An open letter to my son, about poop

Dear Jack,

You are a very charming boy. I especially love how inquisitive and talkative you are. I love that you don’t need an audience to sing “Old McDonald” at the top of your lungs. or to go on and on about what you had for dinner. You just chat away in your bed before you fall asleep.

While I listen from the living room, where your monitor sits on the end table. I know I won’t be able to eavesdrop on you forever. And it makes me laugh to hear you recount your day.

I think it is especially funny when you tattle on yourself. Maddening, yes, but hilarious, too. The other day I was upstairs changing the baby’s diaper, and you were downstairs. I just heard you say, “Bud, don’t eat dat, bud. Don’t eat it.” I ran down there, and there you stood, with a bottle of sunscreen. Open. Goopy.

“Did you eat that?” I asked.

“Yeah?” you replied, in your everything-is-a-question tone.

Sigh. Stinker.

Or the day your (fairly) conservative grandparents were visiting. We were enjoying an afternoon on the front porch together, right up until you said this, with every step up the porch: “Goddamnit. Goddamnit. Don’t say dat, buddy! Goddamnit!”

Dear lord. I am pretty sure your daddy wanted to disappear.

So I should have known better last night when I heard you talking on your monitor. Your dad had put you to bed, in two-piece pajamas, instead of the footie jammies-on-backwards we usually do, never mind the heat, so you can’t unzip them and take them off.

I was downstairs, enjoying a glass of wine after a crazy day at work. The monitor tittered with your little conversations, and I half paid attention to them. “I like oatmeal! Yeah! That’s my blankie!”

Then it took a turn.

“Bud, don’t take your diaper off, bud. Don’t do dat. Keep your pants on, bud.”

I ignored it. After all, you said the same thing last night but had on footie pajamas. You didn’t take them off.

“Das a mud pie! No poopy, bud! Don’t touch the poopy! Why you do dat, bud? Why? I just wanna know why you take your diaper off? Why, bud?”

Wait, what?

Please, no.

I went up and there you were, sitting pantless on one side of your crib, while your diaper, pants and a pile of poop sat on the other side. Again. At least you don’t play with your poop. But it takes a lot of dexterity to get a diaper off, so it inevitably gets at least a little messy. Thank god it was … formed, if you know what I mean. I’ve spent too much time scrubbing your crib rails already, bud.

I got you cleaned up. Changed your sheets. Checked your stuffed animals and sippy cup for brown streaks (none, thank god). Got you into pajama pants again. Put you back in bed. Poured myself another glass of wine.

Seriously, bud. Stop taking your pants off. Just potty train, for the love of God. You know how to go. You will go if I put you on there. You get a sticker! You will tell me you have to poop, and then when I put you on the potty, you act like you have no idea what I am talking about. I take you off, and you poop 30 seconds later. You beg to wear underpants — we have Yo Gabba, Thomas and Buzz Lightyear underpants. You love them. You pee right in them, without missing a beat, and don’t care. You take your pants off at naptime and piss out the side of the crib onto the wood floor. I really enjoyed stepping in that yesterday, by the way.

All the potty books say a kid doesn’t like wet legs or wet pants, so go right to underwear or nudity and that will speed things up. Not you, bud. You love wet underwear. You will stand right in the kitchen and pee all over the floor and just keep going. You scream if I try to take your wet underpants off. Yet don’t understand that if you just keep them dry, you can wear them all day.

It is so frustrating. So incredibly maddening. I know you are smart enough to do this. I know you are stubborn. I know that soon it will be too hot to stuff you into footie pajamas up there, and you soon will grow out of them, anyway. Then what?

Just use the potty. Or keep your diaper on. Or call for me to come and change it. I will! Every time!

Until then, at least I can wait for you to tattle on yourself and get to you before all hell breaks loose.

Love, Mama

Jack put on Philip's shoes to "go for a run!" yesterday.