The Straight Poop

I can vaguely remember a time in my life in wherein my existence was not punctuated by excrement.  A time when the word “poop” never came up, let alone was the subject of protracted conversations.  Aside from the occasional stepping-in-dog-poop incident or the time in ninth grade when I was pooped on by a seagull (turns out it really is good luck), I simply didn’t have transactions with others’ feces. 

That all changed of course when I had kids.

It started with the bright red and green “Christmas” poop my daughter passed when she was five weeks old.  The red part, the doctor told us, was blood; the green part was apparently not unusual.  The sum total of the colors meant a dairy allergy and led to a dairy-free diet for me and the beginning of all too many conversations between my husband and myself that began with the very sexy phrase, “So how was the poop?”

When my daughter was around a year or so old, she would wake up in the morning, hang out in her crib for a while and do her business in her diaper until we’d come in to get her.  One morning though, when we entered her room, she had a surprise waiting for us: somehow she had wedged her hand down deep into her diaper and pulled out her poop.  It was smeared all over her crib, her bedding, her beautiful, muraled wall, and—most horrifyingly—her mouth.  It was like a fecal crime scene, and I might add, a parenting low point, as neither my husband nor I could get through the clean-up without gagging every five seconds.  All, by the way, to the amusement of my crap-laden daughter.

While changing diapers and dealing with poop in general was probably number two on my list of all-time least favorite parenting pastimes (number one being vomit dealings—hate those), I took solace in the fact that my daughter, a) only pooped once a day (I almost passed out hearing tales from friends whose children pooped several times a day); and b) only pooped at home, which meant no on-the-fly diaper changing in my car or in some totally gross park bathroom.  In addition, my husband and I developed a poopy diaper schedule, so I was only really responsible for roughly half of the diaper changes (though the trade-off was I had to stand by and bite my tongue as my husband used upwards of five wipes per changing; and he often left the wipes container open when he finished, leading to an assortment of dried out wipes.).  Still, I dreamed of the day when we would be diaper-free.  And that day finally came a month after my daughter turned three, when she miraculously potty-trained all on her own.  (Okay, I bribed her.  But it worked, and that’s what counts.)

My general timing wasn’t great, however, because a mere few months later, I gave birth to my son and we were back in diapers and elbow deep in poop again.  Fortunately though, this child was as disciplined as my daughter: one poop per day and always at home.  Guess he got the memo about how we did poop in our house.

The memo he didn’t get, unfortunately, was the potty-training one.  Oh sure, he potty-trained at three as well—actually he did it a month before three, ostensibly to show up his sister.  But he had one notable caveat: no pooping in the potty.  Which meant when it came time to poop, he would ask for a diaper and then do his business in there.  At his three-year check-up, I asked the doctor about this curious phenomenon.  She assured me it was totally normal—especially for boys—and told me to give him a few months.

Well, I gave him a few months, accommodating his insistent requests for diapers.  We continued to change his poopy diapers, and dealt with leakage issues and aggressively smellier, fouler bowel movements as they matured from baby poo-poos to full-blown kid poops.  The months stretched on.  And on.  Finally, the doctor suggested bribing him with a special toy he’d get to pick out himself.  So off we went to Target where I gave my son instructions to pick out whatever toy he wanted.  He chose Batman and some sort of Bat-vehicle.  I explained that this was his special pooping in the potty toy.  He could have it when he made his poo-poo in the potty, but until then, I would hold onto it at home.  That evening, when he came to ask me for his diaper, I reminded him about the Batman toy and asked if he wanted to try pooping in the potty.  He agreed to try.  And guess what?  He pooped right in the potty!   Success!  I happily gave him his Batman and Bat-vehicle and breathed a sigh of relief.  No more poopy diapers!

That is, until the next evening when he came to me and asked for a diaper.  I gently reminded him that he was a big boy now who pooped in the potty and offered to take him upstairs to his bathroom.  He started to panic and told me he didn’t want to poop in the potty—he wanted to poop in his diaper.  I explained that the special Batman was only his if he pooped in the potty and that if he was pooping in diapers, he would have to give it back.  He hung his head low and left to go upstairs to poop—or so I thought.  Three minutes later, he laid his new Batman and Bat-vehicle at my feet, looked up at me and said, “Now can I have my diaper?”

This went on.  We cajoled, we begged, we bribed, we withheld.  Nothing got this kid to start pooping in the potty.  Finally I came up with a brilliant plan.  Three months before his fourth birthday, I told him that four year olds don’t use diapers anymore.  They poop in the potty.  He accepted this as gospel.  And for three months we discussed the changing of the guard that was going to occur when he turned four.  He was totally on board and it became a mantra between us.  “What happens when we turn four?” I would ask.  “We poop in the potty,” he would answer.

