My son just peed on the floor.
To the casual observer, this may not be a big deal. A 3-year-old - still in diapers, running around naked - bound to happen, right? Children learning to control their bodily functions often misgauge their capacity.... But, as with all things associated with Dennis, it is never quite that easy. It is where he peed that makes this little tale remarkable. You see, my son, in his ever burgeoning quest to become big, has decided that it is much more entertaining to pee in random locations that catch his fancy around the house than to do so in the rather boring toilet. After all, the magic of the flush, the allure of the swirling waters and the mysterious departure of bowl contents has been plumbed by this intrepid young person ad infinitum. Old hat.
For example, we already know what happens when an entire roll of toilet paper is shoved intact into the bowl (in fact, we know what happens when the beginning of the roll is attached to the back of a tricycle and driven swiftly and without mercy through the house, too). We know that casino chips don't flush well, but that screwdrivers apparently do... at least until they hit that pesky bend in the pipe. Toilet fishing is almost considered a sport in our house. We even have specially designated toilet retrieval skewers. If you ever plan on making shish kebabs in my house, I would suggest asking before using the skewers...
Initially it was exciting for my little man to use the toilet for its intended purpose. But as I mentioned, apparently it is not quite exciting enough. As his mastery over bowels and bladder has grown, one no longer hears the sudden intake of breath and calls of distress, "Pee! Pee!" nor sees the familiar rapid duck walk toward the bathroom with hands clutching groin in an attempt to staunch the flow. Rather, in my house, one might come upon a naked child glancing about over his shoulder shiftily as he assumes "the stance" (you know the one: legs shoulder width apart, hands in place to conduct the flow). One might happen upon him on the stairs, gleefully peeing between the steps into the murky depths below. Or one might find him, in perfect stance, at the gate of our wood-burning stove, happily trying to hit it through the bars. One can only assume that the satisfying sizzle attained on a direct hit is what makes this a favorite watering hole.
I have never been one to push toilet usage. I do not believe in "toilet training." I find the idea that we can actually teach another human being how to master control over their bodily functions a bit absurd. In fact, at this point, I would happily see him wearing diapers until he was 20 so long as he did it in the diaper and not around my house like an errant puppy.
As if this wasn't... challenging enough, he seems to have taken an interest in his *other* bodily function as of late. Oh yes (you guessed this was coming, didn't you?). Doo doo, caca, poop... by whatever name you refer to it, it still boils down to one very smelly mess. Good 'ole fecal matter. Back in the good old days, he used to deposit his load in his diaper and then advise me that it was time for a change. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have decided that I am no longer a necessary component to that equation and has begun to remove the diapers himself after aforementioned load is deposited. Usually, he is kind enough to leave it in some location either visibly apparent or, if nothing else, in an area with high foot-traffic. One way or the other, we find it. (I should take a moment to add that I'm a "silver lining" kind of gal and I have to look on the bright side of this: he could very well hide them.) Usually the culprit can be found not too far away on our living room area rug, sitting and happily trying to wipe himself. Considering that usually he has fecal matter plastered to both butt cheeks and his entire groin area, he doesn't do too badly. However, he usually sits before trying to wipe himself... And yes, if you find yourself thinking, "I will never sit on *her* carpet," I certainly will not hold it against you.
The other day, little Dennis was upstairs playing with his sister. At least, that is what he was doing when I walked into my office to work for a bit. After about 10 minutes, though, I heard Dennis making these gagging, retching noises. I called out to his big sister, "What are you doing to your brother?" (This is actually quite an honest mistake because I swear that 9 times out of 10, she actually *is* doing something to him.) The answer comes back in the negative (and I do have to admit that at this point I don't quite believe her). Seconds later, however, big brother is sounding the alarm: "Poop! Poop! AGGHHHHHHHH POOOOOOP!!!!!!!!!" I'm out of my office like an Olympic Sprinter only to come upon my sweet, wonderful, youngest child, hands raised in the air much like a doctor, scrubbed and waiting for gloves. At first glance it appears that he has been playing in mud - to the wrists his hands are a dark, dark brown. He looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights, brown streaks smearing his forehead, cheeks and torso like so much war paint. Meekly, he declares, "Chocolate poop."
It is only later on that I realize his penchant for sweets must have finally caught up with him and that the dark brown mess must have resembled dark chocolate so much that he couldn't resist the temptation. Hence the horrible retching I had heard. We may go through the above scenarios many times over in the months to come as he works his way through this particular milestone, but something tells me he won't be making *that* particular mistake again.
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