I have learned many things about parenthood. I have learned how to deal with a child's ear pain (Motrin, not Tylenol. Scotch for me). I have learned that, to a six year old, a sprinkle of basil on pizza counts as a vegetable (and will not be tolerated). I have learned that identical objects are not identical -- your brother's will always be better than yours, and IT'S NOT FAIR. But I have to say that the one thing that has surprised me over the past year or two is the total smearing of our lives with POTTY TALK.
About six months ago, my boys became enamored with the Captain Underpants series of books. You know these books, the ones with titles like “The Madcap Adventures of Professor Poopypants.” I realized then that all it takes to make a buck in this world is to tap into the timeless joy that can be found in the idea of poop. Dav Pilkey, the author of the series, simply types a few potty words on each page, draws some rough sketches of a school principal in his BVDS, and zillions of little boys across the country are happy to lay down $4.99 a pop for the pleasure of this kind of “literature.” Better yet, there’s a CD of Captain Underpants potty talk songs (sung by a Japanese synth band) that your child can purchase and play on continuous repeat (Who can resist a song called, “Oops I farted, Oops I burped”).
I do know that there are certain families that forbid potty talk, or forbid it at certain times of the day, or in certain places. One family we know has a rule that you can only use potty talk in the bathroom. Of course, all this means is that their kids each go stand in a separate bathroom and holler their potty words across the house.
Personally, I am rather beleaguered by all the forbidding I have to do. Daily, I have to forbid hitting, punching, kicking, saying mean things, biting, and hiding your brother’s toothbrush in or around the toilet. And just today I learned that I apparently need to forbid digging large holes in the middle of the lawn. I am tired of screaming, “No! No! No!” all day. And that means, at our house, the potty talk will continue to flow in a steady stream.
Occasionally, we can use the potty fixation to our advantage. A few weeks ago, Michael and I took Blue and Green on a little winter hike. Michael was trying to explain the complex ecosystem to the boys, pointing out the presence of an enormous nurse log that was hosting the growth of a new tree. “See that dead tree on its side," Michael began. “You can see its root structure.” Green asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?” Michael persisted, “Isn’t this cool, guys? This tree died and a whole new tree is growing on top of its trunk.” Blue said, “I’m tired. Is it time for ice cream yet?”
Finally, I piped in. “Boys,” I said, “Go check out that tree’s butt!” And off they ran to play in the forest.
We do try to help the boys decide which situations are not ripe for this kind of material. They already know that school is not the ideal place to discuss potty-related topics (though let me tell you, I have learned some things about elementary school boys’ bathrooms that a prim mother doesn’t need to know). We have also asked the boys to refrain from excessive potty talk when we have guests in the house. This rule is generally effective, but occasionally some special circumstances arise. Take, for instance, my in-laws’ visit last December. We were all happily sitting around the kitchen table, talking about mild and wholesome things, when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, calling with hysteria about some “suspicious characters” in the neighborhood.
I should probably back up and mention where we live. It’s a little 1950s neighborhood that is filled with the “original owners.” That means, in polite terms, that the social scene around here is pretty sedate. Nothing really happens, but still, this one neighbor is on the lookout. Don’t even think about stumbling drunk along our street! By all means, clean up after your dog! And if dandelions take over your lawn, watch out! This lady will call 911.
So, anyway, we were all sitting around in the kitchen when our neighbor sounded her alarm: A car! Parked outside our house! Strange people! Doing strange things! I peeked outside, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar grey beater. Parked. Empty. No strange people. “Thanks,” we told the vigilant neighbor. “We will stand guard.” But, of course, we went back to whatever we were doing, and when we looked outside again, the car was gone.
The next day, when the kids and I were heading out of the house to go to school, Blue stopped abruptly and squealed with delight.
“What is it????” I asked, startled.
“UNDERPANTS!!!!!” He shrieked at top volume. “Mommy! Look! There’s a pair of stinky, smelly underpants in the road!”
And he was right. In the precise spot where the strange vehicle was parked the day before lay a striped pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. For me, this presented a set of perplexing problems: What was I going to do with a pair of someone else’s panties just steps from my front door? Was there a way to dispose of them without actually touching them? And, most importantly, how was I going to tell my mother-in-law not to trip on the USED bloomers decorating our property? For Green, this was a delightful twist to an otherwise ordinary morning. “Mommy,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a really good day!”
By now you are probably wondering why I am sharing this piece of news with you. Well, let me tell you, dear readers, YOU are going to participate in the Saga of the Traveling Underpants. Each month, we will go together out into the street. Will the panties still be there? Will someone move them? Or will they decompose? Maybe this is a question for environmental science: What happens to synthetic fabric made by children in Bangladesh if you expose it to the elements over time?
We have already learned that a Weather Event will not carry the underpants down the street in a flow of ice and water. We have also learned that the passage of various garbage and recycling trucks does not propel the panties away from our house and toward someone else’s. And, finally, we have noticed that few people actually mention the presence of the underpants when they come to visit us. Does this mean they don’t notice that they just plopped their kicky leather boots on top of someone’s unmentionables? Or does it mean that they think that the underpants are MINE?
Here it is - the first installment (covered in a little snow):
