Vent

My five year old pooped her pants SIX times yesterday. 

It's dumb, but part of me was just like, "No, not today.  It's freaking Christmas.  I deserve ONE STUPID DAY without poop." (Although, with two others in diapers, that wasn't a possibility anyway).  I seriously broke down sobbing after the fourth time.  It's been one year since we started talking to doctor's about her accidents.  We got to the root of several food allergies, figured out the Celiac, she eats a completely gluten/dairy free diet, and yet she pooped her pants just as many times yesterday as she did last December before we made diet changes (we were on a cruise last December, where she was pooping her pants 4-6 times a day, I can remember it so vividly, 'cause it was happening in full view of my whole family).

I hate it.  I hate it for her, it makes her so miserable and embarrassed, and I hate it for me, 'cause I feel like I'm freaking buried in poop all day long between my younger three.  I hate that we have so few answers, and even with the answers we've gotten, it hasn't made a difference in this area.  I hate that as patient and kind and loving I was with five out of the six accidents, that the one where I lost it and shamed her by asking, "What is wrong with you?!  Why do you keep doing this?!" is the only one her and I will remember.  I hate that I look at my life in terms of this one stupid issue of poop, and it looks absolutely no different than a year ago.  Two in diapers and one with frequent poopy accidents. Despite the thousands of dollars and piles of professionals we've thrown at this issue.  

I hate how as much as I consciously try and counter the thoughts, I keep swirling deeper and deeper into a place of, "It's never going to get better.  Poop is my life.  There is no hope of this getting any better."

I hate that poop controls way too much of my life.

OK, done venting now.  I have laundry to do . . .