Gloria Estefan and Fiber

My sweet baby girl has struggled with the ability to poop since, oh, the day she was born. It didn't matter what we fed her, be it breast milk or ready-pour concrete mix, she would get backed up. For months and months, we have carefully monitored her diet to avoid giving her too many rice or banana products. We have administered servings of flax oil, corn syrup, and whatever miracle concoction we could find. We have swayed and cheered and begged for poop. All to no avail. We have had to Fleet 'er up many times; and the only solution that works consistently is two ounces of prune juice nightly.

This morning found her poop a day late. I braced myself for what was to come. And just like always, she walked in carrying socks (her favorite toy), wailing and making the familiar Disaster Poop face. I held her and rocked her and smoothed her hair as she pushed with all her might. She grimaced and shook, and I felt entirely small and powerless in the wake of stubborn feces. So I did what I could and shushed her and told her it would be ok, and she continued to grunt and shake.

And then there was a beautiful moment. In the midst of her rectal turmoil, a song came on the television. And while she was pushing so hard she reminded me of a pressure cooker, she still could not resist the inner call to get her groove on. So she sat there grunting and bent over, shaking her shoulders and booty while nodding her head to the beat.

The rhythm got her, indeed. Thank you, Elmo.