Why I don’t bake
In the same way primitive tribes are terrified of mirrors and photographs, there must be something deeply embedded in the psyche of a small child that makes them terrified of the potty.
In 3-year old logic, this contraption that sits waist high and steals their poo is a work of pure Satanic influence. Child number 4, whom I shall lovingly refer to as Big Chief Nopoops, has caught this terrible malady, probably from some horrible little bastard at preschool. Or he made it up. Because 3 year olds are like that.
Tangent: if you are childless and see a small child whose head is at roughly crotch level having a completely and utter meltdown in a public place, please be advised said little
hellspawn child is probably 3 and there is nothing that Mary Damn Poppins could do about it, let alone your average parent. Sorry to have disturbed your latte, but don’t raise an eyebrow, or even make eye contact, or you will get gutted by a minivan key fob faster than you can say “I still live with my parents”. Don’t judge me.
Big Chief Nopoops has been making intermittent progress on the ol’ #2 part, and by intermittent I mean none whatsoever. All of the others had been at least completely day dry by 2, and more or less entirely dry by 3. Every kid has a lever, the trick is in finding it. Not Big Chief Nopoops.
M&Ms? Take or leave ’em.
Matchbox cars? Have a buch already from Big Brothers.
Karen Gillan scantily clad and singing you softly to sleep? Sorry, prefers blondes.
Finally, because I am a Dad and don’t know when to
shut the heck up quit, I offered “If you do poopy on the potty, Daddy will bake you a cake!”
I HAD HIS ATTENTION.
“Daddy make a cake? With MEEEE?”
“Yes, with you.”
“Okay!” *runs to the potty* *produces streaming content* *looks expectantly*
“No bud, you have to sit.”
“And make poopy.”
“Come out of your butt.”
*scrunches face* *ponders life’s mysteries* “Oh.”
This is what passes for conversation around these parts.
Fast forward 3 months. Still no results.
Sure enough, my little man remembered my promise.
“GUESS WHAT DADDY! BAKE A CAKE!”
So with much ceremony, we proceeded to the grocery store where he picked out a chocolate cupcake mix. My inner 12 year old said “Heh. Hehehhehheh.” but I ignored him. We got out of the grocery store without a tantrum or catastrophic damage to the dairy section.
We mixed (3 ingredients).
We baked (cupcakes).
We made a mess of the kitchen (which my wife thoughtfully cleaned up).
I didn’t burn anything.
The mix came with chocolate frosting.