Oh, what a terrible, horrible, awful week I had. It began early on a Wednesday morning. Daddy heard a strange noise, like someone trying to force a baby rabbit down a water slide. It was my belly. I have had a troublesome tummy for years. The doctors called it “stress colitis.” It is an apt term. When I get colitis, I get stressed. Loud, unexpected, or high pitched sounds can turn everything in my body into water, which I expel, bit by bit out my butt. The noises, which I named “Prelude to diarrhea,” is like the newest Jurassic Park movie. It promises to be bigger, badder, and faster moving. I don’t eat when I am not feeling well. Basically, I need to be perfect, and the weather 60 degrees and sunny, or I ain’t eating. But on Thursday morning, I happily ate my food, then marched into the kitchen and left a river of poop smelling foulness you can’t even imagine. My parents and I have an agreement: They don’t get mad when I have an accident on a bad belly day, and I never