A blogger had diarrhoea while he was out with his 4-year-old and her reaction wasn’t what you’d expect

Clint Edwards writes a blog, entitled No Idea What I’m Doing, about his life as a dad of three young children. He recently shared a story of a sudden bout of diarrhoea that gripped him while he was on his way to a funeral and had to take his 4-year-old daughter, Aspen, into the cubicle with him. It’s a long story, but worth it.

“We stopped at a gas station in nowhere Oregon, two hours into a 12 hour road trip to a family funeral, when the diarrhea struck. My wife and two older kids were in the van, while I was inside looking for cornflakes with my 4yo.

We b-lined into the restroom, making it just in time. I had no choice but to take my 4yo into the stall with me. Aspen watched as I struggled, Moana light-up crocs on the wrong feet, blue eyes wide and supportive, hands clapping. “Good job, Daddy! Good job! You make two poops! Now three poops! I’m four!”

“Yucky, Daddy. It’s stinky.”

Image from www.byclintedwards.com

With typical 4-year-old enthusiasm, Aspen supplied a running commentary for all and sundry to hear.

I’m not sure what happened exactly, if I’d eaten something wrong, or if it was the stress of traveling with kids, but what I do know is that my 4yo daughter is the Richard Simmons of pooping. I’ve never felt so supported in anything in my whole life. She commented on the size, smell, and sound. “Wow!” She said. She commented on my work ethic. “You’re trying so hard!” At one point I had to actually push her face away from the business end of things as she clapped and cried “You’re doing it, Daddy! You’re doing it!”

She’s potty trained, sure. But she’s also easily distracted, and prone to potty accidents. I suppose she’s gotten used to the positive reinforcement Mel and I give her each time she goes. And when I’m cheering her on in our family restroom, it seems normal, even appropriate. But when the roles are reversed, it’s just, well, awkward. Particularly in a public restroom where the man in the stall next to me was obviously holding back tears of laughter. Laughter that busted loose when she called me a “pooping-farting robot.”