Frequently, in child rearing, just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does.
Take the day my son pooped on my foot.
We’ve been doing a gentle form of potty training in our house, the kind that does not require us to abandon the four-month-old for an entire weekend spent running around after our naked son with his potty in our hands. Instead, we cajole him into hanging around the house naked for an hour or two at times when we can be bothered to ask, “Do you need to sit on the potty?” at five-minute intervals.
This was one of those mornings when he was happily naked. Happily, that is, until he noticed the package of pull-ups I rather unwisely bought a couple of months ago. I thought they were a plausible step toward potty training until Mike pointed out in rather strident terms that they do not work so conveniently when there is poop involved.
Based on this information, I tried to dissuade Jake from his fixation on the pull-ups by promising him he could wear one once he had pooped on the potty.
“I want a pull-up!” Jake responded.
“When you poop on the potty,” I repeated patiently.
“I DO WANT A PULL-UP!” Jake insisted in that way of his that reflects his conviction that if you say “no” you must not understand what it is he is saying.
“When you poop on the potty,” I said in a firm, motherly tone designed to mask a fury of impatience with a two-year-old’s reasoning skills. And I walked out of the bathroom.
The tantrum that followed bordered on the epic.
After a few minutes that felt like years of abandoning my poor, beknighted, sobbing child, I sat on the floor next to him and asked him if he wanted a hug. Drawing ragged breaths around the thumb in his mouth, my beautiful, pants-less boy snuggled close in my lap.
Unbeknownst to me, this was the moment he pooped on my foot.
Continue reading ‘Poop, Pee, and a Port-a-Potty: A Parent’s Life’
