A Christmas Potty Training

A Christmas Potty Training

On Christmas Day, my son Frankie will be exactly 22 months old, so basically a grown man. As such, I have very high expectations of him which include, but are not limited to, doing things I can brag about on this blog. Fortunately he has my genes so he excels at everything.

Research says that most kids are physically and emotionally ready to start toilet training between 22 and 30 months. I also read that boys are typically a few months behind girls which I assume to be utter nonsense because, well, I’m male and look at me. So, my wife and I had decided to begin toilet training when Frankie turned 2 but we did put some things in place much earlier.

Back in August we bought a potty and put it out for him to “get used to”, which took approximately 30 seconds from the moment I opened the box.

potty2

They say that some kids are intimidated by or scared of the potty, but how a small plastic chair becomes the stuff of your child’s nightmares is beyond me.

Are there toddler classes that teach wussiness?

Is there a “Beware Of Unthreatening Inanimate Object” book series?

Do ‘The Wiggles’ have a song that goes
“Hot potato, hot potato. Cold spaghetti, cold spaghetti. Dangerous potty, dangerous potty”? 

I choose to believe that I don’t live in a world where any child has to fear a potty. In fact, if your youngster is terrified of the toilet, I volunteer F4 to come over and fearlessly sit on it to prove to them that you suck at parenting.

Although we’ve not yet started formal potty training, we have been encouraging him to sit on it. Most of the time he’s clothed, or at least in a diaper, but on occasion he’s full birthday suit when he chills. 90% of when he squats on the pot is when we’re brushing our teeth because it’s important that he understands efficiency. In fact, I’m writing this blog on the toilet while simultaneously brushing my teeth, Snapchatting, and doing burpees. You’re not on my level.

I also call F4 into the bathroom to watch me pee and poop because I’m highly skilled at both. So the other day I didn’t think anything of it when he stood fascinated by my manly display of urination. However, a few minutes later, when Lisa asked if he wanted to go potty like daddy he sat down on his tiny plastic throne. I watched my little guy look down at his penis like —

mengoats

For a moment I thought he might have fallen asleep

4goat

I wasn’t really expecting anything when suddenly down in the potty I heard pitter patter. I sprang to the floor to see what was the matter. And what to my wondering eyes did appear but beautiful spray of golden pee my dear.

My sub-2 year old son taking the initiative to go in the potty for the first time almost made me pee myself. He looked up at me and mommy with an expression that could only be seen as, “Did I do good?”

f4pride

The wife and I both screamed like we’d just won the lottery. Frankie caught on and quickly realized that the answer to his question was an emphatic YES. My boy made me very, very proud. For once, I wasn’t the little crybaby that teared up over a milestone. Lisa, however, could not control her eye bladder and let out a few drops of her own. It was a few hours before we came down from our urine high and dreamed of a day when he’d poop in that very same potty.

Yeah, that happened the next day, right after he peed again. Granted, it was only one tiny turd, but he did it nonetheless. Talk about some next level shit. He went pee pee in the potty again that night and the following morning. That was 3 days ago. Since then, every time we ask if he wants to go sit on the potty he casually says “No” and keeps on keeping on. There’s part of me that wonders if he only did it to prove to me that he could. To make a point. To say, “Dad, you might be the king of all things, but I’m coming for your crown.” If that’s the case, so be it. I’d be happy to concede to my son in this Game Of (Porcelain) Thrones.

4throneThe wipe is dark and full of terrors.


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Here We Go Sport

Here We Go Sport

I just did something I swore I’d never, under any circumstances, do once I had a child. It’s difficult to reconcile that I’ve gone against my principles and risked all that I hold dear, gambling both my and my childs well being.

I signed my son up for soccer.

There’s a list of sports I want to kill and soccer holds a place firmly in the top 5 along with golf, tennis, lacrosse,  and golf. Yes, golf is listed twice because I harbor double the disdain for this so-called “sport”. It’s a skill, certainly, but not a sport. At least tennis and lacrosse require some level of physical fitness. You can play golf if you have one eye, emphysema, or even a wooden peg leg. Not to mention the fact that watching it is like staring into an empty abyss for all of eternity, only not as exciting.

