Please don’t be offended – this is meant to be a philosophical, and not a practical, treatment of the subject.
I grew up in a large family where potty humor was frequently indulged in. When I was young I didn’t think anything of it. Here’s a good one: why did the toilet paper roll down the hill? Because it wanted to get to the bottom. Ha ha ha!
Oh dear, there I go. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.
At length I met and married my husband. He and his family are gently bred, and not a shadow of potty humor or vulgar language comes into their conversation. I don’t mind this at all – in fact I appreciate it very much. I would have been happy never to have the p-word cross my lips for the rest of my born days.
But then we had children.
A woman born without an earthy bone in her body must, upon having children, either develop one, or go crazy.
It starts with pregnancy and childbirth. If you want prime opportunities to develop humility and resignation, they fit the bill perfectly.
But even so – in spite of the more humbling aspects of pregnancy and childbirth, it’s not difficult to see the beauty and poetry in them.
This is not the case with poops. Poops, like mosquitoes, are clearly a product of the Fall.
Enter the small male child.
Once he is mobile, he goes into the bathroom and makes a wonderful discovery. There, at exactly his height, is a snow white basin full of water, with an intriguing cave at the bottom.
A couple of ear-splitting shrieks from his germophobic mother swiftly dampens the joy of this amazing find.
Next comes the stage when he is excited to use the bathroom like big kids and grown-ups; only alas, the novelty soon wears off, and the ease of NOT using the bathroom reasserts itself.
Our two-year-old is at that stage. He is a very straightforward child pretty much all the time; but for some reason, he nearly always answers in direct contradiction to the truth, the following question: Do you have poops?
His yes does not mean yes, and his no does not mean no. Sometimes he will say, “Come change poops!” and go ahead of me to the bathroom in that ridiculously cute arms-akimbo hopping bounding run. But when it’s time for the change, I find that he has no poops – unless they are invisible, scent-less ones. If only they were all that way!
I’m not very accomplished at too many things. At changing diapers, however, I am definitely a pro. Potty jokes are not allowed in our little family, but it saves my sanity to see the humor in poops.