I’m the first to admit that I’ve had a steep learning curve when it comes to the subjects of poopie and pee-pee. As a Grandmother who never experienced children of my own, I’ve been playing catch up on the subject, and gaining confidence with each success; but there are always those unexpected surprises.
Such a surprise happened recently. We’re all occupied in various capacities in the back yard. I’m raking leaves, and the two oldest boys are helping wash the outdoor furniture. The three-year-old (Ben) has traded in his diaper for a bathing suit. He announces to ‘Mom’ that he needs to pee-pee. Unlike his diaper, he can manage his trunks by himself, so Mom gives him permission to pee outside. No sooner than his trunks are up he is tugs them down again, and squealing, “POOPIE.” I clarify. “You want to Poopie?” He nods. ‘Mom’ is no longer in our vicinity so, forced to use my own judgment, I suggest that poopie is not on the approved list for outdoor activities, recommending that he go to the bathroom—in the house. He dashes in, and returns a few minutes later. My five-year-old grandson (Coleman) yells, “Gammie, Ben is pooping.” I stop raking and turn to see Ben naked in a squat position, and—yes—pooping. Clearly, at this point, there is little I can do except watch the event unfold, which is just what Coleman and I did. Coleman broke the silence with, “He did it.” At a loss for any additional observation I added, “Well, yes he did. I guess he is the Poopie King.”
Later, as if wanting to secure his title, the Poopie King makes a return engagement. Fortunately, as Mom happened on the scene, my assistance was not called for. Seeing her dropped jaw convinced me that outdoor poopie was definitely not on her approved list. The drama builds as Ben squats then peers between his legs. For some unfathomable reason, except perhaps a superior view, Coleman is crouches behind his brother, and says, “I can see your head.” Poor Mom remains slack-jawed, unable to speak.
In retrospect, I am not sure exactly what happened in the following seconds. I cannot say if any poopie was produced. From my location, I’m witnessing Mom’s reaction, watching her naked squatter with his head down, gazing through his legs, and the older brother waving at the aforementioned head declaring: “He IS the Poopie King. He IS the Poopie King.” My world stopped momentarily with the three frozen in place, imbedding itself forever in my mind as ‘The Poopie Tableau.’
Had there been another person watching, they might have included me in that picture. I would be the one smiling at the scene from a distance. Happy in the knowledge that learning curves extend beyond novice grandmothers, and happy, because, well—I’m way the heck over here.