Warning: Contains Graphic Content

Poop. There, I’ve said it. This column is about poop. It’s going to be graphic and explicit. I hope you can handle it.

We recently crossed a major hurdle in the potty-training saga of our 3-year-old son and that hurdle was poop. We’ve been working him out of diapers and into peeing on the potty for months and that first transition went rather smoothly. Few accidents. No problem peeing in public restrooms, at school, or others’ houses. Pooping, however, was another story. And the story was that he wouldn’t do it without a diaper.

Potty training started out fine. He was still in a diaper. He’d disappear for a while. We’d call into another room to ask him what he was doing. “I’m pooping,” came the reply. He’d finish. We’d change the diaper. Pretty standard.

Pretty soon, though, my wife decided that we needed to push forward and transition to the bathroom. So, if he said he had to poop, we’d have him go into the bathroom just to begin to replicate the real experience. He had to have reading material, natch; he’s a future man, after all. He’d finish; we’d change him. Again, pretty standard.

Finally, I think my wife had had enough and said it was time to move the pooping to the potty. “I'll do this. This is my project,” she said. “You can have it,” I said.

So, there it was. We’d cajole. We’d offer rewards. Nothing. He still insisted on the diaper. “I’ll poop on the potty tomorrow,” he’d say. Smart kid. Every day became tomorrow and still no luck.

Then, finally, one day, success. Something clicked and he just started doing it. Now, a couple months in, we’ll pick up our son at his school and, quite often the first thing out of his mouth is “Dad,” he’ll say with a sly little grin, “I pooped on the potty.”

Needless to say, we’re flush with success. And, I give all the credit to my wife for taking on the poop project.

Oh, To Be a Kid Again

Years ago, at my previous job, I was at a planning retreat and we were doing some early “icebreakers” to get everyone in the mood. Groan, I know.

One of the questions was “if you could be any age, what would you like it to be?” When it came time for me to answer, I said “about 9 or 10.” I was amazed at how many people nodded and smiled as I explained why.

Those were the days, weren’t they? Summer memories of leaving the house at 8 a.m. and building forts, playing pickup baseball, exploring the neighborhood, riding bikes, playing in the creek, coming back for lunch and then doing it all again until dinner, when my Dad would bellow a dinner call from the back porch. Life was simple and good.

Am I the only one who remembers their childhood as if it were yesterday? There are days when I think I’m really still just a child and this whole grown-up thing is just an act. I certainly enjoy being an adult, of course, and am beginning to share some experiences with our children that I’m sure will linger in their minds at some point. However, with my own childhood, I can remember the smells, the tastes, the experiences, as if they had just happened. . .

For me it was growing up in northeastern Pennsylvania in old coal-mining country. Playing pick-up baseball on a makeshift field amid the slag heaps. Walking out of Rocky II, for which I had paid a $2 admission, with my friends shadow boxing and dreaming of a run through the streets of Philadelphia. “Flipping” baseball cards and winning enough to amass quite the collection. Until, of course, my Mom decided to sell them at a garage sale; like many Moms did in the 70s and 80s, depriving their children of lifetime income, no doubt. :(

Spent two weeks in the Midwest one summer and learned how to ride a bike when I was approaching 9. Came back home and my parents bought me my first bike, complete with my Dad’s own custom set of instructions for proper bike ownership and maintenance. The set of instructions was only slightly less serious than post-op instructions after open heart surgery. However, he must have been on to something because that bike lasted me into my teens as a paper boy.

Went back through northeastern Pennsylvania about 10 years ago during a college road trip to the East Coast. While some things had changed, much hadn’t. Our apartment complex where we’d first lived was still there. Our first house looked much the same as it did when we’d moved away. Things looked smaller, as they often do with the passage of time. However, the whole experience was exhilarating in a nostalgic sort of way.

Those carefree days are so easy to call up on my mental hard drive that I often wonder if I've even matured past 9 or 10. Oh, sure, I've got a "grown up" job, house, family, beautiful wife, 2.0 children and think I have things together, for the most part.

But, really, 9 or 10 is where it's at, I think. Old enough to do things, but still young enough to enjoy them and not be too "cool" not to do them. Years ago when I was a camp counselor, my "tribe" of 9 and 10 year-olds and I were sitting around the campfire on an absolutely perfect summer night. As I threw another log on the fire, this 10-year-old girl looked up at me and said, "I don't know what it is, but I just feel so good rignt now." She got it right. And, whenever things are a little crazy in my life, I try to summon my inner 10-year-old. . .