On a lighter, more immature note I thought I would digress on one of my more favorite topics: poop. There’s a lot to say about poop these days, especially as the mother of a two-year-old. And, to be frank, I love the look on people’s faces when I get into the topic. Most people drop trail at least once a day and there’s just so much humor in it (along with breakfast, lunch, and dinner).
In case you haven’t guessed, we’re potty-training. The process has been a long and drawn out one, a fact I’ve publicly blamed on moving. Privately, I just haven’t wanted to deal with the hassle involved in structuring and streamlining the process as most parenting books suggest. Sure, it may shrink the transition time between diapers and underwear, but the logistics and nagging necessary to do it that way is just too daunting for me. We’ve gone for the gradual, more playful approach – a philosophy I recommend for parenting, foreplay, and mountain ascents. The upside is that Crazy Towhead is not afraid of the potty – any potty, be it in our house or at the supermarket – and she views it, in general, as a fun, big-kid activity that pleases the hell out of mom and dad. She regularly waits until after we’ve had one of our “discussions” about her behavior, tells me she has to go, and then afterward looks me in the face and asks with genuine anticipation, “That make you happy, mama?”
Her other annoying idiosyncrasy is that if she has an exceptionally difficult poop she asks me to leave the room. She would love it if I would also shut the door, but this is where I draw the line. (I think this comes from me locking her out of the bathroom once when I just needed five minutes of breathing room to poop without her sitting in my lap at the same time. I had no idea at the time she would latch onto the idea with such vigor.)
Last weekend, we drove down to Turnbull National Wildlife Refuge just south of Spokane for a morning of bird and wildlife watching before meeting up with friends for lunch. The refuge itself comprises 16,000 acres of prime habitat for elk, waterfowl, and other wildlife. Of this 2,200 acres is available for public use. It is a beautiful and amazing area, and I’m amazed that it’s so close to where we live. Mr. A had been there the day before for work and had seen a moose just off the road. We got a bit of a late start, so most of the large “wow, look at that” wildlife was napping by the time we got there at 8 a.m. We chose a short hike near a small wetland area where we knew we would see quite a few birds and Towhead could run around. Halfway through the hike, Mr. A and I were perched on a bench scoping out a hawk’s nest and Towhead was playing with pine cones behind us. Suddenly I heard the all-important catch phrase, “Mama, I gotta poopy.” I jumped down with an, “Ok, let’s go like a campin’ girl,” pulled down her pants, put my hands beneath her armpits and let her lean back into me between my legs to do her business. She grunted for a minute and then shook her head, “This not working.” She stood up and waddled away from me, jeans around her ankles, until she found a nearby tree where she assumed a typical squatters position and forced out a huge one. I stood there amazed. “What does she need me for?” I asked dad. He laughed and shook his head. We buried it and headed down the trail. I don’t think it gets much easier than this.
In spite of the ease with which this is all happening I’m not sure if I should be concerned about social etiquette. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not often too concerned about what others think, but poop is a sensitive issue with some and let’s face it, it can be a public health issue. Earlier this week I was doing laundry and Towhead was playing out in the yard just outside the door when again I hear the catchphrase, “Mama, I gotta poopy.” I rush out to get her and she puts up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “No,” she insits. “Look!” and points, pants still around her ankles, to a lump in the grass. “I did it!!!” she says proudly. I was torn between motherly pride and collapsing on the ground (several feet away) in fits of laughter. Thats’ my girl!
