Out of Site, Out of Hind

By: S. (Shae) A. Cooke

As I walked by the bathroom with an armload of laundry one busy Monday morning, I heard my four-year-old son's hysterical sobs. I rapped on the door and opened it a crack. "Are you okay?"

"NO!" he yelled. "I not!" I heard a scuffle and the sound of paper rustling.

"Well, did you have an accident?"

"No, Mom. Well . . . kinda . . .oh Mommy, I'm dying," he said with the seriousness of an undertaker. I dropped the clothes and opened the door and he dove into my arms. The toilet was full and a trail of toilet paper followed him.

"What is the matter, honey?" I looked into his eyes and saw that they were red and swollen. His face was pale. "Why do you think you're going to die?"

"I had die-arrhea," he said.

"Well, diarrhea won't kill you, Sweetie."

"Why does it say, DIE then, Mom?" I bit my lip and tried hard not to laugh. "That's me in the toilet and I don't wanna die!"

"Well no honey, that's not you, that's what comes out of you." But there was no consoling him. He explained that if it came out of him, it was a part of him, and there was no way he was going to let me flush it. I gathered him in my arms, reached for the Pepto and my dog-eared Dr. Spock book and asked, "Well then, what should we do with it?" and he replied, "Just weave it Mom and I'll think of sompin."

As my cleaning day progressed, I purposely avoided the bathroom while I tried to think up a reason why we could flush it and it wouldn't harm him. "It's just pooh-pooh ka-ka" I said, "it goes through the pipes and into the ocean--wouldn't you like it to have a nice sea-side vacation?" He didn't bite. "Every body, and every living thing poops, but it doesn't mean they're going to die!"

"Don't fwush it!" he commanded.

"Even Barney poops" I countered, and then backed off as I met his icy stare.

One day turned into two, and still I could not bring myself to flush it without first helping him understand, however the odor became an issue. "Honey, I've explained to you that you're not dying and that your poop has to come out of your body, and that we simply have to flush it, cause it stinks!" I pinched my nose for emphasis and he flung himself on the floor and screamed, "Now you think I stink!"

"I do not!"

"You do, too"

"Hon, let me prove it to you. How about that time I caught you eating your snot? That came out of you, it was bad, but you didn't die."

"Oh M-o-t-h-e-r," he exclaimed. "That's different. That's snot--it's icky, and besides, I don't eat it anymore, I have a spot behind the sofa . . ."

There was no use quarrelling. It was my scientific argument against his childlike, (though believable) reasoning. He asked me to put an "out of order" sign on the door and I complied, and then called the doctor.

"Some children believe that their waste is part of their body," she explained. "It's a scary feeling for a child that believes that, and it's a hard thing for them to understand"

Oh, that's just dandy, I thought. "Try having him say "good-bye poop" while flushing and ease the stress with a happy-toned voice," she continued.

Well, that didn't make sense. Why say good-bye to something that isn't alive? Doesn't that compound the problem? I mean, I had no problem bidding the um, highly fragrant feces sayonara, but it didn't resolve my son's concern that he was destined for sewer city.

Later that day, I hovered around the bathroom door with my cleaning supplies in tow. A decision weighed heavily on my shoulders. On one shoulder I had the Tidy Bowl man whispering in my ear to just barge in and flush, scrub, and aerate, "Go ahead and flush it, and I'll clean the can for you, it reeks--I'll make that porcelain gleam." On the other, a miniature version of my son, "Don't fwush it, don't even bwush it!"

I don't know what got into me, but the Tidy Bowl man won--I decided I'd deal with the consequences later. I barged into the bathroom and was met with a surprise. There sat my son on the toilet, happily swinging his legs and singing to the tune of "I wish I were an Oscar Myer wiener."

"Hey um, Sweety! What happened to the diarrhea?" "Oh that? I fwushed it and I'm happy to tell you I'm gonna live."

"Okay . . ." Some things are better left unsaid. I put my cleaning supplies away, swatted the Tidy Bowl guy off my shoulder, and left to prepare dinner.

There are five-hundred billion adjectives I can use to describe this life-altering phenomenon called "four" that changes our entire outlook on motherhood. But for the life of me, I can't even find one word to describe this situation. Sometimes my tubes tie a little tighter, and at other times my egg production works overtime.

While I worried and fretted over my son, he thought of "sompin" and figured out one of life's mysteries all on his own. Before I knew it, my problem was behind me and I busied myself with other things, like removing snot from the sofa.

No matter how smelly or gross, dirty or complicated he is, it's all forgotten at bedtime, as I tuck him in, sing him to sleep, and hear him call out, "I love you Mom." It's right up there with, "I can wipe myself".

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