Mbot has long mastered his waste management systems, and now we are deep into Gbot’s adventures in potty training. I know—only because it happened to Mbot–that this won’t last forever or even into the teenage years. And I can appreciate the cuteness of Gbot’s blond curly head bent between his knees on those momentous occasions upon which he examines “the family of poop–there’s daddy, that one’s mommy, and there’s Mbot, and there’s me, and look! That’s Aunt Susan!” (the little one bobbing around on top) that has miraculously appeared in the toilet below him.
But that is the exception. Usually the whole family ends up in the Huggies.
But have you ever noticed that even adults with spectacular memories–people who remember looking through the bars of a crib at twenty months–can’t remember being potty trained?
It might be better if the human brain did, in fact, cling to ancient events like tearing off diapers, wailing until superhero underpants are administered, and then promptly letting loose a torrent of pee. Remembering being a potty trainee might make us more patient and empathetic when we become the potty trainer.
Several months into Mbot’s “change of life,” my mother, possibly tired of listening to me complain about being constantly surrounded by human excrement or the threat thereof, sent me this picture. I have trouble imagining that I once derived glee from terrorizing a potty seat and a mother. My mother was laughing about the picture, and so apparently she has forgotten not only the trauma of her own potty training, but that of mine, as well.
Eventually, I will miss the babyish blond curls bobbing over the toilet. But I will not miss the poop family.