Why is it, that it always comes down to poop? Having a son, we have gone through the potty talk thing twice now. Two annoying phases. Nothing makes a boy giggle more than the words “butt”, “poop,” or “pee.” Why is that exactly?
When we were in these phases I tried many tactics: taking toys away, rules of saying the words only in your room out of mom’s earshot. A friend tried soap in her son’s mouth, which worked quite well by the way, so all I had to do was threaten with that punishment, and BAM, results baby. But the tried and true very best way was to do nothing. Just by simply ignoring my son, he stopped with the potty talk.
The funny thing about all this is that as adults we never stop talking about poop. At cocktail parties with good friends, it is not uncommon for Metamucil to enter the conversation. Recently at a book club with mom’s from my daughter’s school, just getting to know each other, we shared diarrhea stories. So men and boys aren’t the only ones to blame for bringing up the topic.
So I will end of course with my favorite poop story that has now become my son’s favorite poop story. When our son came into this world we didn’t get much warning. Yes, I knew I was pregnant, I’m not a teenager or from the South. He just came out fast. So I was given the epidural when I was already dilated to ten centimeters. Drugs then push woman, with no time for that totally unhelpful, silly breathing they teach you in Lamaze class. So when I was holding my dear one, I was quite numb from the belly down and had no idea what was going on under the towel draped over us. When the nurse took him away to clean him off we discovered he had pooped all over me. A metaphor that doesn’t skip over me at the end of a tough day with my son.