Finn's First Poop

I thought grannyhood was supposed to be a Nirvana free of all fatigue and undue stress. You know – breeze in, play with the kid, work it into a nervous frenzy, then hand it blithely back to Mom and Pop and toddle off on your merry way.

Instead, I spent all day worrying about whether or not Finn would poop. Thoughts of a satisfyingly soiled diaper crowded my brain and prevented me paying proper attention to clients who’d misplaced their pay stubs and needed a quick course of Pen and the Art of Checkbook Maintenance.

I recalled Creature’s tears yesterday. “What if he never poops, Mom? He’s five days old. What if something’s wrong with him?”

I dispensed reassurance with a trowel. “Just because the book says he should have pooped by the fourth day doesn’t mean anything. Babies move along at their own pace. After all, Finn took his time about being born; he’s probably dawdling over his first poop as well.”

Creature didn’t buy it. “That doesn’t make any sense, Mom.”

Underneath my feigned calm, I worried. What if Creature was right? I envisioned operating rooms with huge mirrors brooding over them, filled with masked doctors wielding foot-long steel instruments, Finn lying tiny and defenceless on a vast snow-white table. I imagined trying to comfort Creature if something happened to Finn and realized I wouldn’t be able to manage it, not in a million years.

My blood pressure spiked. I couldn’t concentrate. I lost my appetite.

When the phone rang a few minutes ago, I grabbed it as one might grab a rope ladder dangling from a helicopter over a hurricane-struck sea.

“Did he poop” I asked.

“Yes!” said Creature. “Hugely. He filled two diapers.”

I barely had time to enjoy my relief before the worry returned. What if he develops chronic diarrhoea? What hazing will he have to endure from classmates when he hits grade one and is still going through five diapers an hour?

Who said grannyhood was bliss?