Talmage's Dilemma

I had a conversation with a childless friend at work about the degradation of humor that happens when you become a mother. She was convinced that as soon as your child and your child's bodily functions are involved, mothers become 14-year-old boys and potty humor is wildly funny. She was actually saying this to me because she was impressed I still didn't find poop funny. I didn't correct her by pointing out that I've blogged about potty-training Talmage here, here, and here. So far I've restrained from blogging about the time Talmage was on my shoulders and vomited down my face, though, so maybe she's right. I did not find that funny.

I thought, however, that I would post one more (and hopefully final) entry about Talmage and the toilet. You see, Tyler is very much ready for Talmage to be done with potty-training. I'm not as rushed. Our niece (who shall remain nameless in case her seventh-grade crush googles her name and comes up with this anecdote; junior high is rough) developed a paralyzing fear of going poopy in the potty and would hold it until it hurt which would cause her to hold it because it hurt, which would cause it to hurt. Vicious circle. Her father became panicked as she began to approach kindergarten. He encouraged me to tell her the tale of Terri Jo Gillespie, a girl in my first grade class who defecated in her undies (apparently I care less about Terri Jo's anonymity). Terri Jo moved the following year, but here I am, twenty-three years later, writing a blog entry about the poor girl and her six-year-old trauma. Fortunately for my niece, a combination of laxatives and maturity worked for her, and she's currently accident free.

Understandably, I didn't really want to approach these issues. But Tyler has recently told me he'll let me have five children if I want them, a promise he's been fearful of making due to the twelve more years of diaper changing that implies. Since he manned up (the past tense of man up?) and committed to intensive fathering, I decided I'd throw him a bone and push going poopy in the potty.

Ten more diapers. That's what Talmage committed to and then what would happen? We would go poopy! In the potty! Hooray!! And then we would get stickers! And Kid K'nex! And we would go to Chuck E Cheese! And choirs of angels would descend, singing Hallelujah! Preferably a gospel choir with African-American angelic altos!

We made a chart that counted down from ten and crossed off a diaper each time he used one. Around six diapers left, Talmage started to realize that one day there would be no more diapers and decided to test my resolve.

"Mom, what if you get K'nex when you go poopy on the potty and then you share them with me?"

Five diapers.

Holding up eight pudgy fingers, "Maybe I have this many left."

Four diapers.

"Mom, I go poopy when the sun AND the moon are asleep." A cosmic marvel. That's what he wants to go poopy on the potty. All the planets to perfectly align.

Three diapers.

"Mom, how bout I just go poopy in my pants?"

Two diapers.

"Mom, what if I use Stockton's diapers when my diapers are gone?"

One diaper.

"Mom!! The chart is gone!" How'd that happen, Talmage? "I ripped it up and ruined it! Now I can go poopy in diapers."

Today we used our last diaper. As I changed it this morning, Talmage looked at me with genuine fear in his eyes. "Mom," he said to me in a quiet voice, "Maybe I just wear diapers forever."

I'll keep you posted.

*This post is dedicated to Juli who is watching Talmage right now. Thank you Juli!