The Excrementalist Speaks

Sit down and fasten your seatbelts, people: the Excrementalist has something to say.

Maybe it's all the E. coli talk that's got me going. We're pretty close, E. coli and me - maybe a little too close, but my husband apparently has no problem with me canoodling with E., as I call him, all the livelong day. I can't help myself. When I'm going about my tasks of daily life, who do you think is by my side at the overflowing cat litter box? Who (literally) gets under my fingernails when the dog poop bag malfunctions? Who beckons me forward with the plastic knife, tempting me to cross a line I know I mustn't and yet...I doo.

Oh the shame.

But enough is enough.

Today I must break the silence. I am bloated with one of parenthood's dirtiest little secrets, and judging by the cramping and pungent context clues, it's one I can no longer suppress.

I'm talking, of course, about withholding.

[Anyone who thinks even remotely that the discussion to follow will concern taxes should click click click away. Go on now, chop chop. You'll thank me later.]

Withholding is a game - a contest of wills, a battle for control. It's your little darling's way of saying, in no uncertain terms, you can't make me. And guess what? You can't.

As a parent, you can lead your sweetie pie to the pot-tay in two-hour intervals, you can dole out "new vitamins" (a.k.a. orange-flavored Benefiber supplements) like candy from a Pez dispenser, you can threaten, plead, and cajole, but alas...no dice. (Really. No shit.)

Except it's always there, wafting about in a malodorous cloud, rearing its ugly head like a mole from a hole, only to be whacked back in by sheer will.

Oh how wonderful that feeling must be for a child! He alone has trapped the rodent in its cage! He has stifled the beast within, and only he can decide when, and if, it will ever see the light of day. Mwaahhhhh!

But the glory is short-lived. By about Day 5, the mole has gained size and stature that even the child cannot ignore.

It's left its mark.

And despite another day or possibly two of intense, focused bullying by the child, the mole makes it clear that it means business, and the child knows it. The beast must be released.

Once emancipated by the child - a feat of alarming proportions - the beast will undoubtedly be trapped once more, barring the presence of a plumber or, perhaps, a good samaritan bearing plastic cutlery.

For parents of children who withhold - sporadically or simply by habit - there's guilt, frustration, shame, helplessness, embarrassment and a boat-load of other...crap.

Of course, Dr. Freud would point his crooked, hairy, yellow-nailed finger right at me, the mother, because without a doubt, it's all my fault.

My children withhold because I, the mother, either (a) am a stress-ball lunatic ignoramus who does everything wrong and fails them miserably, or (b) am full of shit and my kids just want to be like me. (Aw, that's kind of sweet.)

Then again, as my pediatrician sister, Dr. No contends, lots of kids withhold at various stages of their development, and especially during times of high stress, such as when they start school or try out new experiences. It's their way of taking control over the only thing they can truly control. While they're busy stifling their fears and anxiety related to whatever is going on in their life, it's not surprising that some kids stifle their poo, too.

As mine do. Now. Lately.

Though really, it's nothing new. My offspring have been clogging up septic systems up and down the East coast for several years now. When we visit my parents, or my siblings, or my in-laws, we always try to leave a parting gift - the kind of gift that keeps on giving. And what can I say? I guess I've just raised really thoughtful kids.

Take that, Dr. Freud.