Some people use horoscopes to predict their day. Others check to see what kind of stuff they have in their schedule to get a sense of how things are going to go. For me, it’s much more simple than star charts and Franklin planners. My day hinges on poop.
Not my own, let’s be clear. Although at my age, who can deny that a good one can be a very satisfying start to the day. No, it’s more serious than that because it is totally out of my control.I am, of course, referring to Mr. Squish.
My day is always better if I can get my work done early in the day. Once I hit “save,” I am free, and it’s a glorious feeling. My ideal schedule is to get my work finished, take Squish somewhere fun to play, come home for lunch, and start on my second project while he takes a nap. Sounds easy, right? And it totally can be, but it’s all up to Squish.
I cannot work when he is running around. I find myself stopping every 5.3 seconds to pull him off the couch/cat/counter, and it’s hard to concentrate. If I can get him to sit still for 30 minutes, I get on a roll, the creative juices can flow, and I can at least get enough traction that I can finish my work after I spring him. And that means Bob the Builder. I know. I am a terrible parent. I let my kid watch a bit of TV. <insert judgement of my parenting here>
But here’s the rub. In our house, there is no access to the wonders of a claymation construction worker until tiny person produces a poop. And not just any poop. It has to at least appear to be the day’s work. Can we do it? Yes, we can!
Our rule is not as weird as it sounds. My young toilet-trainee had lots of accidents while watching his show because he found Bob too riveting to answer the call of nature. Since the institution of the poop-for-Bob policy, Squish has had 2 accidents. It works, and we’re sticking with it until it doesn’t anymore. May that day never come.
The tricky part is getting it done. Most days, he’s like clock-work. He gets up, he asks to potty, he poops out a present, and my work can begin. But then there are the days where he doesn’t want to, where he isn’t, um, moved by the spirit. Those days are special. He offers a non-committal shrug and says “It not workin’ today.” Those days go something like this:
“Do you want to go poop?”
“Naw. I fine.”
“Go play for a few minutes while Mommy does her workies.”
“Mommy, my scooper is broken!” (accompanied by dramatic wailing)
“Baby, that’s a puzzle. It’s supposed to come apart. Let Mommy finish this really fast”
“Is my room clean? I cleaning my room.”
“Squish, that’s the closet. Get out of there! Do you need to go poop? Poop for Bob?”
“No. No poop today. Dis Daddy’s coffee?”
“Don’t drink that!”
“I hungwy. Need brekfuss.”
“Sweetie, you just ate. Are you sure you don’t need to poop? Watch some Bob?”
“No, I fine. I gonna feed Feebee.”
“I already fed the dog, pumpkin. Give me that. She can’t eat all of those!”
“I frow dis away. Dis trash.”
“Baby, that’s my checkbook. Get out of my purse, and get that out of the trash!”
And on it goes until:
a) Squish gives up and produces a dook, or
b) I give up on my deadline and take Squish somewhere to burn off some energy so that maybe he’ll actually take a nap.
Today we were lucky. It’s only 9am, and it’s all taken care of on both ends. We’re going to pack up and go to the zoo to celebrate. It’s been a productive day. For both of us.