protect him from this, no way I could make the trial before him disappear. The best I could do was stay by his side and hold his hand. Even as my lungs were bursting with the stench, my heart was bursting with love, compassion, and pride. “Good job, Clayton! You’re doing it! You’re doing it!” Never before had a bowel movement assumed such significance.
* * *
My first year of college, during track season, I got a stomach bug. Vomiting into the toilet in the dorm bathroom, I missed my mom like I never had before. Years later, I got food poisoning (or Montezuma’s revenge) while working in a cloud forest in Ecuador. As I cleaned up my own puke from around the shared, dirty toilet, trembling with exhaustion, I missed her again, desperately. It also occurred to me to wonder how she’d done it. (I remembered my best friend vomiting on our patio once and how just the smell of it had made me gag. I’d run away, yelling for my mom.) It makes sense to me now. It’s not that mothers are immune to how gross these things are. It’s just that when it comes down to it, the bodily fluids, however disgusting, are nothing compared to the love that boils up when our children need us most.
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