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Those of you that follow me on Twitter are well aware that we’ve had a situation of sorts on our hands. The bazooka was backed up. And by backed up, I mean 9 days sans evacuation.

My belly aches just thinking about it.

9 DAYS! 9 days without so much as a pooplet, nay a shart!

When we hit the week mark, I began to get mildly anxious despite no sign of malcontent in the Bug. She’s still exclusively breastfed, producing wet nappies (god I love the British), eating on her regular sched, soft tummy. All the signs that point to a happy, healthy, NOT constipated baby. I’d been warned that a breastfed baby might not poop for days, but when we started getting into weeks, I became a little more than suspect.

Have you seen the show Hoarders? It’s horrifying. And I thought the Bug might be developing a comparable complex. With her shit. You can see why I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

Obviously, I tweeted about this debacle to get some feedback from my fellow parental units, namely moms, on this crap (pun INTENDED!) I was reassured by many a mother whose children had gone up to 11… yeah like 1, 2, 3, 4,… I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO GO THERE IT’S TOO MANY!… days without a movement. And as far as I could tell, the child survived and had not turned into a living terd. Someone even informed me that a breastfed baby can go up to 21 DAYS without pooping. It’s like reverse fasting or some shit. I confirmed with my doctor, who assured me that unless I started noticing signs that she was uncomfortable, or straining and failing to poop, that I should just give her a lil prune juice, and hunker down.

And hunker down I did. I empathized with the agoraphobs of the world. I’ve been terrified to leave the house for the past three days for fear of what was in store. I knew that the instant our bodies were more than 50 feet from the washing machine and bathtub, we were doomed. So I waited it out. And waited. And then was told that maybe I should drink some prune juice to speed things along. So I considered just plugging my nose and shooting it back collegiate style, when @BananaramafoFin suggested I class it up and mix a cocktail of half prune, half Pelligreno. And so class it up I did.

After much gas and sounding like a living Evinrude, we finally had signs of progress with a shart. And then this morning we had mini-poo, as if to foreshadow what was coming down the pipe.

And let me tell you, what occurred this afternoon was of epic proportions. It may or may not have crusted into the crevasses of fatty baby rolls and armpits in ways unmatched  by previous bowel movements. Baths were had, clothes were set aflame in a trash bin out back, and balance was attained, yet again, in the cosmos. Addison’s bowels have some sway with the universe, y’all.

Now, we have our Halloween game faces on. Poop-scare behind us, we may join in the holiday haunts to our hearts’ and bums’ content.

And, no, this is not her costume, my little hippie, but a legit outfit my mother sent us. And I am obsessed. Obv.