Somebody decided to "just see what would happen" if he stopped putting the daily dose of Miralax in M's morning milk.   Without telling me.

Without.  Telling.  Me.

So, I've been merrily allowing M her favorite binding foods - bananas, rice, milk, icecream, cheese because, well, I figured that she'd be fine.  After all, Miralax has never failed us before.  

The problem is, I never counted for paternal human error.  And "error" is my nice way of saying Giant Fuck Up Punishable by Being Torn A New One.

In other words, our nanny and I just spent the better part of an afternoon comforting a miserable, writhing two year old.

  It's funny how constipation and childbirth are similar:  The debilitating cramps come in waves, there's a lot of pushing and grunting involved, and even though the end results are a little different for the most part, the euphoric relief is undeniable.

After 45 minutes of pushing -- (which, I might add, was pretty much how long it took me to pop out both my babes)  -- M delivered a 3 pound 6 ounce log about half as long as Little Homie.

And sighing with a smile sublime -- her expression orgiastic with relief - she looked down at the recently delivered contents of her diaper.  "Hi poop!  Hi!"  she said, just as a mama croons over her newborn. 

And yes.  We all shouted "MAZEL TOV!"

Seriously. I'll be building a shrink's swimming pool some day.