A Horrible Story About the Perils of Potty Training

One day while my daughter was still toddling around in diapers, I felt a jolt of parental inspiration. In my dadly wisdom, I decided that the smelly lump in her pants could double as a tremendous teaching tool. This would be the day we make some progress in the potty training wars.

Opening the diaper revealed a solid, brown nugget. An excellent specimen. Perfect for the informative demonstration I was about to provide. I held the diaper aloft and proudly explained the where the poop is supposed to go.

“Look at this poop! Do you know where this belongs?” I asked, leading her towards the bathroom. “In the potty!”

My daughter followed with interest.

“When a big kid feels like they have to poop, they sit on the potty and they go right into the toilet. They don’t need a diaper at all.” She was paying attention. Wisdom was being passed from one generation to the next.

“Here’s where the poop is supposed to go,” I said.

Then everything went wrong.

My daughter leaned in closer. I tipped the diaper and the firm, educational poo fell. It landed in the bowl with a cartoonish plop.

A single drop of water rose into the air. It shined for a moment in the light of the bathroom fixture, then it arced directly into my daughter’s open mouth.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. My heart sank to the floor. We looked at each other in shock, unsure of what should happen next. Our lives would never be the same.

“And then we flush the toilet and the water takes it away,” I said awkwardly, sending the poop to its final resting place.

We left the room in silence, knowing we could never speak of this again. Especially to mom.

Epilogue

This story does have a happy ending. After this terrible incident, I boarded up the door to the bathroom and committed myself to a lifetime of adult diapers. They’re reasonably comfortable.