Skyler (my three-year old) doubles over for 30 minutes this morning on the carpet.There is no crying, not even a moan.This paranoid mommy goes over to check.”No, leave alone!” she says sternly, holding a hand up to stop me from going any nearer.”Are you in pain?” I ask.”No…yes. I have a tummy ache,” she says in an even tone, her face upturned, eyes staring at a point beyond me, as though concentrating on a particularly trying Yoga stance.”Do you want to poop?” I ask.”No…,” she replies faced down in a contemplative Balasana.15 minutes later, she unfurls and stands up shakily.”Mommy, I need to poop,” she says, walking to the toilet, legs open like a bow-legged cowboy’s, hands pushing her pull-up down desperately. I rush over to help her onto the toilet.After a few hard pushes, Sky relieves herself of what can only be described as her father’s legacy. Her lips slowly assemble a small smile upon her now serene face. Triumphant, she declares.”Mommy, my backside is empty now.”