So, I’m in the process of potty training a human male toddler and it’s pretty amusing. He’s got this potty set up in the living room so he can just pee and keep watching television (because, in the course of my research, it’s been revealed to me that the number one thing that keeps these monsters from focusing on using the potty is being super distracted [like, by a favorite show, for example] and the result you end up with is lots of little wet pants and stained couches) and every time he pees successfully, he gets a mini nutter butter cookie.
Generally, he’s an ace at the pissing, but the shitting is a bit more elusive (and by elusive, I mean, he shits his pants constantly and he’s getting big and he eats regular person food and the whole thing is almost unspeakably gross. Have YOU ever washed a full sized human shit log out of a pair of tiny underoos in your bathroom sink? It’s terrible. There’s just no way to avoid doing so many things that you’d really rather not do…it’s gross) and as a result, he gets more than a cookie when he shits into the potty (it should be noted at this point that I’m not using the term ‘potty’ as some sort of sweet euphemism for crapper, it’s actually just a little toilet shaped dish situation designed for little people. It would be wrong to call it a toilet and I don’t know what else to call it. Believe me, using the term ‘potty’ in a conversation among adults makes me as uncomfortable as it makes you).
In fact, when the boy shits in the potty, he gets a lollipop, which he refers to as a ‘pop.’ It’s a big deal. Pops are his very favorite form of earth matter that exists and will probably remain so until he discovers the wonder of burritos and pussy (in that order, most likely), although, until very recently, the notion of having to shit, hitting the potty and getting a pop as a result haven’t quite connected with him. But yesterday, that all changed.
Yesterday, in an unprecedented feat of shitting the boy shit four times(!) and every time, he used either a toilet or his TV potty and the results were dual: 1) he got 4 pops (a fucking KILLING on the local pop-eating circuit) and 2) he realized the connection between accuracy-crapping and candy. And the subsequent behavior today has been pretty amazing.
Now, to digress a bit. Yesterday I read an article about the production of testosterone in women and how when that slows (very often due to hormonal birth control) it leads to dry beavers and decreased sexdrive (two things that can be totally related [ie, “I’m not even remotely horny and you’re bumming me out so my clam is dusty”] but need not be, and in this case we’re talking about two uniquely different physical results of a lack of testosterone in a female: dryness, and on another note, lack of desire to bone, blow, put things in one’s ass etc.). Of course, too much testosterone in women gives em beards and headaches and zits and all sorts of shit. It’s a delicate balance, which I think has a lot to do with why there’s not some sort of pill or something that makes women horny (because, let’s face it, that’d really clock in above all the Viagra and propecia and ipads and world peace and .3% unemployment and everything else on earth in terms of things that humanity wants to see, wouldn’t it?) but with men, it’s way different.
We’re just gross horniness tanks, fuelled by organs that make testosterone by the bucketload. We get zits and beards and go bald and all that and you know what? Fuck it. Who cares? Anything around here to fuck? Anything at all? Attractive sheep? Dude that looks like a lady? Jelly sandwich? Hole in a bit of fibrous insulation? Anything? Men are just walking around with the desire to constantly bone coursing through their veins. And Unlike women, who exist through hormonal changes which will change them from cock starved 19 yr olds blowing a room full of dudes to a 40 year old mom that would rather hold a log of shit in her hand then fuck with the lights on, dudes have no point where the madness stops or even really slows down all THAT much. They just learn to live with it.
So what’s my point? And what does this have to do with my son learning to shit into the potty? Okay, when I was a teenager, as a result of my veins coursing with pure testosterone, the things I’d do to try and get laid were ridiculous. I’d tell my mom I was going to the library and then hop on two trains and go a hundred miles out of Chicago to sit on some girl’s bed and listen to her talk about pearl jam and her dumb friends’ stupid party. I’d forego sleep, education, leisure time, important shit…I’d put myself in physical peril. I’d drive a car with no brakes, I’d sneak out and hitchhike in the middle of the night. I’d, in short, do anything at all to get to a point where someone may POSSIBLY pull down their panties on my behalf. And it almost never worked out, but the possibility was enough. That prize was worth all the risk of whatever nightmarish fate may have befallen me, be it grounding, expulsion, failure, gross manglement, whatever.
Well, as I sit here and look at my kid, I’m reminded of that singleminded sense of purpose. In the pursuit of (lolli)pops, he’s decided that he’s just gonna sit on the potty all day and attempt to squeeze out turds. He’s got his dinosaurs around him and he’s just happy as a clam, sitting there, trying with every fiber of his little being, to make fiber shoot from his little being so I’ll reward him with a pop. It’s not enough to sit on the couch, or play on the ground near the potty. He’s coiled and ready. I don’t think testosterone is really playing a role, but man…he’s in the grip of something mighty, that’s for sure.
Was this weird? Have a good weekend.