I don’t think I will ever fully understand the lure of the toilet as a plaything.
I get the water part. And the associated splashing. And the way the toilet paper, upon stirring it around with your Elmo toothbrush, disintegrates into a kind of flaking cloud of slop and paste and pee residue. Especially when you put lots of toilet paper in there. Like, say, 13 or so feet of it. And then pull it out and fling it, dripping, onto the wall behind the tub where it sticks. And hardens. Into something wholly unnatural.
I mean, I get that. But does a two-year-old girl have to do it every day? Right after I dress her? In both bathrooms?
I remember the first time Drew discovered the toilet. Actually, it wasn’t the toilet toilet. It was the training toilet, the one that took up permanent residence next to the Sit ‘n Spin in the family room, the one her big sister was getting applause and standing ovations for just sitting on. Toilet equals joy! Toilet equals M and Ms! Toilet equals parents doing happy dances!
Looking back, I can see what a confusing time it was for little Drew, learning to crawl, discovering a whole new world that exisited eight inches off the ground. Like the bottom drawer where we keep the restaurant menus that needed to be removed hourly. And the shelf in the pantry where we keep bottles of booze. And the training potty.
Had I been a sharper mother, I probably would have seen it coming. But Blair was so elated, jumping around with her pull-ups around her ankles, pointing at her biggest accomplishment yet—poop in the potty! There was much rejoicing. I think we may have pulled out a few musical instruments. And had a small parade.
Which made it all the more disconcerting when, upon returning to the family room, we found Drew there, sitting in the middle of the floor, clapping along, and chewing on something. I tried to convince myself that it was a Tootsie Roll. In fact, I went so far to rationalize how she could have gotten a Tootsie Roll, from the ceramic bowl, on top of the red cabinet that is five feet tall.
It was not a Tootsie Roll.
There were no happy dances.
And, yet, she doesn’t seem to remember. She keeps going back to the toilet. For fun. This I do not get.