I was in the bathroom. Both lights on, fan grinding away, my arms working back and forth as I plunged my heart out.
Seven days without a bowl movement had snuck up on me, but it wouldn't sneak away that same way. Damn.
The baby cried in the background and I heard the hubs open the door behind me just a crack.
"Crested her shores!" I hurrumphed, assuming he was surveying the damage. The door shut again without a word from him
I kept plunging. My husband returned.
"Why don't you take care of the crying baby and I'll take care of this? Play to our fortes?" He walked into the bathroom from the other door leading from our bedroom, talking as he reached for the plunger. "What the--aw fuck!" His socked foot found the toilet water pooled on the white tiles in front of the bathtub.
I grimaced and giggled.
"You didn't tell me you flooded it!" He observed the pool of water and clumped up bathmat and sighed disapprovingly.
"I said 'crested her shores,' what more was there to say?"
"That's too vague! Crested Her Shores, what is that? a porno?" He was amused and frustrated, the amusement winning out.
We laughed and went to our respective positions, him at the toilet, me with our baby at my breast. It would be a few minutes before he broke the plunger and we took an impromptu family shopping trip to ye old Fred Meyer, meandering the supermarket in a distracted shuffle of shame so often generated by hoisting a plunger outside the hardware section.
We are officially renewing our effort as a family to keep me on fiber supplements.
So that was part of our evening. I'm not sure if it's my meds or being sick or what, but things got bad this week. Seems like they might be getting worse as Baby Bananaface puked all over himself, me, and a portion of the carpet and has developed a little fever. We're monitoring him and he's got some Tylenol now, but I am worried. Anything like what I went through and he's gonna be at risk for concentrated lithium.
Ugh. Happy weekend us! Not.