After dinner, Bob (my Dad) would snatch the Wichita Eagle & Beacon newspaper and disappear into the inner sanctum of the master bathroom. He would be there for a minimum of a half hour each evening. Luckily all we could hear was a distant hum of the exhaust fan as he sat and waited for his bowels to move. My mother and my mother-in-law had no time for such nonsense and instead aided their infrequent bowel movements with a laxative addiction. Maybe they were the Greatest Generation, but from my point of view many of them were the Greatest Constipated Generation. I’ve been around people with chronic constipation. But luckily most of them have been adults.
The other night after speaking to a large group of preschool parents one of the teachers in the audience came up to talk. Seems many of the preschool children she teaches are being given Metamucil on a regular basis. “What?”, I said, “How often? How often are they giving the kids Metamucil???”. “Everyday.” she flatly told me. “What!” I shrieked. Continue reading