let you clean up this mess while Billy and I visit the potty.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “Bad potty.”
But John didn’t give in to his toddler’s resistance this time. When Billy succumbed to tears, John scooped him up, talking to him in a low voice, but heading to the downstairs bathroom off the foyer.
John set Billy on his feet just inside the closed bathroom door and squatted to talk to him. “Billy, don’t you want to be a big boy?”
Billy nodded, sniffling through his tears, but calming.
“Then you have to learn to pee-pee like a big boy.”
“Daddy a big boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jamie a big boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Billy a big boy?”
John pointed to his son’s diaper. “Big boys don’t wear diapers. Big boys pee-pee in the potty.”
Billy’s lower lip protruded and the tears welled again. “Billy want to be big boy.”
John sighed in relief. “Good. If you learn to use the potty, we’ll throw away the diapers and then you’ll be a big boy, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed happily.
“Okay, so here we go.” John took him by the hand and led him toward the commode and the bright red and blue potty-chair sitting next to it. They’d gone less than a step when Billy froze and began to howl, yanked his hand loose and ran back to press his face against the door.
“Bad potty,” he cried. “Monster get Billy.”
“No,” John said soothingly. “Good potty. Watch Daddy.” As John unzipped his pants, he smiled over the age-old fatherson lesson. “See,” he said patiently. “Daddy’s a big boy.”
“Mean, monster potty,” Billy insisted, grabbing at the doorknob to escape.
Exasperated, John zipped up, then declared, “I know you have to go after all that cola. Come over here and stand by Daddy.”
Billy shook his head wildly. “Billy no be big boy.”
He strode to his son and lifted him, but Billy stiffened and shrieked hysterically when they neared the commode. Finally, John relented and carried him out of the bathroom. They were both exhausted.
“Claire, why is Billy so scared of that darn potty-chair?”
She looked up at him from her cross-legged position in frontof the television and shrugged her thin shoulders. “He’s difficult.”
John’s prediction about the combination of caffeine and sugar on his youngest son proved to be hair-raisingly correct. After an hour of chasing, catching and reprimanding, John wearily dropped onto a bright green beanbag chair and watched little Styrofoam balls pop out of the splitting seams. “We need furniture,” he said to the ceiling. A paper airplane sailed over, scant inches from his nose. He blinked, but remained otherwise motionless. Children were like an anesthetic, numbing a parent’s normal reflexes.
“What are those, Daddy?” Claire asked, pointing to the television.
John lifted his head and glanced at the screen, then froze. A perky brunette was extolling the virtues of a new and improved tampon design. He watched as the device expanded impressively when dipped into blue water. All moisture left his mouth.
By his estimation, it would be at least two, maybe three years before Claire would begin her cycle. Isn’t that what Annie had told him once? Oh, God, help me. He cleared his throat. “That’s a…thing, yeah, a thing that…women use…in the bathroom…when they’re, uh…old enough to…have a baby.” Not bad.
“Oh,” was her only comment. The commercial had ended, and she turned her attention back to the teenage situation comedy she’d been watching.
He lay his head back and mentally patted himself on the back for handling the matter so smoothly. But he’d call his sister, Cleo, tomorrow and ask her to talk to Claire when they went shopping next weekend, let her know what she could expect to happen over the next few years. His gut tightened at the thought of his little girl maturing, and boys buzzing around her like little bees with big stingers. He groaned and pushed the tormenting thoughts from his
Billy’s eyes widened. “Bad potty.”
But John didn’t give in to his toddler’s resistance this time. When Billy succumbed to tears, John scooped him up, talking to him in a low voice, but heading to the downstairs bathroom off the foyer.
John set Billy on his feet just inside the closed bathroom door and squatted to talk to him. “Billy, don’t you want to be a big boy?”
Billy nodded, sniffling through his tears, but calming.
“Then you have to learn to pee-pee like a big boy.”
“Daddy a big boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jamie a big boy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Billy a big boy?”
John pointed to his son’s diaper. “Big boys don’t wear diapers. Big boys pee-pee in the potty.”
Billy’s lower lip protruded and the tears welled again. “Billy want to be big boy.”
John sighed in relief. “Good. If you learn to use the potty, we’ll throw away the diapers and then you’ll be a big boy, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed happily.
“Okay, so here we go.” John took him by the hand and led him toward the commode and the bright red and blue potty-chair sitting next to it. They’d gone less than a step when Billy froze and began to howl, yanked his hand loose and ran back to press his face against the door.
“Bad potty,” he cried. “Monster get Billy.”
“No,” John said soothingly. “Good potty. Watch Daddy.” As John unzipped his pants, he smiled over the age-old fatherson lesson. “See,” he said patiently. “Daddy’s a big boy.”
“Mean, monster potty,” Billy insisted, grabbing at the doorknob to escape.
Exasperated, John zipped up, then declared, “I know you have to go after all that cola. Come over here and stand by Daddy.”
Billy shook his head wildly. “Billy no be big boy.”
He strode to his son and lifted him, but Billy stiffened and shrieked hysterically when they neared the commode. Finally, John relented and carried him out of the bathroom. They were both exhausted.
“Claire, why is Billy so scared of that darn potty-chair?”
She looked up at him from her cross-legged position in frontof the television and shrugged her thin shoulders. “He’s difficult.”
John’s prediction about the combination of caffeine and sugar on his youngest son proved to be hair-raisingly correct. After an hour of chasing, catching and reprimanding, John wearily dropped onto a bright green beanbag chair and watched little Styrofoam balls pop out of the splitting seams. “We need furniture,” he said to the ceiling. A paper airplane sailed over, scant inches from his nose. He blinked, but remained otherwise motionless. Children were like an anesthetic, numbing a parent’s normal reflexes.
“What are those, Daddy?” Claire asked, pointing to the television.
John lifted his head and glanced at the screen, then froze. A perky brunette was extolling the virtues of a new and improved tampon design. He watched as the device expanded impressively when dipped into blue water. All moisture left his mouth.
By his estimation, it would be at least two, maybe three years before Claire would begin her cycle. Isn’t that what Annie had told him once? Oh, God, help me. He cleared his throat. “That’s a…thing, yeah, a thing that…women use…in the bathroom…when they’re, uh…old enough to…have a baby.” Not bad.
“Oh,” was her only comment. The commercial had ended, and she turned her attention back to the teenage situation comedy she’d been watching.
He lay his head back and mentally patted himself on the back for handling the matter so smoothly. But he’d call his sister, Cleo, tomorrow and ask her to talk to Claire when they went shopping next weekend, let her know what she could expect to happen over the next few years. His gut tightened at the thought of his little girl maturing, and boys buzzing around her like little bees with big stingers. He groaned and pushed the tormenting thoughts from his
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