“Dada?”

“Yes, Nate.”

“Would Papa Heaton know what poopbend is?”

“What what is?”

“Poopbend.”

“What is poopbend, Nate?”

“I don’t know. But would Papa Heaton know? You said that he knowed all about EVERYTHING.”

“Yeah, he probably would have known, actually.”

“Even would he know how to cook everything all at ONCE? At the SAME time? Like red cake? And blue cake?”

“Definitely.”

“Mum-Mum! There are no seat buckles on my bus!”

Why is that, exactly? People FREAK OUT about kids’ safety in automobiles…if a baby’s car seat isn’t perfectly level, if you migrate from a five-point-harness to a belt-positioning-booster a month or a pound before the recommended time, or a hundred other nuanced issues regarding how you strap your kid down in the car. But, start kindergarten and board a giant, yellow, tin can driven by a stranger, add 30 of your closest friends, and all of a sudden it’s Thunderdome on your 7:30 a.m. jaunt to school.

Here is Liam’s run-skip exit off of the bus and into his Primary School on the first day. Ours was not one of the weepy on the first day of kindergarten. He was revved up and vibrating with excitement and energy, and, amazingly, it has remained so for two plus months!

Nate and Sam weren’t quite sure what to do with their hours and hours of free time each day. They were like the oppressed citizens of a country whose ruthless, yet familiar and therefore reassuring, dictator had been overthrown. Without Czar Liam making them dance, they wandered the house and yard aimlessly for two or three days, experienced civil unrest and in-fighting, but finally found their feet by the end of the week. Sam was especially discombobulated when Nate started his two-and-a-half hour, five-day, pre-K classes in the following weeks. He was without an older brother for the first time in his life. And, hey! Did you know that Sam is really REALLY demanding of my time when he is without an older brother for the first time in his life?

“Mum-Mum…watch I do! Watch I do! MUM-MUM! Watch dis! MUUUUUMM-MUUUUUUMMMMM! You turn your face back dis way!”

He. is. relentless.

Next year he’ll begin preschool and for the first time in nearly seven years I will have two and a half hours a day where I can do whatever I want, without interruption! But won’t you be sad that your baby is in preschool? NO! HELL, NO! I don’t like to sound cold-hearted or unsentimental, but I honestly don’t get all of the “my baby’s growing up!” moaning that people do. Yes. Exactly. That’s what’s supposed to happen if you’re lucky. I’m glad! I’m happy! Grow, explore, think, evolve, move up, move on, be fearless, find your fire! I can’t wait to see what they do, who they love, what makes them laugh. I’ll be a tenacious wing-mom for as long as they want, but my proudest moment will be when they shrug away from me.

“Hey, Mum! Turn your face this way and watch what I do!!”

I’m drying off from my weekly shower. The big boys are still quietly conquering Xbox Lego Batman in the TV room, and Sam has stayed put in the toy room, per my implicit instructions. I can hear him talking to himself, making vrooooming engine noises and psshhhhhhhhhhh crashing noises as he creates magnificent wrecks on the sunny carpet.

I pad into our bedroom, dress, sit at my vanity, and begin sectioning my hair to dry it. I hear the metal of the baby gate strain and click against its frame as Sam presses himself, belly first, into it.

“Muuuuuuuuum-Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!”

“Hey Sam!”

“I haf-ta poop!”

“Awesome! Let’s get to the potty!”

I jump up and prepare to give him a lights-n-sirens escort to the bathroom.

I thought Sam was going to be our gifted and talented student when it came to potty-training, but what began as a strong, promising stream of a start a year ago, has morphed into a big bait-n-switch joke. If Sam is wearing anything on his lower body, he treats it like a diaper. It makes no difference if that thing is absorbent or not…meant to hold human waste, or not. He is just as happy to make a poop sling out of his big-boy underpants as he is his Pull-Ups, as he is his diaper. I’ve gone so far as to run some baby PSYOPS, trying to make him empathize with Woody and Buzz, who have the unfortunate housing assignment on the back of Sam’s underpants. Oh, how SAD Woody and Buzz would be if you peed or pooped on them! Poor Woody and Buzz! Sam cares not a lick for the comfort or sanitary state of Woody and Buzz.

