When it’s time to go, daughter says no

An email to my daughter.

To: Daughter

From: All Powerful Father

Subject: Please “go”

So what’s the deal, Little One? Things were going great with the whole potty training thing. You were getting it. We were dancing like fools (my Macarena is as impressive now as it was in 1994). We rewarded you with tasty treats. I was even getting used to referring to your mother insisting I call your underwear as “panties.” Things were good.

Then, without warning, you decided you’d only go “#1” from here on out.

Don’t get me wrong; you’re good at going “#1.” Heck, you’re the Tiger Woods of going “#1.” If there was a contest and I needed someone to pee for me you’d be my go-to girl. Granted, that would be one strange contest. Unfortunately you can’t get the job done by simply urinating more, as you’re apparently attempting to do. I’m 93% sure things work with girls the same as boys but I can’t be certain. Every time I try and do research on the Internet, searching “lady parts” around your mother she gets upset. Like I can help what comes up on the Internet.

Look, I know “going” is not the most glamorous thing to do. But even the Queen of England does it, though it’s best if you don’t picture that moment like I just did.

“That business is too uncivilized for me,” I can picture you thinking. “You peasants can do that while my body will simply convert it to cuteness.”

I don’t think you know how the Excretory System works, and it only took me 15 minutes to figure out that was the name of the system, so I’m clearly the one to explain this to you. You see, when you consume fruit snacks, for example, (no you can’t have any right now, we’re in the middle of something much more delicious: knowledge) your body cannot absorb all of those “nutrients.” It must expel the waste otherwisewell, I’m not sure what the consequences are but it can’t be at all good.

When American Revolutionary War soldiers packed too much powder into their muskets, they had a tendency to violently discharge in a most disagreeable fashion, causing collateral damage in places they most certainly weren’t aiming.

I imagine it’s a lot like that. Only stickier.

Like a truck tire filled too full, it’s bound to explode and nobody wants to be behind it when it does.

Do you have a better idea now? No? Let me put it another way. You know your mother’s hobby of stopping me in the middle of saying really important things? In this case my words are vital nutrients her body needs to survive. After four words, her body deems she’s already absorbed all the vital information. As a result, she “excretes” words like “I don’t care” and “stop talking about your stupid video game” which makes her feel better and ready to absorb more of my charming witticisms.

Frankly, how you’re able to keep all that inside you is as impressive as it is scary. Is your mutant power being able to absorb the world’s most prune juice, raisins and applesauce and without being affected by them whatsoever?

I’m unsure how to remove your clog, but judging by the look your mom gives me when I suggest: A) a plunger or B) picking you up and kind of squeezing you like toothpaste these ideas are not the answer.

Are you on some kind of strike? Is this perhaps is this just some strange way to prove a point?

“You made me try a bite of hamburger that you know I hate! Just for that, nothing’s exiting the Holland Tunnel!”

I sincerely hope you’re not storing it all in some secret place and ready to throw it at what you perceive is the next injustice like some ill-tempered monkey (yes, like Boots from Dora. Yes, I like Boots. No, you can’t watch Dora. Focus.).

It’s not that I don’t enjoy spending between eight seconds and 40 minutes 12 times/day crouched on the bathroom floor with you I do, it’s a real treat it’s just that my legs look like I’ve been kicking the refrigerator and my back is a giant, angry ball of snakes. And, admittedly, I feel a little awkward offering verbal encouragement to a person sitting on a toilet. Though, I suppose I don’t feel any more awkward then when I do it to the gentlemen at the stalls in my office.

Look, I know, it can be scary. Your mother gets so worried when I’m in there in there for so long and has said she feels compelled to send a search-and-rescue dog in after me (why she’s advocating for animal abuse in such a cruel manner is unclear, but I no longer want a dog if this is part of the package). I sure as heck know my process wouldn’t be expedited staring face-to-face with a dog. I have enough stage fright to deal with. Frankly, I should be commended for being able to go without banishing everyone from the house.

We need to come to an understanding, you and I. You go when you need to and I’ll stop asking you about it. I’d prefer our interactions NOT revolve around your bodily functions. Lord knows I get that enough from your mother.

I’ve heard this is common in toddlers; a “phase” even. So I’ll just say this: we’d better not be having this conversation when you’re 16. My back can’t take it and I don’t know if the doorway is wide enough to accommodate my wheelchair.

Kelly Van De Walle is the senior creative & marketing writer for Briscoe14 Communications (www.briscoe14.com). He can be reached at vandkel@hotmail.com or on via his bathroom floor pleading, negotiating and bribing his daughter to “go.” Follow Kelly on Twitter @pancake_bunny or he’ll find where his daughter is storing it all and mail it to your sister.