Last night, I brought Jordan’s little friend Sasha home with me. She’s younger than Jordan, and still in day care, and her mom had asked if I could pick her up and have her hang out with us for a couple hours.
They live down the street, and Sasha and Jordan are good pals. She’s up for pretty much anything he proposes, so they have been known to crawl down the sidewalk together roaring like lions. For example.
Jordan was already home with Betty. He was sitting at the table playing with Play Doh, and although he likes her and they play well together, he did NOT want to share.
So I suggested they go in the back room, which is where his trains and cars are.
He jumped up and said, “OK!” He took her hand, pulled her towards the back, and asked, “Sasha, do you want to pee pee? Let’s go to the bathroom!”
Pee pee? I then realized my mistake. We never call it the back room. We call it the background. And back room does sound very much like bathroom, no?
But by that point they’d reached the bathroom door. He was enthusiastically trying to pull her in. She’s not potty trained, and was not psyched. “No no no no no!”
“Jordan, don’t pull her. Let go. She doesn’t want to pee. She wants to go play in the background.”
He was about to let go of her hand. When it dawned on him that he had something awesome to offer. A trump card.
He beamed at her. “Do you want to see my poop?”
He was clearly about to pull her hand again. She resisted, looking as stricken as a two-and-a-half-year old can. She wasn’t falling for this bait and switch!
I, of course, rushed in.
There it was. A little tiny turd in the red potty. He stood over it like a trophy. Nanna let him save it to show Daddy and me. And anyone else important, it seems.
I high-fived him. Told him how proud I was, how impressed. And then suggested we take a picture for Daddy, and then flush it down the toilet.