However, if we leave him pantsless, that seems to serve as an effective cue to use the potty when he has to go. It’s not very practical for anywhere but in the house and it’s a bit awkward if he runs to the door and gives the UPS dude the glass-pressed weenie treatment, but it’s the best we have right now.

When I reach Sam at the gate, there is no urgency about him. No pigeon-toed dancing around…no hand cupped behind his bum. And the devil is looking at me through his crystal blue eyes.

“I have a poop,” he repeats.

“You HAVE a poop or you HAVE TO poop?” I ask for clarification, because, big difference. Absent is the trademark Michelin-plant-ablaze smell that accompanies Sam’s offerings, so I’m not worried.

He holds out his hand to me and I can see a plastic, toy hamburger that came with a play food set that the boys got for Christmas one year peeking out from between his fingers. I play along.

“Oh! Is that your poop?” I hold out my hand. He grins, pleased that I’m playing with him, and dumps the hamburger into my palm. And the plastic hamburger is unnaturally warm. And sticky. And round instead of flat. And HOLY GOD!

I cannot convey in words how strong the human reflex is to get rid of a handful of warm feces. Somehow, I don’t scream or drop it or throw it or throw up. I grab Sam’s non-shitted-up hand with my non-shitted-up hand and drag him, lights-n-sirens, to the bathroom.

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!! JESUS, SAM!!!”

We scrub our hands until they are shiny-pink and soft, me hunched over him from behind at the sink, controlling his hands like a puppeteer with OCD who just found her little marionette showering in a truck-stop urinal. Him, looking up at me, nodding solemnly as I describe the evils of playing with poo.

Then, I put a diaper on Sam and put him back in the toy room…and I take another shower.

Mum-Mum: “You guys! Why do I have to tell you the same thing over and over? How come every morning you make noise and I have to come in and tell you to be quiet because Sam is still sleeping? Why can’t you remember and just do it?”

Nate: “Because we just can’t! We’re widdle boys, Mum-Mum!”

A recent Saturday night. Late.

Jill and I are sleeping soundly at opposite ends of the TV Room sectional. I wake up in the flickering darkness and through squinted eye, see Liam between us, nestled back into the deep bend in the middle of the couch, sucking his thumb and staring balefully at the television. He regards me briefly over his small fist, then turns back to the TV. I begin to say something to him, I think.

A cushion… then darkness.

Later, I vaguely remember a sleepy Jill rousting me and herding us upstairs to our real beds. Liam walks ahead of me, and with furrowed brow, I follow his leopard-spotted blanket up the steps. “I’m going to lie down with Liam until he falls asleep,” Jill says.

I may have nodded, but no one really knows.

At the breakfast table the next morning, I suddenly recall my encounter with Liam the night before.

“Liam, were you watching TV last night while we were sleeping?”

“Yep.”

“What were you watching?”

“I watched a movie.”

“What movie?”

“I don’t know. But some guy was sawing somebody else’s foot off, and some other guy was encouraging him.”

I look at Jill, and Jill looks at me. She blinks rapidly.

“And then he was shooting a gun.” Liam continues. “And then he called him the adult word that starts with an ‘F’.”

He points at Jill, ”You know it, Mum-mum, say it!”

“My god. I think our five-year-old was watching ’Saw’.” 

I ask him why he was up in the middle of the night in the first place; how did he come to be watching an R-rated splatterfest, complete with shrieking violence, bloody hacksaws, and profanity-laden amateur limb removal?

He looks up calmly from his blueberry waffle.

“Because I was having a bad dream.”

Nate wanders into the room, dragging a toy broom and a plastic workbench leg.

Nate: “Dada, what if I said ‘Three Popcorn Leg’? And then… and then you said ‘Three Popcorn Leg!’”

Dada: “I don’t know…”

Nate, turning and leaving: “Three Popcorn Leg.”

Dada: “…how to answer that, man.”

Saturday. In the car. Liam pointing.

“That tire-swing gives me an idea. We should cut other stranger’s kid’s swings down, and stop them from having fun.”