As my two year old daughter lay sleeping, I was thrilled to be able use the potty ALONE. It’s a total luxury and one that doesn’t often happen (right, moms?!). Most of the time my daughter is chasing me as fast as her little legs will allow. Sometimes I’m quicker and get to the bathroom in time to shut the door without my shadow. But let’s face it; it’s really just a bluff because you know I’m going to open the door. If I don’t, she throws herself against it, pummels it with her open hands and wails, “Momma! Mommyyyyyyy!”
If I still insist on punishing myself and compromising my future hearing, my Tasmanian devil will fall to the ground (dramahhhhh) and start kicking the door. The truth be told, I can’t get ANY business done with all that business going on.
Letting her in does not end my pain. Oh no. In fact, a whole new world of hurt has just been unleased. Once my little learning sponge is inside the bathroom, SHE shuts the door (gee, thanks honey), smiles (help me) and toddles confidently towards me (dry mouth gulp). She’ll smile, look at me and say, “see?” meaning she wants to SEE what I’m doing on the toidy!
I blame her dad for that. He does his business standing up and she loves to watch the, uh, ok what the hell, stream go into the toilet. In fact, there have been several times where he hasn’t been quick enough or is off in LaLa land and she’s put her hand IN his urine stream. She giggles. He does not.
So she’s sizing me up and wants to ‘see’ what I’m going. She actually is trying to pry my legs apart. “No” is not a deterrent, it’s simply a tactic changer for her and she barely misses a beat. She sidles to the side of the toilet and touches my bum with her cold fingers. When I don’t react (inside I’m TOTALLY SCREAMING!), she tries to shut the toilet lid on my back. Now, pardon me but EEEEUUUUWWW!!! Gross! Do you know what crap, LITERALLY, is on the inside of a toilet lid?! I DO and I’m beyond yucked out by it!
While I try not to flinch, I am holding my breath waiting for the next onslaught. I don’t have to wait long. “Poop? Poooop?” Truly, it’s only the sweetest, clearest, purest voice that can make the word ‘poop?’ sound like the finest crafted bell, but she does it. Every time she utters, ‘pooOOOP?’ whether it’s to me, her doll or her favorite stuffed animal (of the week), I smile.
And I was going to be one of those parents who never taught her child that word. I hate that word. I wanted to teach her ‘ish’ as it was called in my family but my husband busted a gut laughing every time I used it. So the somehow more humane ‘ish’ is replaced by the baser ‘poop’ in our house. Now, in my defense, I try to say ‘pooH’ but really, potatO/pOtato.
It’s about this time she hands me 17 feet of toilet paper. I take the toilet paper and say, ‘thank you honey’. That seems to appease her and she briefly looks the other way. I think, “OMG! It’s my opportunity! HURRY!!! Do it NOW!” Not to go potty, no my friends…that ship has sailed, but to pull up my pants AND shut the toilet lid. I’m never quick enough. Oh dear Lord, I’m never quick enough. The little stinker just knows. The slightest forward movement from me has her quickly returning to the toilet (but it’s not like she was really away from it, either).
“POOOOP? POOOOP?!!” she excitedly says while she gazes into the nearly empty toilet bowl. “I-yucky’ she’ll say even if there is nothing in the bowl. Sorry to disappoint you lil’ missy, but momma can’t do her business if she’s permanently kegeling.
If her attempt to touch the used toilet paper fails (and it does, I’m SO on to her, but GADS she is FAST), she’ll slam the toilet lid down and attempt to flush the toilet (“momma do it”). Once flushed (“momma did it”), she’ll lift up the entire toilet seat, peer inside, say, ‘i-yucky’ and let the seat slam shut once more.
I digress. As any parent knows, it’s easy to get caught up talking about pooh. Right?! So let me continue with the rest of my story. After feeling jubilant by my success at using the toidy without a child glommed on to my side, I decided to tempt fate (suckaahhh!) and try a shower. I no sooner entered the warm shower when I hear the pitter patter of little feet and, “Yo go? “Yo GO?” I, behind the shower curtain sweetly say, “Yes, honey. You can have some yogurt. Wait for mommy to get out of the shower.” What a colossal waste of my breath. In addition, I barely started this sentence when the shower curtain (liner and all) is whipped back exposing me to a blast of cold air. The sleepy, big blue eyed blond with morning Nick Nolte (think mug shot) hair smiles at me. Sigh. Time for a power shower.
In the 68 seconds it took me to shower, she had removed all the contents from the bathroom cupboards, including a newly opened box of 500 Q-tips (!!!!) and scattered them around the bathroom floor. She unwound the toilet paper, checked the toilet for ‘i-yuckies’ and had put on my um, well an article of clothing that is often stolen in college dorm raids. Get it?
I tried to do my ‘after shower’ routine which includes, but is not limited to, putting on lotion, deodorant, brushing my teeth and combing my hair. Lavish, I know. Today I was going for broke by trying to squirt some toner on a cotton ball and applying it to my face. Sadly though, by this time she is squealing in delight and pointing at my naked bum. Oh boy. She’s saying, “Poop? Poop?” Yes, honey, that’s where we go potty. More squeals followed by a pointed finger that gets a little bit too close to my hiney for this mommy’s liking. Meanwhile, she’s smiling and giddily prancing around like she’s a pretty, pretty pony.
But the fun doesn’t stop there. Now it’s time for a ‘girl’ show. She is fascinated with my little B-Cups (I was going to type “A-Cups” but why not embellish a little. It’s MY blog!). She squeals, claps her hands and points at them as well. What’s a mom to do? I mean SERIOUSLY!
I’ve learned from past, um, educational explorations, not to let her get anywhere close to my girls as she likes to pinch and pull certain parts that don’t LIKE to be pinched or pulled. Today is no different. Visions of the abuse my girls suffered while I was breast feeding still haunt me. I turn away and put on another part of my delicate unmentionables that she likes to wear as proudly as Madonna (the singer, not the Virgin) did with her metal cone bra.
And thusly, this is my morning and I haven’t even left the bedroom. What surprises await for me today? I suppose it’ll be more of my daughter excitedly wanting to look at the contents of her soiled diaper. Maybe she’ll pull at the waist band of my pants and exclaim, “Poop? Poop mommy?” Maybe she’ll even try to give me the child’s version of a titty twister.