Chicky, as most kids her age, is fascinated by bodily functions of all sorts. Burping, farting, and pooping are all things that should be, in her mind, announced for all to share. Not just announced, but celebrated. Heralded. Shouted from the rooftops.
"I burp," says my child in a quiet post office full of stressed customers. "I burp," she says again, more emphatically, as she points to her mouth. "I burp, I burp, I BURP."
(Did you catch that, Ma? I burped. Jeez.)
My cheeks reddened but the formerly woeful patrons managed to crack a smile at that one. Mission accomplished.
Since her language skills are still coming along she has not yet grabbed on to the word "fart", so all gas that comes out of one's derrière is "poop".
"Daddy poop!" "Doggie poop!" - yes, every time it is exclaimed - "Chicky poop!"
"Mama poop!"
No, honey. That was, um...
Aw, hell. Yeah. That was Mama. Mama farted. And it felt good. It felt so good I might do it again. C'mon, let's fart together. Mother-daughter farting - now that's a good bonding experience.
I come from a long line of repressed people so for me this declaration of gas passing is an almost liberating experience. It's not like I'll start burping and farting at dinner parties, and I don't think I'll ever ask anyone to "Pull my finger", but if letting out a house-shaking belch makes my kid laugh then I'm pro-gas.
Except after Mr. C eats a burrito. I'm not pro-gas then. No, then I'm anti-gas. Very much anti-gas.
Now that Chicky is giving names to her emissions we thought it was time to move on to that-which-scares-me-above-all-toddler-development-milestones: Potty Training. The way I see it if she can call to me from another room to say "I pooping!" to alert me of the gift I will soon be finding in her diaper the least we can do is introduce her to the potty. And the least she can do is oblige.
The idea of potty training my daughter keeps me up at night. I have no idea where to begin. What if she hates the potty? What if she's one of those kids who gets refused at our pre-school of choice because she's not using the toilet yet. Will I ever be able to bring her out in public while she's potty training? Oh my God, what if she has to go to the toilet while we're in the grocery store and I don't get her there in time and she's scarred for life because her mother was too slow and forced her to wet herself in the middle of Stop & Shop? Or worse, what if we're stuck at the post office and she poops her pants? I don't think my neighbors will be smiling then.
Come to find out one of my fears was unfounded. Chicky loves the potty. She loved it from the moment I brought it home. It was not even out of the box and she was nearly apoplectic from the excitement. She was thrilled to be stripped from the waist down so she could sit on it and pretend to poop.
Pretend being the operative word in that sentence.
She grunts. Her face gets red. She says, "I pooping. I pooping!" And then? Nothing. She hops off the pot, looks inside, shrugs and then slams the lid.
"All done!"
I swear if she could she would skip away, happily, naked butt bouncing in the breeze. Now she just slams the lid and then stands in front of the full length mirror as she points to her behind. "Butt, Mama!" Then she slaps her ass. Oy.
She's spent enough time in the bathroom with her father while he's dropping the kids off at the pool, the poor girl, so she should be getting the idea of what the toilet is used for. But so far she has only latched on to one part of toilet time:
For now I think I'll just update her reading material. Jessica Biel is so yesterday's news.
