Amanda and I decided before Alastair's birth that we would not lie to him. We would not fall victim to the conventional trappings of child-rearing and get our kid's hopes up over imaginary crap. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Great Pumpkin. None of that crap. Because do you remember how you felt when you realized it was all a bunch of BS? Yeah: like your parents were a bunch of liars. Nobody likes a liar.
So we eschewed it. We explained that there is no Santa Claus, but he's kind of a joke that some people tell.
But then came Mr. I-Will-Only-Poop-In-My-Pants and his thereby alluded-to problem. We tried patience. We tried non-patience (a lot). Then we realized he was constipated, so I gave him an enema and he takes Miralax daily.
For a while, things improved. For almost two weeks we had no poop in the pants.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, we had a full reversal. He poops and pees his diapers every single night now. And not after bed, either: we're talking the time between dinner and bed, which is only about 45 minutes.
So Amanda made up a story to scare him. She told him we might have to send him to a SPECIAL SCHOOL if he didn't start pooping in the potty, and only in the potty.
Last week, in frustration, I revived that story. And I elaborated until he sat there in tears, begging not to be sent away.
You see, THE SPECIAL SCHOOL is terribly ominous to a child with an overactive imagination (all the more so because it comes from a daddy with an overactive imagination):
- It's always cold.
- There are no toys, no stuffed animals, no friends.
- All you do--all day long--is sit on the potty.
- There are no movies and no TV.
- The teachers are all mean.
- The food is bad.
- You will probably be there thru Christmas, so no presents.
- No family can come to visit.
- The bus is coming Friday. If he hasn't pooped in his pants by Friday, I won't send him.
Last night, after sobbing over THE SPECIAL SCHOOL for 15 minutes, my son looked at me and said, "I think I need to poop on the potty." And he did.