The Poopline
I've probably heard it 100 times in the last month: "It's too hard to poop in the potty." My son Linus, who's three and a half, has been slowly working through his relationship with toilets. He's close to mastering #1. Pretty much got that down. But #2 presented a greater challenge, one that he didn't seem all that interested in taking on. Now, I know that reading about my son's potty training may not be your idea of a good time. There is a point to this story, but you'll have to bear with me.
We've been patient. No need for pressure, we had kept telling ourselves. Well, overt pressure, at least. We decided he might need some incentive; small gifts were purchased and wrapped up as presents, and placed in a bowl in the bathroom. It was explained what needed to happen to get a gift. I'm not sure if that's right or wrong, but after approximately 40,000 poopy diapers, your views change a bit.
Linus was interested in the gifts, and knew what he had to do to get one, but his refrain was always the same: "It's too hard to poop in the potty." Case closed.
A couple of days ago, Jane has a good idea. She convinces him that if he can poop in his pullup diaper, while in the bathroom, he can have a treat. Voila! He returns, present in hand, poop in pullup. This is progress.
Last night, he tells us he has to go to the potty, so away he goes. I call up to him a few minutes later, and ask him what he is doing. "NOTHING!", he yells back. Fine, a boy needs his privacy. Five minutes later, he walks into the kitchen and announces to his that he pooped in the potty.
Really? Jane and I are very excited by this development, but I'm skeptical right from the start. I ask "Did you flush the toilet?" I'm looking for evidence, here. My first thought is that he may have figured out that he could simply say he pooped, then say he flushed it away, and then collect his ill-gotten booty. That tells you volumes about my thought process. I expect him to say "Yes, I flushed." Because he ALWAYS flushes. It's the best part.
He hesitates for a moment before answering. A-ha! His hesitation gives him away; he's caught in a web of his own lies! But to my surprise, he says he did not flush. Jane and I look at each other. Could this be? We all high-step it to the bathroom to pull our own Hans Blix routine. As I'm going up the steps, I'm wondering what the toilet will reveal. Which path has my son taken? Is he about to be caught in his first lie? Or has he begun mastery of his more essential bodily functions, a critical leap in his maturation process (and critical leap in my avoidance of stinky diapers)?
Well, it turns out, we haven't raised a liar. You'd have thought Linus won the Nobel Prize, judging by the reactions of the two adults in the room. There were even high-fives. Linus was a boy who could get the job done; as he opened his present (a Hot Wheels car) I asked Jane if she would have believed him if he would have flushed the toilet before we had a chance to verify.
Jane says, "I just would have checked his butt, to see if it was dirty." God, I never would have thought of that. Leave it to my wife to go the practical route, while I'm metally giving my son the MMPI over this deal.
But now, Linus has to learn a new lesson, that you aren't going to get gifts the rest of your life just because you can poop in the toilet. Life is tough, Linus. Life is tough.
9:22:28 AM 
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