How Our Life, for a Moment, Resembled "White Men Can't Jump"

So, hopefully you're familiar with the now nearly-ubiquitous 1992 film "White Men Can't Jump"...if you are, the following will make a bit more sense. If not, well, maybe it'll at least be humorous.

For the past couple of weeks, Kian's protestations of bedtime have returned anew, to the point where he's been up until nearly 10PM fighting our insistance he go to sleep. As is well-documented in this blog, when the kid sets his mind to something, he's rather difficult to deter. Couple this with the fact that, at daycare, Michelle is working diligently to get him to potty-train, particularly in the number two department. He pees pretty regularly in the toilet, but poops, not so much. She's figured out his routine, though, and she's apparently making him poop before he lays down for a nap. Last night, this really created a big obstacle for us.

Laura's prett much the only one Kian will let put him to bed, if she's around. If it's just me, solo, with the boys, he does pretty well going to bed for me. If Laura's in the house, though, he'll have nothing to do with me. So, last night, she gets him in bed, then takes a break, telling him she has to go take her medicine, and will return when she's done. This is her way of kind of easing him into bed. Upon her return to his bedside, though, he's grunting and groaning and says, "Mommy, I go poop."

To which Laura replies, "Did you already poop?"

"No, I trying."

"Well, come on, let's go poop on the potty!"

So, she gets him up, takes him to his bathroom, and positions him on the throne. During this, I'm getting the boys' laundry going, and straightening up things from our post-dinner shopping trip. I go in to the bathroom to see what's going on, and see Laura sitting on the floor and Kian just kind of piddling around on the toilet. Laura relays that he's trying to poop, and pleads with Kian to hurry up because she's tired and wants to go to bed. I offer some words of encouragement, but it appears to me that he's more interested in playing around, so my mind begins scheming: how can I get Kian off the toilet, get Laura to bed, and de-fuse this situation?

"He's not pooping, just ripping some farts, right?" I think to myself. "Maybe we can trick him into thinking he's pooped...Trick...Trick...Trick or treat! Halloween! There's leftover Halloween candy around here!"

Quickly, I walk over to the kitchen to find the boys' bags of Halloween candy they were allowed to salvage before the balance was set out for the Halloween Fairy. I look in Kian's bag, and find my saving grace - a mini Almond Joy bar.

I rip open the package, re-shape the candy bar to look like a little 2-year-old's turd, then go back over to the bathroom, where Laura's continuing to admonish Kian to poop so they can both get to bed. I walk in, look at her and smile. I then ask Kian, after another fart, "Can Daddy look in the toilet, buddy?"

"Yeah!"

I scoot him forward on the seat a bit, then sneak the candy bar into the toilet, and exclaim, "Oh, look Kian! You did it! You pooped in the potty!" I take him off the toilet, and he looks in, a bit befuddled...clearly he doesn't think he's pooped, but he's having trouble denying the faux-fecal evidence staring back at him from the bottom of the bowl. He finally accepts it and says, "Oh, Mommy, I pooped."

I look over to Laura, probably with an inappropriately-smug grin on my face, only to see her glaring at me in disbelief. Thinking I've been a great dad and husband, and have arrived at an acceptable solution to everyone's problems, I walk out of the bathroom and say, "Almond Joy."

In this Billy Hoyle-esque moment, I think I'm the righter-of-wrongs. I've provided an answer, and should be exalted for my quick resolution to an obviously-challenging situation. Not so much, because I then hear Laura ask, "Kian, do you still have to poop?" The incompletness of his actions are clearly coming back to him at this point, because he answers, "Yes, mommy, I still poop."

Why did I not take to heart the lesson Gloria tried to teach Billy? I should have sympathized with her. Instead of fashioning a fake turd out of a candy bar, I should have sat on the floor with her, and said, "I, too, have felt the frustration of a child keeping me from bed because he insists on pooping. I will sit here with you and extol this poo from our child's behind as a team mate, a partner, and as a father, dear."

Instead, I formed a hand-made child-sized Cleveland Steamer and try to trick my son into thinking he's accomplished something significant, all in the interest of the quick resolution and exhibiting control over the situation.

Well, anyway, Kian eventually gave up, and I got him to sleep by taking him on a car ride with me as I went to put gas in my tank. Lesson learned. Billy Hoyled.










(K)