Poophole loophole. That title has been rattling around in my head for a few days, but I almost didn’t use it. Because it really wants to be the title of a much cooler and edgier article, maybe about how girls are using the back door as a way to maintain their technical virginity. But I don’t have anything to say about virginity right now. For me, that ship has sailed. Around the earth. Several times. And ran aground on a sand bar and then was kidnapped by pirates and is now the faded façade of a greasy spoon in the Outer Banks. I’m sorry poophole loophole, you are going to be the title of this blog entry instead. This blog entry about how my kids use taking a crap as an excuse to get out of bed at bedtime. I’m really sorry.
[Side note: I googled it, and urban dictionary does have an entry for the virginity-related phenomenon I described. I don’t care. I’m using it anyway. It had few enough google results that it is not a super commonly-used phrase. Til now, that is! Mwa-ha-ha! I hereby hijack thee, poophole loophole!]
OK, enough talk about the title. Let’s talk about the problem.
My kids are not good sleepers. Well, that’s not fair. Really, one of my kids is not a good sleeper, and the other one gets caught up in the bed-jumping fun of it all. We have tried sticker charts, taking away toys, marble reward systems, special clocks. We have tried everything we can think of. Bedtime is a fiasco. For a long time, we had a small potty in their bedroom so that when they had to pee in the night, they wouldn’t come out into the hallway and realize that Mommy and Daddy were still awake, watching TV, and generally partying and celebrating the fact that the kids were in bed. But they’ve been potty-trained for over a year, so we took away their posh “ensuite” bathroom and now they have to use the regular toilet like peasants. Pro: I no longer have to clean up their bodily waste more-than-daily from a small plastic basin. Con: They now have a completely irrefutable excuse for coming out of their bedroom at any hour.
My least favorite words to hear in the middle of True Blood or Project Runway are these: “Mommy, Daddy, I have to make a poo-poo.”
Sigh. You can’t tell them NOT to make a poo-poo, and they usually squeeze out at least a little, so you can’t accuse them of faking. But they get out of bed, at 9 or 10pm... aaaaaaand they sit there. For fifteen minutes, or half an hour, they just flipping sit there. “I’m not done yet.” How do you argue? You can’t rush a deuce. They come when they come. But go to bed, please. Pinch off your loaf and GO. TO. BED. Please. Because Sookie is having a dream about seducing Bill and Eric both at once, and I really need to get back to that right now. Plus, this is MY time. You were in bed! Come on. Mommy and Daddy get maybe an hour of grown-up time before Daddy succumbs to TV-induced narcolepsy. And you are, quite literally, $#!tting all over our grown-up time. Do you save it up all day? Sigh sigh and triple sigh.
Soon, I will teach them to just get up and do their business and go back to bed. But for now, the #2 still requires adult intervention. Let me just say this: Nothing is less conducive to quality Mommy-Daddy time than a well-timed deuce.
So we scold and we chivvy and we bribe. And we wait. Wait for the deuce. And then we wipe the butt, and return to our regularly scheduled program, already in progress. At which time the second kid wanders out. “I need to make a poo-poo.”
Damn you, poophole loophole. Damn you.