Two days ago my son flat out refused his diaper. I tried everything. I offered a pull-up aka “big boy diaper” alongside a traditional, classic, more Ralph Lauren style diaper. I even whipped out the big guns—a pack of “big boy” underpants that I had been saving as a reward for the first time Joe took a dump in, or in the vicinity of his potty chair. They glow in the dark. GLOW! He still wasn’t interested. Tossed them on the floor and ran out of the room wailing.

I couldn’t for the life of me get him to put on a diaper the rest of the afternoon. In his defense, he did yank a dirty diaper from the trash and try to put that on. I asked him why he wanted to put on a wet smelly diaper when he had such a cool big boy sweet-smelling fancy pair just waiting for him. He wailed and ran away. I pulled out the baby powder. I bargained. I told him he could use the whole entire bottle on his butt if he would just put on his diaper! More tears.

At this point a neon green booger began to slide down his face towards his mouth. I plopped him butt nekkid into his high chair, looked him in the eye and delivered my earnest inquiry, “If you have to go potty say ‘Potty!’, and I’ll take you into the potty room and put you on the potty chair.” Then, as an awful horrible reflex I finished up with the dreaded, “Okay?”. Might as well have put a crown on him and changed his birth certificate to read The Prince of England.

Then I did the unthinkable.

I called The Bitter Half.

There, I said it. He thought it was funny. FUNNY?!?!? After about 30 seconds of passive aggressive silence on my end, he serioused himself right up and offered a suggestion. The same suggestion he gives for everything. The universal cure-all. “Give him a bath!”. “Oh please… a bath?!?”. Hmpf.

I saw that Joe was finished eating and lifted his leg. No poop. No puddles. Whew. I took him down and said, “Are you ready for your BIG BOY diaper?”. The Prince of England shook his head no. Sigh. I sat down at my desk for a little Twitter comfort. Off to my left Joe was pointing to something and proudly proclaiming “Potty!”. I didn’t need to look. I knew what it was. He had understood my earnest request after all. Just not the correct order.

Perhaps I would follow The Bitter Half’s advice. I didn’t have to tell him about it, did I? If it was a success and my son allowed himself to be diapered, I could always throw some dirt on Joe to make it look like I hadn’t given him a bath. Yes, that sounds reasonable. A bath it is! After a half hour of good fun and bubble making, Joe indicated that he was ready to get out. As I lifted him and the bubbles cleared away I noticed some pebbles on the bottom of the tub.

Hmm… I wonder where he found the pebbles? I wonder… Hey wait! Those aren’t pebbles.

I glanced at my son. He had “that look” on his face. He wasn’t meeting my stare. Hmm…

Upon closer inspection my suspicion was confirmed. POOP. Sigh. And with the poop came unexpected blessed relief. At least he hadn’t pooped on the rug. Has it come to this? Yes, apparently it has. Two minutes later Joe was happily bediapered.

I forgot to throw dirt on Joe and rub jelly into his hair. The Bitter Half arrived home. Oh no! Surely he would notice the sweet smell of soap on Joe’s hair and get all puffed up and bask in his righteousness for the rest of the evening. As it turns out, he didn’t. But I still glared at him from time to time as though he did. Sometimes you have to head them off at the path.

Instead he motioned me over to look at Lily. “You’ve got to see this”, he said.

“She has her whole hand in her mouth!”. Her whole hand?? This calls for closer inspection.

Yes it does appear to be her entire hand. What did it mean? Was she hungry? Was she sending me a message?

Message received and understood. Women must learn to expect the unexpected.