Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Dirty Little Secret #67

I hate potty training.

Below, find an open letter I've addressed to poop, first published on Much More Than a Mom, in November, 2006 as part of the monthly blog exchange.

Dear Poop –

The first thing that I would like to tell you is that it’s me. Really. Not you. You’ve never claimed to be more than you are. You’ve always lived up to your promises. I can count on you, everyday. Four of five times a day. More, even, if I’m cleaning up after the dogs.

But today, when you whispered your sweet nothings in my son’s ear, and he felt the urge to take off his diaper and display you in all your glory across my new area rug – well, it crossed my mind that maybe I was done with you.

That sounds so harsh, but Poop, we’ve been doing this for so long. Maybe you and I would feel better about each other if you took a nice long vacation from my son’s diaper. I hear that The Potty is truly lovely this time of year.

I guess it’s the clinginess. What is it about you that makes you stick to skin and stain clothing? Why must you invade the fibers of my new wool rug and make camp as if your brown sienna smears are here to stay? And every time that I think I understand you, you go ahead and change. We had a nice schedule. Why couldn’t we keep things the way that we were? When it was only once a day, and you stayed firm to your promises, I was happy.

But now, Poop, I feel as if you’ve betrayed my trust. I know that the patterns of our new floor covering are fabulous and that the deep pile of its finest wool is like heaven beneath you. But to go around persuading innocent young men to drop their drawers and deposit you on it’s fine surface? It’s inexcusable.

So its come this. We must part ways. From here on, we’ll be feasting on bananas and cheese. We won’t see you round these parts for some time.

Adieu, Poo.

Edited to add:

The Potty really is lovely this time of year. It really is.

I wish I could just resort to blocking it all up, but little dude: YOU'VE GOT TO USE THE POTTY.

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