Soccer held a similar position in my heart up until a few months ago. It was not Cristian Ronaldo or Lionel Messi that swayed me. Nor was it the great and glorious god of hairstyles that I worship, David Beckham. It was my one year old son himself, Frankie Four. See, I’d purchased F4 a little soccer ball on a whim one day. Not because I wanted him to play soccer, far from it, but because the ball itself was more durable than the other balls on sale for $4.99. My vehement opposition to soccer is overshadowed only by my frugality. I hate soccer but I still want to kick it in its cheap balls. Anyway, Frankie Four and I were outside playing the day before his first birthday. The ball was just sitting there when he walked up and kicked it. I figured it was an accident, that he’d been walking toward it and his foot hit before he had a chance to pick it up. Then he kicked it again. My son is only one but he’s sharp, so I doubted that the second time was inadvertent. Just to be sure, I pulled out the trusty phone and nudged the ball with my foot. Seconds later—

Boo ya! And ever since that first flurry of kicks, roughly 3 months ago, he’s constantly dribbling the soccer ball. Dribbling. Is that what it’s called? I know that’s what you call bouncing a basketball to move it down court, but is it the same for soccer? I could Google it but I’m terrified that soccer related ads will start showing up in my email and newsfeed. I’d rather Google “animal with largest testicles” or “is human pancreas edible” or “am I secretly a woman trapped in a mans body?’ than have soccer related marketing target me. That’s my level of disdain for soccer.

You’re probably wondering why I hate soccer worse than Donald Trump hates well, everyone. First off, I played one season of soccer back in elementary school and I sucked at it. I know, I know, it’s hard to believe there was ever anything at which I did not excel. That should be proof enough that soccer is a ridiculous activity. If I wasn’t good at it then, by default, it must actually be the thing itself that sucks, because look at me. Aside of  the traumatic childhood experience of participating in that horror show of a sport, it’s fucking boring. Painfully boring. Granted, it’s not “golf boring”, but it’s definitely a snooze fest to the nth degree. Proof is in the goals. The average number of goals in most World Cup matches is less than 3. Remember, we’re talking about a 90 minute game. That means you’re lucky if you see one goal every half hour. In between those goals you’re watching 22 people run toward a ball. One of those 22 people kicks the ball really far down a field roughly the size of Rhode Island. Then, all 22 people turn and run after the ball. Whoever gets there first kicks it back in the opposite direction and they all turn the other way and run. In the unlikely event that someone kicks the ball into the opposing teams net, a man, always from a foreign country, screams “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!” then immediately dies of surprise that someone scored. His scream is roughly 19 minutes long and is easily the most exciting part of the game. Unfortunately, just after he dies, the 22 people go back to playing soccer.

To make matters worse, I’m going to have to pretend to enjoy soccer. My son is only 15 months old so there aren’t a lot of sports he can play. I can’t sign him up for Brazilian Jiu Jitsu or wrestling because it’s too early for the other toddlers to get choked out or suplexed. I considered swimming but that breast milk gut he’s rocking is not a good look in a Speedo. I’m going to discourage him from football because I prefer to avoid brain damage. And don’t start lecturing me about how MMA fighters can get brain damage because I’ll head kick you. When he’s ready to fight, he’ll fight.

One aspect of this that I do enjoy is that Frankie Four is going to start the soccer program at exactly 16 months old, to the day. The age range is 18-26 months for the starter program so he’ll be one of, if not the youngest kid on the field. If he’s good, I can brag about how advanced he is for his age. If he sucks (like I did), I can explain it away because he started so young. Either way, I win.

If I take a step back, and pretend that I’ve signed him up for something that’s not soccer, I’m really excited. It’s Four’s first group activity other than a sign language and sing along class that I never had the opportunity to attend. The soccer “league” is on Saturday mornings, right in our neighborhood, so that gets to be a daddy activity. I’m looking forward to seeing him interact with other kids in an “organized” manner and introduce him to being a team player. Although most of the sports I personally enjoy participating in and watching are solo endeavors, I understand the value of the team structure. Mostly I’m just enamored of the idea that this will be the first of many activities throughout his life where I can be there to cheer him on. Watching him school the other toddlers enjoy himself while learning valuable life lessons will be an immense source of joy for me. Whenever I took on a sport as a child my dad was always there and it was a great bonding experience. I look forward to sharing the same experiences with my son.

At the end of the day, I don’t care that he likes sports as long as he embraces physical activities and fitness. But if he does like sports, and wants to play, I’ll be on the sidelines 100% of the time, cheering him on, encouraging him, congratulating him for wins, consoling him for defeats, and always reminding him that I am his biggest fan.

Even if he loves to play soccer.

Although I’d prefer baseball.

Or powerlifting.

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