Sofie and the Potty
To really understand what I’m about to relate, you must have a grasp, however minimal, of the sacred relationship between a man and his “throne.” That is to say, aside from, perhaps, that mother-son relationship, there is probably nothing more primal than the relationship between a man and his bathroom. It is here that man is purged and renewed. Here man thinks his great thoughts. After all, it is said that Martin Luther’s moment of insight, conversion, gnosis, whatever you want to call it, happened on the commode. Here man stays in touch with world events, societal opinion, and the funny papers. Some, indeed, perhaps all, of the fairer sex may well wonder at this mystery of mysteries. Jibes and jabs are tossed our way while incommunicado: “Shall I send in search and rescue teams?” or the ever-popular “Did you fall in?” But laugh they well may, they cannot do away with the offal truth: A man’s bathroom is his sacred refuge.
So, it is something of a tectonic shift to allow this sacrosanct sanctuary to be invaded. It helps if the invader is a brown-haired, blue-eyed fifteen month old infected with a case of terminal cuteness. Oh, and who has her own potty.
Yep, we’re taking the gradual approach to potty-training, hoping for success by the arrival of our next child in July. Since Sofie is heavily into imitation, we decided to get a potty and–gasp–allow her to join us when nature calls.
So there I sit in the sanctum sanctorum with my little daughter singing her morning jibber-jabber carols and hymns. She climbs on her potty, because, of course that’s what a potty is for. She takes the “bucket” part out of the potty and tries to hand it to daddy. “No, thank you, sweetheart. That goes in your potty.” The potty, of course, must also be scooted across the bathroom floor. Especially must it be scooted right into daddy’s feet. And then: “No, Sofie. It’s not time to sit on daddy’s lap. Daddy’s busy right now.”
Sigh. Bathroom time is not what it used to be.