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My Lexapro Diary

 On Halloween, we sat with the pediatric gastroenterologist, who asked us to describe a typical dirty diaper.


"Sometimes," said my spouse, "it's a bit like mashed potatoes. But, too often, it's like gravy."

Do you wonder why I'm depressed? I especially hate waiting rooms. There seems to be a sadistic trend where doctors put tantalizing objects in waiting rooms, then leave out signs that say, "KEEP YOUR CHILD AWAY." The most ridiculous example was an elaborate toy train set in the physiatry clinic. You stick that in front of a kid with ADHD--then expect that the kid will calmly fold his hands in his lap?

I've met with a "life coach." The title itself makes my skin crawl. She was pleasant, but she used the following terms: "the whole work-life puzzle," "give oneself grace," and "positive psychology." In any case, this hour did not make me feel guilty--which is how I feel if I'm in sweatpants, watching YouTube clips of Taylor Swift.

Back to the GI doctor. She said that constipation can be like a vicious cycle. The small bits of "leakage" cause diaper rash, which causes pain, which causes the child to resist the act of pooping. But that resistance only leads to additional bits of tiny leakage, which create new patches of irritated skin, which make the nightmare worse and worse. A laxative teaches you not to fear pooping, and once you're pooping freely, you can start to wean yourself off the "tablets," and you'll bravely make *solid* poops, knowing that your sphincter is actually your friend.

I try not to drink wine on Tuesdays--but, this week, I broke my rule.
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