Friday night and Mr. Monkey and I are snuggled up on the couch in the basement, watching some movie I don’t totally care about, just happy to be tucked under his arm, head on his chest.
The baby monitor crackles and I hear the kid, making sing-song noises.
“Mommy, Daddy, I poopy! Mommy, Daddy, I poopy!”
He’d sat on the toilet for 10 minutes before bedtime, giving a poop in the potty a good solid try but not having any success, so I wasn’t surprised that he had filled his diaper just 15 minutes after being put to bed. So I go upstairs and pull the boy out of bed.
“No poop on the floor! I call Mama Dada” he proudly reports. He hasn’t thrown poop on the floor in months now (and he only did it two or three times, but it haunts us all I think).
“Good job, buddy” I lift his legs up and start cleaning his bottom.
“I want to see it. I want to see.” This is a new thing, his desire to view the contents of his diaper, but I figure maybe it will help somehow with the potty training (I don’t know how, this isn’t really what you’d call a well fleshed out theory) so I show him.
“Ooh, is big! I like big poopy.”
“That’s nice sweet boy.”
“I like big poopy. I like little poopy. I like yellow poopy. I like brown poopy. I like black poopy….” he goes on and on in this vein for some time. He is the Bubba Gump of poop.
And I love him.