Early Morning Constipation

May 04, 2005 | Category: Family, It's a Trip

I was dreaming of living in a NYC penthouse, with - and I don't understand this - Ashton & Demi and clan in the other apartment on the floor and sharing the large deck. I wore gorgeous gowns and amazing shoes and smelled like Coco by Chanel.

I was twirling into the apartment, in a striped silk cocktail dress that would make Sarah Jessica Parker weep with envy, when I heard it:

Bear: It won't come out.

CD: Well sit some more and keep trying.

Bear: It's hard and it won't come out.

*Pulled a pillow over my head. Reminded myself that it is definitely CD's turn to deal with this. I have taken off two mornings from work in the last couple of months when over-indulgence in goldfish crackers or molasses cookies caused this problem before.*

In my dream, there were tall trees providing dappled shadows into my lovely apartment. And a view of Central Park. A riot of sunset on the horizon. Count Basey was providing the soundtrack.

CD: We have some pills. They go up your boom-boom and will make the poopy soft and come out.

Bear: Do they hurt?

CD: They shouldn't. They feel funny, though. Can you be brave?

Bear: Yes, I can be brave, Daddy.

*Rolled over and pretended I was still asleep. Reminded myself that last month CD had been happily sitting in his cubby while I had been rubbing Bear's back and speaking in soothing tones while he sat on the toilet and waited for the orange juice to work.*

CD: I can't find the suppositories.

ME: I bought new ones, in the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

CD: What's this other stuff?

ME: Oral medicine that does the same thing.

Bear: (After tasting it) Uh, that's yucky. Can we do the other one that goes in the boom-boom?

CD: (Tasting it himself) Gross.

ME: Cod liver oil and flavorings.

CD: (Making a face) No amount of flavorings can help cod liver oil.

I dig back under the covers and try to recapture my sepia dream. The light, the breeze, the music. I change the neckline of my dress to more low cut, night falls and the lights of New York come alive on the other side of the floor-length windows.

I have a martini, and stroll out on the deck. A tall, dark man (maybe CD? Maybe Clive Owen?) is there, smoking a cigar. I hear the faint sounds of a party from the other apartment.

He looks at me, and grins. I grin back. He leaves the cigar in a large crystal ashtray and walks towards me, holding out his hand. The moment we touch, I get shivers.

Bear: The poopy won't hurt?

CD: No, the medicine will make it soft.

Bear: OK.

CD: (Trying to hide his grossed-out expression) Now let's put it in your boom-boom.

ME: (Sighing, opening my eyes and getting out of bed) Let me get a towel, this could be messy.

All's Well That Ends Well: Sure enough, while CD ran to Dunkies to get us some coffee and bagel, Bear had a successful run to the potty. Grinning, he explaimed that the poopy had been soft and had come "right out"!

Mysterious guy on the deck, however, has drifted away for good into the mist of dreams. Ah, well.

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