Poo

I've titled the post as honestly as I could, so if you're squeamish or are just sitting down at your computer with breakfast, I'll give you a minute to navigate away from the page...

OK, let's continue. Sunday morning we had every intention of making Mass, but in what can only be called a first weekend in March miracle, nobody woke up in our house until 9 AM. Usually this kind of torpor could only be attributable to carbon monoxide poisoning, and I guess technically both Samson and Jane were up at six, but everyone managed to get back to sleep until 9. Which meant the 9:30 was out of the question, and as that's the only Mass where they tolerate Thomas and the rest of his little Anglican engines, we had to take a pass.

Which was OK, because we figured we'd get a jump on the day and go do some grocery shopping. Nothing doing: Samson wanted to try to poop on the potty and decided this morning was the morning.

To date, we've taken a kind of laissez faire attitude to potty training. With the arrival of Jane just 8 weeks(!) ago, we figured he'd probably take a little time adjusting to that and so rushing him onto the potty was of dubious value. That said, he seems ready and so Vicki promised him a train if he did, in fact, poop on the potty. In the diaper near the potty doesn't count [he tried], nor does on the potty in a diaper [also an attempt by the wily Samson].

In fact, we even got a seat that attaches to the toilet as a way of making it seem like he was joining some kind of big peoples' club by sitting on our toilet. Laugh if you want; it almost worked.

But this morning, he was all in earnest about his intentions. My presence was requested to read him some stories, and then read him some more stories, and then tell him some stories, and by about minute 27 I was starting to wonder if Samson had been reading Beckett. But of course, I didn't want to betray any impatience lest he end up in the clocktower at his college muttering mysteriously about just needing more time.

Finally, Vicki realized that it was probably the height of the toilet and the fact that he couldn't put his feet down that was holding things up (so to speak). And indeed, when the old, floor model potty was introduced, Samson was well on his way to another milestone of toddlerhood.

At first, however, he tried to convince us that he could stand and do it. Which we took great pains to dissuade him of. At last, convinced to sit, he requested a little privacy. It was the least we could do.

And lo, after just a few minutes, and some loud (but private) grunting, Samson pooped in the potty. This was greeted with great joy and congratulations, and promises of the trains were again extended. But first, we had to get rid of the prize. Which, I'll be honest, looks a lot different in a diaper than it does in a little plastic receptacle. And by different, I mean big and sort-of gag-inducing.

We flushed it with all due ceremony, washed Samson's hands, and at last were on our way to do some grocery shopping and to get that train.