Just telling stories, Mama.

It's embarrassing to say, but we have been working with Natty for months and months now that pooping in the tub in neither appropriate nor acceptable. I'm not sure what it is for him that is so enjoyable about it (perhaps the same sensation/ease that pregnant women feel when they opt to give birth in the water?) but we can't seem to impress on him enough that it is not the proper choice that he is making. It's been quite a few baths since this has happened last, and I had almost clear forgotten about this dirty little habit of his.

Here's where I'm not winning any super-mom awards: while Natty has his play time in the bath, I sit around the corner on the computer eagerly drinking up any computer time that is afforded to me! I frantically visit page after page, rapidly fire off emails, visit all the blogs, do our finances... whatever I can do in my little window. I realize that I should be present in the bathroom at all times with such a little person in the tub (and, please note, I never leave Isaac's side if he's in the tub!); but I know Natty is more than capable; I am told repeatedly by him, "No thank you Mama!" for me to leave; and although my eyes are focused on the screen, my ears are glued to the tub for any unusual noises or activities.

Here's where experience comes in. I know the noises of a boy that is getting ready to, or is in the midst of pooping in the tub. He's not very sly about it. If his toots and grunts don't give him away in enough time to save the situation, then his incriminating descriptive dialogue and play-by-play of his pooping does. Sadly, even though I know the method to his seeming madness (or rather, to my impending madness), I never seem to nip it in the butt (pun intended) early enough. I'll give that much to him.

But tonight he got me hook line and sinker. I was happily reading away an extraordinarily juicy blog and comment page, fully enjoying myself and thinking how well it was going for me: good friends to laugh about/with, time on the computer, one boy bathed and down to bed and the other playing so nicely; it bit me in the ass. Natty had been playing out and telling a cute little story in the tub with his toys and I was proudly thinking of how ingenious he was to come up with his ideas. Then the word poop entered his story and I flew into the bathroom frantically searching the tub with my eyes for the dreaded floating...er... pieces. Not one there! Had we crossed a bridge here? Had I got there in time? Had I one more item to add to my "look-how-well-my-life-is-going-right-now" pile? I asked him so nicely if he had to go poo--did he want to get out and try, since it wasn't acceptable to go in the tub--or was he just telling stories. "Oh, I'm just telling stories, Mama." Phew! As I turned to leave I saw the crime. Between the curtains, sitting so comfortably together in a cup were three fair-sized brown lumps. My resourceful little boy had corralled the offenders himself. The problem was, I didn't know how long he had been boy-handling them and using them as props in his story. Needless to say, as equally amused, disgusted and angered as I was, I ended his story right then and there, amidst many tears of complaint. But, secretly, I was so impressed he captured them all and had set them apart, or consecrated them, if you will. Now if I could only teach him how to clean out the tub with the cleaner.