During the week, I'm a pretty good pooper. It's partially the earlier start, the coffee on the commute, but more specifically, as I am mobile I have to pack my lunch and snacks for the day. That means I end up snacking on carrots and apples, and that means fiber. So during the week, no problem in retaining the evil and therefore the bad moods that accompany said retention.
It's at this point that I must acknowledge my mother's genius. When I was growing up, Mum's first question should I profess to feeling unwell was "Did you poo today?". More often than not, taking care of that took care of the unwell feeling. Pure genius.
On the weekends, however, the discipline of the week is simply not applied. I eat lighter and less well, and the odds of a timely bowel movement decrease the further into the weekend it goes.
I noticed today that my mood had steadily grown worse as the weekend had progressed. I found myself getting angry over things that I normally would have let slide. As the warning signals were sent out from Down Below as the Little Man was in the bath, I knew that my mood was in part due to the fact that Saturday and most of Sunday had been free of poop expellation.
Once I had him out, dried, dressed for bed and safely ensconced in the night-time ritual, I headed to the bathroom and emerged with my mood greatly improved. I'm not all sunshine and rainbows, but no-one's going to die.
Listen to my Mum: if you don't feel well, poop.
No comments:
Post a Comment