Poop.
I’m driving, cursing every car in my path. I feel sweat beading up under my bangs, on the sides of my neck and the outsides of my arms. With the culmination of sweat my anxiety rises. I’m in the throws of a colitis flare up and I have got to go. It’s coming and it doesn’t care where I’m sitting. The driver’s seat, the couch, crouched down giving a toddler a hug goodbye or the toilet. It doesn’t care.
I’m holding it. Its coming though. I can want to hold it more than I want anything but really...it has a hold on me. And I just can’t keep holding it.
****
He walked into the bathroom, chin tucked down a little and eyes shifting from left to right. Examining the level of safety he would feel after turning on every single light he evaluated and moved forward. The awkward shape of the room left portions unseen. An unsafe obstacle, possibly able to overcome. After all….he had to go.
He held his hands close to his face as if to cradle it protectively from the images on the screen of his memory. Each step was slow and unsteady and each breath was baited at the thought that at any moment, out of any of the drains, in any of the receptacles in the bathroom, would unleash his current greatest fear. The tub of goo from the Ghostbusters movie. He has been told it could come out of any drain. Sink, tub, shower and yes….the toilet.
The poor kid has been holding it for two days now.
The poor kid is six.
****
He’s expressing the desire to use his cute little yellow training potty. He thinks it’s a pretty neat trick. Hell, it gets a rise out of us parents every time he pees in it. We jump up and down, we shout “Hooray!”, we all do a happy dance. He gleams and shines like the stars in Newfane on a clear night in December.
He’s still not quite there yet. And while I know it and while I’ve reassured him its okay to use his diaper still I can see the anxiety as he shouts “POTTY! POOPY!” and rushes to the bathroom.
I follow him and help him to undress. He sits and its still too new. Its still too scary. He can’t let it go. We diaper up or go with the birthday suit. But he still has to go.
You can see his strain and his sadness and his shame, all created in his head as he works it out, while he stops holding it. He’s been holding it all day.
I give him a comforting look and say that he did a good job. I reach out offering my arms for a hug but he’s angry with himself. He tells me to go away. I tell him he did a good job and step back. I extend my hand and he takes it we go off to the changing table and I tell him…."You did a good job."
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