Since I don’t intend to grow up to be one of those old women who talks about her bowel habits all the time, I’ll just say three words on the subject:
Riding constipates me.
Just hearing me say the “c” word is enough to make Dearly Beloved recoil in horror. Picking up after Miss Piggy is already more poop than he wants to know about, so it’s not apt to come up in our conversations. He prefers to think of his wife as gastronomically pure.
So, enough of that.
Just know that I drove over 600 miles last week and now, every time I read the blogs of the adventurous people who travel frequently in motor homes, I am filled with wonder. Really…I wonder.
I had mentioned my riding side effect in an e-mail to the friends I was meeting in Atlanta and of course they responded immediately with unsolicited advice:
WATER! I’m sure you don’t drink enough water.
APPLES! You need to eat apples.
ACTIVIA and GROUND FLAX SEED!
(The last one was from Wild Thing, whose thighs are about the size of my ankles. What she actually wrote was: You gotta start eating Activia and grinding flax seed daily – and I promise – you will be saying ‘well hi there, ugly dude” a helluva lot more often!!:):):) a personal story from a satisfied customer!:):)
Taking everyone’s advice, I hit the road with a cooler of apples, water, and Activia. I didn’t have flax seed, so took a bottle of fiber pills along. (What does one use to grind flax seed, anyway?)
I drank the water and ate the Activia. Although I ate only one of the apples, I’m certain I consumed at least three more in the fabulous Apple Torte with Ginger Ice Cream dessert I ate one evening at Murphy’s in Virginia Highlands. Surely that counted.
One of the delights of my trip, besides spending time with friends, taking knitting lessons, and seeing Katherine Heigl, was that I was able to spend time with daughter Pogo and her family. In fact, I kept the boys a couple of days while she worked. The two oldest boys were in school most of the day, so I didn’t get to see them until I met their school bus at 3:15 each afternoon, but the youngest–just days away from his third birthday–was my daily companion.
We went to the Atlanta Botanical Gardens and saw the scarecrows. Dozens of scarecrows.
The second day, I had a knitting class at 1pm. He’s such a little sweetheart, I knew he’d be fine with me at the yarn shop as long as he
had a goody bag. I packed a lunch for him–a hot dog, Goldfish, an apple, cheese slices, and water–along with a couple of toys. Thanks to his angelic behavior, if I ever knit him a pair of socks, I can now include toes, since that was the purpose of the lesson.
We were closing in on bus time when he announced, “I have to poop.”
This child does not cry wolf. When he says he needs to use the potty, he delivers. It was, however, 3:08. We needed to leave the house in two minutes.
What were my options? He is a brilliant child. He can do puzzles, dance with the dog, pour his own juice, and dress himself. What he will not do is hurry.
He insisted that he situate the potty seat on the toilet by himself. My job was to give him a lift onto the throne, at which point he instructed me to close the bathroom door. When I pushed it shut, he clarified, “No. You go outside and close the door.”
I obeyed, knowing that my protests would simply use valuable minutes, but I paced as nervously as an expectant father outside the door as I waited for delivery. I checked my watch. We were going to have to sprint to the bus stop.
Finally he put out the call for toilet tissue.
Once the job was finished and hands washed, he announced proudly, “That was a big one!”
Was it the apple? Goldfish? Water?
On the way to the bus stop, he took my hand and looked up at me. “Sometimes I call you Mary,” he told me with a smile.
“Yes, we’re pals,” I assured him.
Too bad we had to hurry. I’d have asked my pal for some gastro-intestinal advice.