My son is finally getting the hang of pooing in the toilet.
Oh, the relief for us parents. Bye, bye to soiled pants and floors, and mishaps at restaurants and in the garden and at parks.
We’re on a roll. He’s gone a couple of weeks with clean pants. And he’s into it. He’ll run his three-and-a-half-year-old body to the toilet when the urge calls, no matter where we may be. He doesn’t give a toss about the mess or the stench or the puddles of a gas station toilet. He’s in there, pants down and doing it.
Evacuating, if we wish to be more couth about it.
Yesterday on the beach he turned to me and said, “Poo.” We bolted down the crowded beach for a couple hundred yards and then across the scorching dry sand – hot, hot, hot – to the toilet at a beach restaurant, just in time to evacuate.
We parents are proud and he’s proud – and curious. Very much so.
I walked into the bathroom today and there he was with his head down the toilet. I cleared my throat and asked, “What are you doing?”
He pulled his head out of the bowl followed by his arms and a flashlight and he looked up at me and said, “Where poo go?”