I like to think
that my sense of humor has matured past that of sophomoric toilet humor.
However, I’m finding that that type of humor is becoming more true to life now
that there is a two year old in the house.
Potty training,
thus far anyway, can be summed up in one word: “NO!” That is the standard
reaction from my daughter anytime the subject is breached. Whether the question
is, “Do you want to try to sit on the potty” or “Did you poop? And don’t say no
because I saw you squatting down and heard you grunting and your diaper looks
like it’s going to explode and oh boy now I can smell it…” The answer is
always, always, always a resounding “NO!” Everything, to her anyway, is more
important than sitting in a pile of her own waste. Her pediatrician (whom I've
mentioned before, and is still quite brilliant) suggested that we take her in
the bathroom with us when we go, so we can really introduce her to the idea and
get her comfortable with the process. For me, as I’m sure it is with most men,
the bathroom is the inner sanctum, the last bastion of privacy, where you’re
about 40% devoted to doing your business, and 60% devoted to playing games on
your iPhone or reading the news or watching YouTube or whatever, as long as it’s
a few minutes of quiet solitude. Not to be one to put my own interests ahead of
the development of my daughter, I do my share of taking her into the bathroom
so she may expand her knowledge and work towards becoming a civilized member of
society.
However noble that idea and as sound in theory
as it may be, in practice it is pure chaos. I find myself, having gone in there
with a purpose, unable to complete said task. To a two year old, a small,
echoey room where Daddy is sitting is a great place to try to play "Ring Around
the Rosey" and try to get Daddy to fall down too, or shout “I’m Dancing!!” at
the top of your lungs and spin around in a circle so fast you smack into the
wall and scream out in surprise, or run back and forth as fast as you possibly
can in the tiny, tiny room until you misjudge the distance and run face first
into the door and scream again, or you can see how much toilet paper you can
unroll before Daddy can reach it, or you can see what cool stuff is in the
little garbage can and put it in your mouth so Daddy has to get up and take it
out of your mouth, or now that you’re tall enough to reach the light switch you
can turn the lights off and on and off and on and off and on and off and on
because Daddy can’t reach that far from where he is, or you can grab onto that
one cabinet that was never baby proofed and lean back when you grab the handle
so the door flies open and you fall backwards onto the ground and scream. And
downstairs, Mommy wonders why it sounds like the apocalypse is being unleashed
above her.
I long for the
day when buying diapers is a thing of the past. Not only so I can reclaim my
quiet bathroom time, but also so we can take another small step away from our
home being like a refugee camp. Case in point: As I was writing this and
bouncing ideas off of my wife, she opened a bag of grilled chicken and was distracted
because it “blew a good smell at her”. It
is very rare, these days, in my house that something actually blows a “good”
smell in your face. As a prime example, I would like to briefly discuss the
Diaper Genie. Kudos to you, the great mind that invented such a thing that will
keep dirty diapers in one, convenient place. To dissect that idea, you are
indeed keeping piles of human waste in a confined area inside your home. For
those who are unfamiliar with the concept, it’s like a tall, somewhat
cylindrical garbage can with a foot lever, that when you step on said foot
lever, it opens the lid and you can deposit the soiled item inside where it is kept
nestled in a plastic bag lined container, along with a dozen or so of its brethren,
which is kept from direct contact with the outside world by a trap door that
separates the charnel room below from the ribbons, balloons and Hello Kitty
blankets surrounding it. Alas, for such a genius concept, there is a downside,
as whenever you depress the foot lever and the lid to the abyss is opened, it
belches out the most foul and gut wrenching emanation that few people outside
the most derelict areas of the most impoverished parts of the world have ever
known. This odoriferous offender, like the most advanced, government funded
weapon of mass destruction, then attacks all of your senses simultaneously.
Your nose, of course, is the first thing to go, your mouth then automatically
slams shut, lest you breathe in any of the contaminated air (or get it on your
tongue), then your eyes instinctively close to avoid the irritant that is being
dispersed into the environment. You then grab your child and flee the area, returning
only briefly to combat the biological agent with the nearest can of
anti-bacterial aerosol spray. The room is then quarantined for at least twenty
minutes so both the offending agent and the odor of chemical flowers are
reduced to a level to make the area habitable again. I have found that there is
a level of survival that we, as parents are willing to accept. Sure, there
might be the putrid stench of decaying filth in one small corner of our home,
but it beats going to the bin five times a day.
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