I wish I could create something beautiful-a film, a painting, a piece of music.
Something that is actually moving to someone, without being cliched, melodramatic, without manipulating the emotions of easily teary pregnant ladies.
Maybe with this blog, I have, I will (Jeffrey has taught me transcendental verb tense, and let me tell you, it is liberating)
I think maybe this post, even, might encapsulate all that is good and beautiful in this world.
You see, I like potty training my children more than I like potty training special education students.
With special ed students, I had to do something called the Peanut Butter exercise.
You put a healthy dollop of peanut butter on a paper plate, have them hold the plate behind their bottoms, give them a square of toilet paper, and let them wipe away until the there is no more peanut butter on the plate.
It's works really well, especially when the students get the peanut butter on their fingers and lick it off. Do you explain the difference or do you let it go, and hope for the best?
But with my own children I have not had to do the Peanut Butter exercise.
We have this great system worked out where they sprint naked from the toilet, find you where ever you are in the house or yard, and bend themselves double in order to give you the best possible view of the...opening...whereupon there is some variation in the system, as the five year-old gleefully asks "Is there any poop on my bottom?" and the three year-old just begs you to "wife" him.
It is entirely possible in this household to find yourself followed by two backwards-walking naked bottoms, each demanding in high, shrill voices that you attend to their individual fecal scenarios.
But now I must reveal a terrible truth, a secret, shameful memory. By typing the following words I will probably disqualify myself from ever holding public office.
When I was a little boy, I too asked for advice when it came to successful wiping.
But not from my mother or father, or at least, not that I can remember.
No, I subjected my poor little best friend in the neighborhood to the awful ritual.
I would poop at his house, then do the bend over maneuver now so familiar to me.
"Is there any left?" I would prompt him.
All I can remember is his voice, a little shy, a little sad, saying "umm there's some right there...oh..yep you got it."
Sometimes in the night, when I cannot sleep, the idea torments me. The idea that if I remember this happening, than so must he.
The embarassment burns over me and I cry a little bit.
My Ladyfriend rolls over in bed, grumbling, barely awake, "What it is it now?'
"I think I had my friend check my bottom for poop."
"Than shut up and go to sleep."
I get a tissue and wife my tears.