David came out of the bathroom last night while he was getting ready for bed, “Mommie! I’m not afraid to put my hand in the toilet anymore!”
A proud smile beamed across his face.
“Why do you want to put your hand in the toilet? There’s never really a need to ever put your hand in the toilet. Toilets are dirty. That’s gross.”
“But I wanted to.”
“What?! Did you actually put your hand in the toilet?!”
“Yes. But it’s O.K. I washed with soap and water after. And I’m not afraid to do it anymore. To put my hand in the toilet.”
“Ugh! Get back in the bathroom! Why did you put your hand in the toilet?”
David lead me over to the toilet and explained.
“I put a piece of toilet paper in there for a target to pee on ’cause it’s fun. But the toilet paper wasn’t in the middle, so I put my hand in and moved it to the middle. Then I peed on it. Then I washed my hands. It’s O.K. Mommie. I washed my hands. It’s O.K. And I’m not afraid anymore.”
“Well, you should be afraid to put your hand in the toilet. David, don’t put your hand in the toilet anymore, alright? And wash your hands again.”
“But I already did.”
“Wash them again anyway, then brush your teeth.”
I walked away muffling the laughter I held in while we were talking.
Standing in the hall outside the bathroom I pictured a little boy staring into the toilet bowl at his off-center toilet paper target, his pants down around his ankles.
He’s trying to muster up enough courage to stick his hand in and move it. He studies it for a few seconds, considering if there is any other way to fix it. He sighs, resolved that there is no other option.
Bravely he rolls up his sleeve. Closing his eyes and screwing up his face, slowly he plunges his hand in. He feels the cold water on his skin. Realizing that it hasn’t killed him, he opens his eyes, fishes the toilet paper into place, and pulls his hand out, shuddering from the horror.
He does his business, and washes his hands, proud that he’s conquered his fear of the toilet bowl.
All. By. Him. Self.
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