We’re all a tad pooped here at Devilboy’s House of Dung.
With a month of training the devilish one in all things toilet under our belts, the topic of poo has become the object of his obsession and, if that actually translated into him fertilizing the potty, life would be perfect.
Toilet training was never going to be one of the highlights of parenting. Having written about and researched the topic at length, I knew before we started on our adventures in infant ablutions that this would be a shit of a time, especially given our little trainee is a male of the species. What I didn’t know was how surreal it would be attempting to toilet train a wild Devilboy.
When it comes to number ones Devilboy is, if you’ll pardon the pun, something of a wizz kid! That part of the potty training process has, in fact, been piss easy. The seventy three million stickers now wallpapering our bathroom are testament to his skills at urination. And it doesn’t just stop at homemade wee. No siree, he has quickly mastered peeing outside of the home as well… even in scary public amenities that make his mother squeamish.
His little face flushes with pride at every drop that makes it into any available receptacle. But when it comes to number two’s things are a little more complicated.
While Devilboy has steadfastly been lecturing every stuffed animal and matchbox car in the house on the art of excreting, he himself has steadfastly refused to poo in anything even remotely resembling a toilet!
I’ve seen an entire packet of baby wipes scattered in screwed up piles on my lounge room floor. Why?
“Because Buzz Lightyear did a poo!”
Of course he did. “My most humble of apologies dear child of mine, have another packet of wipes and don’t give a second though to the forest you’ve already wiped out.”
I’ve watched on as Buzz has been virtually mummified by a disposable nappy wielding Devilboy.
“Just in case he has an accident, mummy.”
Great thinking son! You can never be too careful with those darned plastic toys and their bowel movements. And as for inanimate intergalactic space rangers… well everyone knows what dirty little buggers they can be when it comes to dropping their space nuggets.
I’ve observed with horrified fascination as he carefully holds his racing cars and diggers over a tea cup and patiently explains to them how they need to defecate in the cup… whilst he casually craps in his own pants.
Merde! Even the cat hasn’t been exempt from his discourse on dumping and has been on the receiving end of his coaching efforts whilst he digs in his cat box and Devilboy shiftily shites himself.
Stumped by his inability to dump we’ve been offered plenty of advice and read all the books on the subject and, if he ever does get his head around this toilet thing, the pages of those should come in handy to wipe his arse, for all the good they’ve been.
To our relief, in the last few days we seem to have stumbled upon a light at the end of the cistern – in the guise of a generous red suited individual of larger girth.
You see, Santa knows when you’ve been bad or good. And Devilboy knows that Santa has presents. Ergo, he has come to the devilishly devious conclusion that pooing in the toilet equates to good behaviour in the eyes of the jolly bearded one and so, to maximise his payload, he’s suddenly become a lean mean lav loving machine.
And though we’re hapy with this little breakthrough, even this has been taken to the usual Devilboy extremes of eccentricity. This morning saw him request that I photograph each poo that makes it into the bowl… so we can show Santa what a good boy he’s been. That request has obviously been denied for the sake of good taste… plus I’m fairly sure Santa isn’t into that kind of thing!
We know that this great brown journey is far from over and exhausted, we’re starting question if it would really matter if he’s still in nappies at 32, because the whole shitty business is driving us all completely potty.