Oy ve.
Does anyone know a sure fire way to remove something from a preschooler’s vernacular? Everything I’ve tried up to this point — replacements/threats/rewards/punishments/jokes — just hasn’t worked.
Our little uncouth phrase these days?
“Mommy! I pooped a GOOSE!”
Of course, it’s all my fault — a lasting souvenir from our trip to Great Wolf Lodge — and Hubby is rolling from the fact that Mommy is behind this new thing.
It was our first evening at the Lodge; after a long, draining car ride, the Little Lady and Hubby had spent the late afternoon and evening splashing and swimming in the indoor water park. Mr. Boy and I were left in the hotel room to fend for ourselves. . . and to order pizza, according to Hubby. He swears up and down that, before he took the Little Lady to swim, he asked me to find a place that would deliver to the hotel.
I firmly maintain he did no. such. thing.
(Since I’m the one with the time proven track-record of having the best memory, we’ll assume I’m right and he’s wrong.)
Mr. Boy and I watched TV, slept, and enjoyed our last weekend of breast-feeding/bonding. As the hours past, I wondered what our dinner plans would entail. I even thought about ordering a pizza but decided to wait and check with the Hubby first. I’m thoughtful like that.
When my sopping wet ducklings returned, they were famished. Beyond famished. And there was nothing to eat but a few gummy Slim Jims the Little Lady had “tried out.” Hubby was NOT happy.
Hubby isn’t the kind of guy to be really vocal with his frustration, anger, etc. Like me, he tends to passively display it. Lots of sighing. Shutting down. Looks. Raised eyebrows. We’re two peas in pod when it comes to this type of communication (or lack thereof).
After a few questions from me, I learned the reason behind it all: I hadn’t ordered pizza.
(sigh)
It was then the Little Lady decided it was time to visit the little girls room. No WAY was I asking Hubby to take her — after the long ride, long hours in chlorine, and the long moments dealing with a growling stomach, he was not in the mood.
I sat her on the toilet, holding her knees for balance. We’re still in the early stages of potty-training around here, which means EVERY bathroom event is raved over, rewarded, and relayed to excited grandparents in two states.
Yes, it gets old clapping and jumping for joy all day long, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do. . . especially when your goal is to have only ONE child in diapers.
The Little Lady likes to provide play-by-play commentary during our bathroom ventures — I guess in case we, the observers, miss the obvious.
“Oooooo, Mommy, I “tee-tee’d!” Yaaaaaay, Mommy! Did you hear it?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are SUCH a big girl; I’m so proud of you! Are you done?”
“No, not yet, Mommy.”
“Not yet” is never a good phrase to hear. Regardless of the outcome, it really means the Little Lady isn’t bored yet. Sitting on the potty is fun, something akin to play time, and she will sit there for-eh-ver!
So, we sat. And sat. And sat.
Then, her pale green eyes dancing with excitement, she leaned forward and whispered, “Mommy, I’m going to poop!”
That was my cue to provide cheesy smiles and encouragement, which I wholeheartedly did.
She finished and announced, ever so proudly, that she had pooped “a LOT.”
(Sigh.)
I really, really, really hate potty-training. I grew up in a house-hold that simply did NOT discuss bathroom matters. Never ever. Because of this, potty-training discussions are nothing but painful for me, but, at that moment, I through off my prudishness and confirmed her announcement. It was a lot.
“Can we tell Daddy, Mommy?”
This was my light bulb moment. Of COURSE we would tell Daddy. The man is a junior -high boy — he LOVES bathroom humor. I knew it would change his mood. Hearing his Little Lady brag about this . . . ahem . . . “issue” would make him grin from ear to ear — especially if I could get her to announce it in a funny way.
I leaned forward.
“Yes — yell to Daddy, ‘I dropped a deuce, Daddy!’.”
The Little Lady took in a deep breath and yelled her now infamous phrase.
“DAAAAAAADY! I POOPED A GOOSE!“
I tried not to laugh, but dang! Seriously? Did she really just say she pooped a goose? My laughter rang out and mingled with the loud guffaws coming from Hubby in the next room.
Like with any preschooler, our laughter was all it took to spark a fire. Although she had no clue as to why, the Little Lady knew her misspoken phrase was funny. She decided to up the hilarity.
“Yes! I pooped a goose and now. . . . now . . . . now I’m gonna poop a SHEEP, DADDY!”
Since that trip, she announces each “number two” bathroom visit with zoological information. The animals vary each time — sometimes she expels snakes, puppies, horses — but the Little Lady still prefers to “poop a goose.”
Even in public restrooms.
I don’t even try to explain to the other patrons. I’m sure those women had two-year-olds once too. If they didn’t? Well, they just wouldn’t get it and I might as well just smile and hurry the Little Lady out . . . before something even worse can escape her lips!
