The Toddler Chronicles, No. 24
Charlotte tried to poop under a table.
We’re still working on potty training Charlotte. She understands the concept, but not the practical application. She’ll pee in the toilet if we sit her on it and tell her to pee, but beyond that she seems largely indifferent. She has yet to actually poop on the toilet from start to finish. Instead, she’s entered the “go hide and squat” phase. Behind the couch, under a table, and behind the curtains have all been popular venues.
She hadn’t pooped the day before, so we knew yesterday would likely become… an event.
Late in the morning, I saw her sprint upstairs and disappear beneath the school table. When I asked what she was doing, she covered her face with her hands and said, “Nothing! Farting.”
I asked if she was pooping.
She covered her face more assertively.
That was my cue.
I swooped in, grabbed her, and relocated her to the porcelain throne so quickly you’d have thought Aragorn pulling Frodo Baggins away at Weathertop during the Nazgûl attack was happening in slow motion.
Charlotte did not appreciate this. At all.
What followed was a long tantrum that culminated in her standing next to me, pantsless, calmly informing me that she would like a pull-up so she could poop in it.
Meanwhile, Lyla heard the commotion and sprinted downstairs announcing that she wanted to help. I explained the situation. She nodded with the seriousness of someone about to demonstrate a life-saving procedure and said, “Here, Charlotte, let me show you.”
Before I could intervene, she dropped her britches, climbed onto the toilet, and began instructing.
“First, you pull your pants down and hop on the potty like a big girl.”
I assumed she was merely narrating the steps.
“Then you pee,” she continued matter-of-factly, shifting eye contact between Charlotte and me.
I was still under the impression this was theoretical.
It was not theoretical.
She grunted. We were greeted by the unmistakable sound of trickling liquid.
But she wasn’t finished.
“Then you poop,” she said, still maintaining eye contact.
Again, I assumed she was only describing the process.
Again, I was wrong.
She grunted.
And sure enough, she pooped. While maintaining unwavering eye contact with me.
The eye contact felt like staring into the gaze of Sauron. I could not look away. I could not move. I could not speak. Time ceased to exist.
Eventually, I was released from the invisible vice grips when she concluded the lesson:
“And then you grab a wad of toilet paper and hand it to Dad and he wipes your butt. Daaaaaadddddyyyyy, wipe my butt!”
She handed me a fistful of toilet paper.
The entire sequence was profoundly unsettling.
Charlotte still wanted a pull-up.
Fast forward a few hours after Gabby and I left for an early dinner at an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse and left the kids with Grandma.
Charlotte chose that moment to poop in her underwear.
It was no longer my problem.
It was Grandma’s.