Number Two (Ugh) / by vanessa

First, I'm really sorry. If you are squeamish about all things bathroom, then please, for both our sakes, stop reading. I won't blame you--I'm one of you. In fact, take me with you. Please.

I have few phobias, save passing an airplane door that just happens to fall off at the exact moment I'm walking by, violently sucking me out of the plane at 35,000 feet, the force of wind dismembering me as I'm hurled towards the ground. That and public restrooms. I literally wince every time I have to open a public stall, looking in with only one eye open in anxiety-ridden anticipation.

I am so repressed in this area that not only do I not consider a relationship with open exchanges of, er, things like gas evolved. In fact consider it devolved. Like, minus volved. I don't want to know about it, think about it, or anything else that involves any of the senses. I'm such a weenie.

So it is with considerable despair that I find myself raising a child completely fascinated by poop. I mean, he's really fascinated. I have no other children to compare him to, and I'm too afraid to google, so I can't tell if these things are normal:

  • We--well, Ryan--found him hugging his poop. Full blown toddler-spiral ensued when Ryan flushed it down the toilet.
  • Yesterday, while peering out our back window at the other houses in the canyon, he observed, "Mama, people in houses pooping." On one hand, existentialism, Jonah! I'm so proud of you, honey! On the other, gross.
  • This morning, while sitting on his little training potty he looked up so earnestly and said, "Mommy, poopoo is friend." I wanted to tell him to please expect more for himself, but he's a two-year old who kisses fire hydrants, so I have to be careful not to crush his spirit.

If there is any upside to this, it's that I feel like I'm getting front-row insight into the inner cogs of dudes. My best friend and I have exchanged many texts pondering about what guys do in the bathroom that could possibly take them the better part of thirty minutes. "Do you think it's a passive-aggressive way of avoiding responsibility?" she's asked. "Prob," I answered, though equally puzzled.

But then the job of potty training came along, and I've had a front row seat to my two-year old son, who will sit for an excruciating period of time, well past the point that activity has ceased, just staring at the bathroom tile. And then the ceiling. And then the tub. Without so much as even a word. I ask him if he's done because the sun has set and risen and then set again since he first sat down and the answer is obviously yes. Instead he snaps at me, "Nooooo! Nooooooo!" and flails his little arms around frantically trying to ward me off. Apparently he is not finished.

And so I text my friend back the next time she asks me what I think guys do in there and I tell her, "Nothing, dude. Like literally nothing."