Thursday, December 27, 2007
New Year Potty
I was thinking I’d write something wise and inspiring for Christmas and the New Year, something filled with such beautifully constipated words that you’d have no choice but to hail me as the next great religious cult leader. But alas, my dreams of world domination and wealth beyond my capacity to count would have to wait for the next season. I’m stumped. It’s not just because I’m nearly incapable of thinking of pink cotton-candy-cloud puffy positive thoughts. It’s not even because my writer’s block has grown into a brain tumor. I can’t write right now because I can't think. I can't think because I’m potty training my daughter.
The New Year is fast approaching and she will soon be three years old so I was thinking that it’s about time she knew where real shit should go to. Sadly, I am the one who is swiftly learning that shit does happen in life— the real kind that smears on floor vinyl, stains every fiber invented by man and gets into your nerves. It’s a good thing my poor father-in-law is an ace at wiping poop off floors. Otherwise I would have wept over the offending deposits until they got up and walked off by themselves.
If I think hard about it though, I feel as if my daughter is indirectly teaching me something. It’s like she’s telling me, “Other kinds of shit happen in life ma. Chances are, some of them will happen to you next year and they don’t always go down the toilet like you want them too. You’ve just got to learn to wipe and disinfect.”
Sigh. Of course, that’s exactly what this little cute tyrant is telling me. I can just make out the words of wisdom if I listen closely to her broken syllables and her nervous weeping.
What I want to tell her in response is, “Bless you my child. May you have a potty full of shit this year and may all your potty contents go down the toilet.”
I wish all of you the same this year.