You can force a person to poop.
It's true. If you really will it strongly enough, you can.
I'll get into that later, but first, let's talk classic cars. "Classic" is generous. Let me rephrase. Let's talk "really old cars". I mean, I have absolutely zero interest in them, but, nevertheless, they are ruining my life. Not all of them, just the kind my husband is obsessed with. Specifically, a car called an International Scout II, and, I know what you're thinking, and I agree- what the eff is that, right? How about a picture.
There she is. The blue broken-looking one on the top there. Troy's Scout #4, a real beauty before her insides melted and burned holes in a bunch of probably very crucial machinery while I was following behind the old girl on the freeway in the beautiful land of freaking Barstow, California on Tuesday afternoon.
It goes without note, that a four- and two- year old who had already endured a four hour drive thanks to good ol' SoCal traffic are not the most fun road trip companions. Especially when you have to crawl-drive behind a rickety old car that could blow at any moment. And especially when my daughter is convinced she's about to shit her pants at the exact moment Troy gives me the signal to pull over while he calls a tow truck to scoop up his completely unnecessary car. In freaking Barstow. Did I mention that? Bar. Stow.
Anyway, after about a half an hour wait, the tow truck guy comes, and we follow him to the nearest auto parts store because all the body shops are closed due to the day's lateness. Avery is sitting on her hands, holding her bottom, her little palms emulating a lid to an about-to-boil and whistle and explode-all-over-the-stove tea kettle.
We arrive at the parts store. I frantically snap Landon out of his seat and then snatch Avery out of hers. I scurry to the store's front door, upon which the sign "No public restrooms available." has been taped. I smirk, pleased at myself, because whereas, usually, I'm annoyed at my obnoxious tendency to be an avid rule-follower, I know, right now, I'm like a rogue cowboy busting through the wooden half doors of a saloon with my guns blazing. "Let them try to stop me" I think.
I punch the stores door open, prepare myself for intense opposition and a heated argument with whoever stands in my way, then shout in my sassiest sass voice at the first worker I see, "I've got a four-year-old who REALLY needs to use your bathroom and I read the sign but..."
"It's straight back and to the left, ma'am."
Dammit. I'm an asshole. Whatever. We're running and sprinting. I'm dragging her by the wrist, hoping to all things holy my son is following suit and hasn't been snatched by a wild Barstownian. At the toilet, I rip her pants down, plop her on the potty, shout a, "GO!!" at her, and she replies with a, "I don't have to go anymore."
It's at that point, my eyes squinted, narrowed, and zeroed in on my daughter as she sat on that disgusting Barstow toilet, which may or may not have ever been used by any male less than 47 years of age in it's existence. It's in that moment that I, without restraint, and after I completely discarded any sort of "mommy filter" that I carry with me daily, threatened her life and everything she knew and loved if she didn't drop a deuce immediately. Because I knew, the second we left that bathroom, and only after I strapped her into her carseat and hit the potty-less freeway would she feel the need to "go" again. So, after I made my stance, she sat wide-eyed and absolutely terrified of her mother, and that's when the little girl stared at me as she absorbed my threats and then grit her teeth and pooped, what I claim, was a poop that I forced her to poop.
Aaand that's how you make someone do THAT. Mind over fecal matter, people.
So, anyway, an hour passes. Finally, the stuuuupid Scout is temporarily "fixed" enough to embark home, but I am still summoned to slowwwly follow the car home on the desolate I-15 freeway all the way back to Vegas. Keep in mind, the kids have been prisoner to their carseats now for six hours. Landon is so insanely tired that he has completely lost his mind about a fly that is zipping around the car. The exhaustion-induced drama pouring from my son is making me crazy. I'm rolling my eyes as he's screaming at the goddamn fly to "go away". And just before I'm about to call CPS on myself for what will surely be my most intense melt down, I glance at my review mirror while my toddler screams, "GO 'WAY BAD FWY!!!! 'WAN' GO HOME!!!!", and I notice that the dumb fly is not only near my son, but is perfectly perched upon Landon's little freaked out eyebrow, glued, while Lanman is exhausting his entire thirteen word vocabulary at the tiny, completely stationary, insect. It was sad.
Even sadder (and way, way more satisfying) was watching Troy get blasted by simultaneous dust storms as he drove ahead of me, because his ancient vehicle doesn't have AC and it's freaking hot in the desert so his windows were down. I swear it was a gift.
Then the sun went down.
Then my totally fed-up kids passed out in their respective carseats.
Then thanks to the day's stresses I became VERY sleepy.
"I need to listen to the radio."
I decided that NPR was the best choice in that maybe an interesting story might keep me from drifting. Little do I know, the particular story, which, after the whole potty incident was very ironically about the power of the mind, reads more like a soft, almost melodious bedtime story, and by the end of the segment, my sleeping brain and waking brain morphed and I began to hallucinate. Shadows on the freeway began to take on lifelike features, the lights on my odometer started to unnaturally flit back and forth, and Troy's Scout, which I was still tailing, began to look like a different car completely. A hallucination I was grateful to my brain for, because even if my dream-driving may have eventually led me to crash and make three-quarters of my family obsolete, at least I wouldn't be looking at that godforsaken car in my last moments.
Thankfully we made it home safely. I'm glad to know that I have new talent out of the whole thing. I'll be happy to assist whoever with any digestive issues if you need assistance.