Seat of power

There are gifts, and there are gifts. You’d think the image of Robert bounding proudly into the living room bearing a “Triplets of Belleville” DVD and saying “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!” would be a real heart-melter. And it was. But my heartstrings got an even more intense workout four mornings later.

It was a familiar scene as I staggered from the bedroom and found my wife on the couch and Robert on his little plastic throne. “I’m pooping!” he said. Sure you are, I thought. Robert pees in the toilet pretty regularly, but as far as No. 2 is concerned, he’s more about nailing the performance than actually putting the biscuit in the basket. One of his favorite pastimes is announcing his biological need, scrambling onto his toilet seat, letting loose a few grunts and grimaces, and scampering off with an empty bowl in his wake. End scene.

Imagine, then, my delight when he rose to his feet and revealed the genuine article, which filled my heart with song and reeked like a bitch. Huzzah and kudos, my boy. This was the first day of the rest of our poop-free lives.

As long as we’re on the subject, I have two questions. First, Robert’s potty seat came with a little codpiece attachment that presumably keeps boys from spraying the drapes. I can see why this might be useful, but I haven’t yet figured out why it has an array of hard, plastic nubbins on the inside that form a small iron maiden for his mini-manhood. Is this some sick sort of aversion therapy? “Pee downward or you’ll abrade your package”?

Second, why must every potty seat be plastered with trademarked cartoon faces? Is it supposed to ramp up your child’s motivation? I don’t see it. Seems to me, you'd be more inspired to put your fanny on someone’s face if you held him in the worst contempt. But that’s just me.