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Harry Potty-Mouth and the Bath Chamber of Doom Lord Voldemort, the arch-nemesis of Harry Potter, has taken up residence in our toilet. He just moved in about two weeks ago, soon after my 4-year-old son caught a brief glimpse of the trailer for the upcoming film "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." Unfortunately, the glimpse, in all its brevity, contained a nanosecond of the evil wizard. Ever since then, Reilly refuses to go to the toilet unaccompanied for fear that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is lurking in the u-bend, waiting to pop out at any moment. I'm not sure what will happen then. I don't think Reilly has thought that part out either. Perhaps he will turn him into a Disney princess or other despised object. It is slightly ironic that Reilly finds the toilet so disturbing at the moment, since he currently finds potty words so attractive. I don't mean expletives. He did bring the f-word home from school one day last year, but was quickly cured of any desire to use it (for now, anyway) when I told him that it can mean "go away" or "I don't like you." No, his potty talk really is very much all about the potty – poo-poos, pee-pees, diapers and "bums," with the occasional penis thrown out here and there for variety. I don't find the toilet talk offensive per se, just incredibly irritating. Unfortunately, it seems that my husband and I have officially sanctioned it by foolishly purchasing the book "Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants." What were we thinking? Now my son thinks it is side-splittingly funny to create endless variations on the "poopypants" theme. For example: Him: Hey Mom! Are you Professor Poopypants? Me: No. Him: Are you Professor Pee-pee-tee-pee-toco-boco-poopypants? Me: No. Him: Are you Professor Tongally-chongally-choo-choo-poo-poo-diaperhead-skrowy-penis-y-poopypants? Me: No. It seems that the longer they've been in it, the better: "Ah yes! Aged to perfection – you can taste the subtle notes of sandbox and playground equipment." They both have a vague understanding that this inclination is wrong and disapproved of, but like a pair of alcoholics they can't help themselves – taking secretive sips when they think we're not looking or pretending to wash their faces while they suck their fix out of the washcloth. Then there is Gigi's use of half the toilet roll to wipe herself after a fruitless (yet always enthusiastic) excursion to the toilet. Or her insistence upon examining her poopy diaper a dozen times or so before she allows me to throw it out. "Ah," she stops me with raised eyebrow and finger, "See it?" After inspecting it in critical fashion, as if trying to see the future in its fecal depths ("You are going on a long journey to Costco, to buy more diapers"), she then gives me the nod and says "Okay!" only to stop me and go through the whole routine again (and again, and again) as I am about to escape outside to the garbage can with Exhibit A. So many mothers of grown children have said to me "Savor everything, don't wish the time away, because it goes by in the blink of an eye." Surely they weren't talking about this stuff? I can't believe that when my kids are middle-aged I'll be wishing Gigi will invite me over for some diaper-gazing and a gobletful of bathwater, or that I'll be longing for Reilly to say "Mom, are you Professor Poopypants?" Because by then, sadly, I just might be. But sarcasm aside, I know that even as I wish for the passage of time so that I can get beyond some difficult or exasperating or just plain boring part of raising children, these things are gradually slipping away, taking with them the many, many other parts of mothering that I adore. My children are only two and four, and already I feel it. For instance, while I'm glad to be past the torture of sleepless nights with an infant, I miss my children's sweet, baby roundness and gummy smiles. I'm proud of my son's command of the English language, but loved how he used to call a bulldozer a "Boze-da-da-da" and me "Mama" instead of "Mom." And though I'm glad that my daughter is so easy to put to bed these days, I miss the deep sense of connection I felt holding and rocking her while she nursed into oblivion. Then there are the things that I can enjoy for a few more years, but which I know will fall away in time: Genevieve pretending to be "Mommy" to her teddy bear, performing with tenderness all of the things I do for her; Reilly shouting out the names of the big machinery whenever we drive past a construction site; watching them both sleep, their faces luminous in the darkness, as if they have swallowed the moonlight and it is shining through their flawless skin. Perhaps what those ladies with the sage advice are talking about is something that no parent can fully fathom until their children are grown, and that is how much we will miss our children as children – potty talk, overzealous wiping, bathwater addiction and all. Not to mention how empty the nest will feel once our children have left to enter the world as fully realized adults. And for me, what a boring place the bathroom will be when Lord Voldemort finally moves out. Vanessa Dodge is a writer and stay-at-home mother of a 5-year old son and a 3-year old daughter. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, she has lived in Oregon, Washington, England, Colorado and Georgia (in that order) before touching down in the Bay Area with her husband over seven years ago. Her essays and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including Glamour, Natural Living Today, The Petaluma Argus-Courier, The Blue Moon Review and The Absinthe Literary Review. She has performed her one-woman plays in Boulder, Atlanta and San Francisco. She is also editor of and a regular contributor to The Nurturer’s News, and blogs on the subject of parenting and family life for The Petaluma Argus-Courier. You can read more of her thoughts on parenting at http://vanessa-dodge.petaluma360.com/.
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