The boy has been constipated.
There's no way to dress it up, the poor little fella has been bunged up.
The situation got so bad that, the other Saturday, he got worse and worse until about 5 o'clock he refused all food and was doubled up in pain.
One of his library books is a Hairy Maclary story which has a character in it called Bottomley Potts.
"Mummy my Bottomley Potts is hurting" exclaimed the boy and my heart melted at his pain and his sense of humour through it.
He hadn't had a poo since Wednesday afternoon so I had a fair idea he was constipated but I called NHS 111 anyway and actually had a good experience, (not something many Mums shared when I posted on Facebook). They noted down all the symptoms and said someone local would call in the next 2 hours.
In fact the local hospital called back straight away and asked us to come down to the Out of Hours surgery as soon as we could. So we bundled the boy in the car and anxiously sped off.
The hospital is only a 3 or maybe a 4 minute drive away. It's no time at all, especially when there's no traffic about, as there wasn't on a Saturday teatime, so in what seemed like an instant we were there and checked in for what could be a long wait.
No sooner had we arrived though, coats off and a corner of the waiting room found to make camp, than the boy crouched down in a familiar position.
"What are you doing darling?' I asked, knowing full well what he was doing.
"Nothing" came the urgent, red faced and strained reply. "Go away Mummy. Look over there"
Toilet training is still an on going process and although the boy will wee for England on the potty he won't poo, so thank the lord I'd not gone al fresco with the pants up to the hospital, and had the foresight to put a pull up on him just in case.
"Are you doing a poo poo honey?"
From the smell he quite clearly was.
He then stood up, happy he'd finished his task, trumped loudly and exclaimed,
"Ah that's better!"
You couldn't make it up could you!