I’ve heard there are these mythical beasts, small and mighty, that have shocking powers. I’ve read of newborns that do not insist on being up all day long, infants that actually sleep in beds not shared with their parents and toddlers that sleep all…night…long. (Ok, full disclosure, I’m still waiting for the 7 year-old to sleep through the night.) As I said, I’ve read of these but never witnessed them in the wild, more particularly, I sure as hell never witnessed these oddities within the ranks of my own little buttheads. No, not once have the fruit of my loins taken an easy route anywhere but yesterday, I saw a glimmer of something that has provided me with a tiny shred of optimism that the Nugget might just be preparing to cut Mom a break.

After dropping Big Brother off at school, I looked to my mute counterpart in the backseat and suggested, “How ‘bout we go pick out a potty?” My rational was simple; this whole path to privy perfection was likely going to be something we’d be traversing for the next year or more so now that he was two, we might as well get the ball rolling. His kidney doctors warned us that for kids with hydronephrosis, it can be a long and arduous journey to the throne. Some have too much control, some have too little, there can be bladder spasms, blah, blah, blah and a whole catalog of other possible medically induced toilet training landmines. Also, after all the poking and prodding they’ve faced in the diaper zone, they can also have both fear and distain for anything happening south of the border. (Who can blame them? If you’d had catheters shoved up your Wee Willie Winkey all your life you’d label it a no fly zone too.) Add to all that the fact that my half-breed Turk is about as stubborn as Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent and I figured if its going to take forever, we may as well get us a tiny toddler commode and commence the misery.

Next to weathering a multi-child stomach flu-storm and anything that begins with the word projectile, potty training is the most heinous of all parenting tasks. My first half-breed Turk took about a year to train for no reason other than he is just stubborn. It started out as fear of falling in (Which began shortly after his mother got distracted and let go allowing him to plunge into the icy depths of a Trader Joe’s toilet- my bad.) Then he took to mounting full LA Law-worthy rebuttals each time I tried to use logic and reason to explaining why we don’t crap in our pants (PS- Having a mute toddler after a big talker can actually be a blessing…just saying…) and finally he decided he just wasn’t cut out for potty life. Eventually, as I am Irish and he’s got way too much Turk in him, it came down to a hostile stalemate. For every free-range turd that I found in his pants, I took a toy hostage. Finally, when he was down to a three-wheel dump truck and a horrifyingly ugly jack-in-the-box, he relented and he’s been a normal toilet user ever since, (though his aim is sometimes questionable.)

I assumed, as number two is even more stubborn than the first and on top of that we’d likely be dealing with the medical misery of it all, I was in for a much larger fight so when my suggestion to potty-shop was met with a nod of agreement, I ran with it. (PS- why in the hell were there 15 different choices for potty chairs? It’s for pooping. Must it sing? Need there be glitter or an iPad holder? This is setting up ridiculous expectations for their virgin voyage on the porcelain god. Just sayin’.) When we arrived home and opened the box, the Nugget proceeded to de-pants and go right to work. He then continued to use that non-musical, bare bones, port-a-john every time he needed to go the rest of the day. Day two went just about as well, though we were derailed by a couple surprise grenades thanks to a hearty lunch of beans, but that’s ok. He just turned two a couple months ago. I don’t want to get cocky or anything because my name is synonymous with the odds not being ever in our favor, but could I actually have one of those mythical beasts that potty train themselves? Is it possible to dodge the grossest bullet of parenthood? Is this the universe’s little gift to me for all we’ve been though?

Because my life is so surreal that I’m now relegated to exploring the rational behind the Nugget’s expulsion of bodily fluids, I had to immediately consult with my best mom friend for her take. Her response:

“Maybe he’s just been waiting to excel at something?”

To which I replied, “So he choose pooping? You are telling me my child decided to excel at pooping?” Farewell dreams of having birthed a captain of industry for it seems I have only birthed the captain of crap. Now that is good mothering.

I guess only time will tell if Captain Crapper really is going to train himself. It would stand to reason he’d choose now to go all cold turkey on diapers. After the doctor told us how difficult this task would be, I purchased a box of diapers so large they used a fork-lift to get it into my car. More than once we’ve been told that the Nugget is a medical anomaly, and that with his odds he should play the lottery. I just kind of wish we could’ve won the Powerball instead of the Loo Lotto. It’s all relative I guess.

Never bother a brother when he’s reading…or pooping…or both.

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