Mini is a funny kid. Perhaps you’ve picked up on this.
The thing that is changing is that he is becoming self-conscious about it now. To the point that I suspect him of writing bits down on the backs of cocktail napkins. Or maybe working things out to try out at the next open mike night at Caroline’s. Now, given, he’s only three — but still, it can’t be long now before he’s talking about whether or not to go blue for the preschool talent show.
The other day, I was trying to wrangle Mini for bathtime. As is his habit on occasion, he was selectively ignoring my requests for him to come into the bathroom. So after some time had passed, I started in with the age-old parental technique of counting wherein the parent counts, slowly, and when the parent gets to a certain number, then the kid knows that Trouble will be happening. The conversation when as follows:
Me: One . . . Two . . . Three . . .
Mini: Four, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVE!
Mr. Right-Click came home from work the other night, and Mini asked him if he’d “care to join us downstairs.” We asked him if an English butler had been teaching him idioms when we weren’t around.
We continue to go through the dances of potty training with Mini. Though he is mostly trained, there is one exception — he has completely rearranged his life so as to not need to use the potty for “number two” except at night time when, as you might suspect, he is wearing a diaper. And more often than not, he will go ahead and use the diaper instead of the potty for number two, despite the fact that he knows his desperate parents will not only bribe him with toys if he uses the potty, but actually go so far as to *drive him to the toy store that very second* if he uses the potty. Still, when we put him to sleep, we are often greeted, ten minutes later, by Mini at our bedside with the Kirk Douglas face, which means that there’s some kind of wonderful package in his diaper that needs immediate attention.
So, the other night, we were all in Mini’s room negotiating the delicate issue of the pre-bedtime poop.
Mr. Right-Click: So, Mini, Mommy and I are going to leave now, and go in the other room.
Mini: OK, GAGA! [Ed. Note: I should add here that "Gaga" is some kind of all-purpose preschool slang of fluid definition that we don't really understand. "Gaga" can mean something good or bad in quick succession without warning.]
Mr. Right-Click: So basically, your plan is to poop your pants just as soon as we leave –is that right?
Mini: That’s right.
Mr. Right-Click: Come on, dude, let’s go sit on the potty. Right now.
Mini: No way, GAGA!
Mr. Right-Click: Your mommy thinks this is hysterical.
Me: I’m sorry, come on buddy, let’s go sit on the potty.
Mini: No way, GAGA!
Me: Come on. Right now.
Mini: No way.
Me: One . . .
Mini: Two . . .
Me: Three . .
Mr. Right-Click: OK, that’s enough.
[Time passes, we return to our room. Mini comes out with the Kirk Douglas face.]
Mr. Right-Click: Did you poop your pants?
Mini: Yes sir, GAGA!
Me: Mini! Why did you do that? Why wouldn’t you just sit on the potty when we asked?
Mini: Because I CAN! GAGA!
And here’s where a visual would really help because the last part was delivered with a Hannibal Lechter lisp, like Mini was looking for some fava beans and a nice Chianti to go with the poop he took in his diaper, just because he could. Gaga.