Friday, November 14, 2008

There's no such thing as too much information

A dangerous thing about writing/blogging is that it's easy to forget that real people that you see and interact with read it. I'll share things in cyberspace that I would possibly think twice about saying out loud. You would think it would be the opposite, but I've always been more confident with a keyboard than with my own vocal cords. I guess I'm just one of those bloggers dressed in pajamas in their parent's basement, right Sarah Palin?

In the spirit of that, read on if you want to learn about a mom, a boy, and poo....

As a former educator, I know that one of the most powerful tools for learning is modeling. In other words, don't tell me, show me.

So. Owen hasn't had a BM yet today, and we're still on the same pair of big-boy pants, now at 1:30 in the afternoon. He's a walking time bomb. I've been asking, approximately every fifteen minutes, "Do you need to go pee-pee or poo-poo?"

The answer: "No! Not yet." The not yet part makes me nervous. Later on, he says, "Mommy, it hurts, kiss it!"

He's pointing to his anus.

Even I have standards, so I kiss my hand and touch a butt cheek. I say, "Does your bottom hurt because you need to go poo-poo?"

Owen quietly says, "Yeahhh." We scurry to the potty and he hops on, then says, "No, I don't want to!"

I'm guessing we're dealing with a blockage issue. I ask, "Are you afraid it will hurt?"


What to do, what to do. Damn. Damn. Damn. Don't tell me, show me. I say, "Mommy has to go poo-poo. It doesn't hurt. Do you want to watch?"

Wearing a big (dare I say, shit-eating) grin, he says, "Yeahhh."

We head to the bathroom again, and this time I pony up to the potty. Owen says, "Mommy, move over." I scoot up to the rim of the potty, so he can look into the bowl and see the action, so to speak.

Plop. Splash. I hear a delightful squeal, and my son say, "Again!"

I comply. "Again!"

Once more. "Again!"

"Mommy's all done," I say. "It didn't hurt."

Owen helpfully tells me that I need to wipe and wash my hands, which I do, under his careful gaze. I turn to him and say, "Now, do you need to go potty?"

"Not yet."

Now, it's his naptime. He's in a pull-up, and I imagine when he wakes up, his belly will have distended to his knees, or I'll have another mess on my hands.

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