The morning of his fourth birthday, I made a really big deal of clearing his room of the changing pad, the Diaper Champ, the diapers and all those dried out wipes.  He cheered me on.  No more diapers!  We were in total agreement.

That is, until that evening when he came to me and said, “Mommy, can I have my diaper? I need to poop.”  I reiterated that since he was four, there were no more diapers.  He got that panicky look and started crying, begging for his diaper.  But I held my ground.  I was not going to crack, not going to back down.  This was my line in the sand.  “No diapers.  Potty only,” I insisted. 

He didn’t poop that night.  Or the following night.  Or the one after that.  But it was clear he was getting uncomfortable and wouldn’t be able to hold it much longer.  And we would be there with the potty when it was time.

Unfortunately, the time came when we were at our friends’ house for brunch.  Our son had gone to the bathroom to pee standing up, and well, that’s when the dam burst.  We heard screams.  The rest is a bit of a blur.  I can only say there were not enough apologies for our gracious hosts who just never saw the complete fertilization of their bathroom coming. 

Still we persisted.  The pattern seemed to be that he could hold it for 3-4 days before he would blow.  And unfortunately, he would blow in the least conducive places.  The next time it happened we were at an outdoor restaurant at Griffith Park having a playdate with another mom and her daughter.  The kids played as us moms sat at the table talking, until suddenly, without warning, we heard the now all-too-familiar screams.  I scooped my son up and shuttled him off to the foulest, most disgusting park bathroom imaginable—the kind I had managed to avoid thanks to my two civilized children who only pooped at home.  Yet here I was now—sans dried out wipes—with nothing but wet toilet paper and my complete humiliation to trade on.

And yet, I forged on.  Stubborn and strong-willed, I was sure I could outlast my son (who unfortunately seemed to be built in my very image).  Three more days passed.  Then one night he came to me in a panic.  It was time.  “Ricky, get the suitcase!”  (Sorry, couldn’t resist.  Gotta love “I Love Lucy.”)  I took him up to his potty and put him on it.  He cried and said he couldn’t do it.  I told him he could.  He begged for his diaper.  I countered that he was a big boy and big boys pooped in the potty.  I offered to read to him while he pooped.  I offered to hold his hand.  I could see the utter fear in his eyes and how conflicted he was.  I assured him he was not going to fall in the bowl and that no harm would come of him from pooping in the potty.  But still he resisted.  Finally, I decided to help him along.  I lifted him up so that he was standing on the potty and I made him crouch down so that his bottom was hovering over the bowl.  The pressure this put on his rectum was obvious—he immediately started shrieking, totally terrified of what was to come.  The poop turned on like a spigot, and at exactly the same moment, he started peeing—all over me, since I was right in the line of fire.  But since I was holding him up, I couldn’t let go or move; I just had to take the urinary onslaught.  And it was then that I had an out-of-body experience.  Hovering overhead, I saw the scene: a freaked out, screaming and crying little boy peeing and pooping while crouched over a toilet, held up by his insanely driven, pee-drenched mother. 

And I had to ask myself: how did I get here?  After all, I had once been a person who didn’t deal in excrement.  Now this?  How had I sunk so low?

After that scarring episode (for me, not him), I gave my son his diapers back.  I felt both happiness and shame when I saw the palpable relief come over his face.  Happiness that we both were not going to be tormented by this crazy potty-training business any longer, and shame that I let it go on as long as I did.  My desire to get my son toilet-trained and be out of the world of diapers and explosive poops and constant poop-changing negotiations with my husband (“Is it your turn?”  “No, I did it last time.”  “Well, do you want to do it again?”), coupled with my over-arching desire to stand my ground, overtook my ability to look at the situation rationally.  People tell you all the time, “Don’t worry, he won’t still be doing ______ when he goes to college.”  (Insert whatever worrisome habit your child has in the blank.)  And it sounds stupid because obviously you know your child won’t be still dragging around his blanket or sucking his thumb or playing with his penis in public when he’s in college (okay, that last one is debatable based on some guys I knew in college, but you get the picture).  Yet here’s the thing: it may sound stupid, but it is true.  My son will not still be pooping in a diaper when he goes to college.  Or when he goes to high school.  Or middle school.  Or hopefully, when he enters the fourth grade.  But when he decides to start pooping in the potty is not something I can control, and that’s really the lesson here.  His control issues vis-à-vis his poop are his control issues and I need to respect that.

So we are still in diapers.  I am still elbow deep in poop.  The wipes are still dried out and getting used up at an alarmingly fast pace.  My husband and I still have way too many discussions pertaining to fecal matters.  But you know what?  I’m okay with it.  And that’s the straight poop.