Potty training our children. What can I say. There are no rules. There is no instruction manual. Every child has a unique process of learning to shit on a toilet. I can only speak of my own personal experience on all of this along with how my wife and I have dealt and managed.
I never judge. We all handle our situations differently. There is absolutely no correct way to raise our young ones in this tough world although there will always be those individuals that will point fingers like they are the matriarchs of asshole cleansing. Make us feel like we are raising our children and wiping their anal cavities incorrectly.
To be honest, this mostly comes directly from rich women who’s husbands work their asses off while they spend the day drinking mimosas, filling their lips with cancer causing chemicals and critique everybody else while some illegal immigrant raises their own children. I blame the dumb ass husbands for this. Get some balls guys. You are all fools.
These judgmental bitches have never wiped an asshole besides their own so do me a favor, shut the fuck up.
This post goes out to the parents who have been in the trenches involving their index finger so far up their children’s butthole during potty training exercises they pulled out “George the Animal Steel” as they truly understand what it entails to finally get our young ones to crap politically correct. I’m talking crap landing on your lip type of shit.
The struggle is real.
I can only speak of how my wife and I have trained our boys in this department. And trust me, this shit is not easy. Blood sweat & tears.
I knew we were in for a huge challenge when I was forced to change my boys first diaper. While my wife was in the hospital room with our other son, I had the honor of changing one sons diaper who unfortunately was placed in the ICU. We had twins if you hadn’t noticed. The nurse looked directly at me and smirked, “Dad you ready?” I said “ready for what?” Nurse replied “to change your sons diaper.” What was I going to say? No? I was put on the spot and had to man up. I said “yes nurse. I’m ready. Bring that shit on.” The nurse turned my boy over and removed his diaper. If I’m being honest the scene was something out of “Saving Private Ryan.” The substance this child released from his heiny was not of human origin. It resembled hot bubbling tar that produced an odor that disintegrated my eyebrows & caused severe breathing issues. I had to be a man. A father. Step up and be tough in front of the nurses. So I reluctantly stuck my hand in. Got that shit on my pinky and froze. My lower lip began to quiver uncontrollably. My throat swelled up. I panicked. The nurse gave me CPR. A shot of Narcan. The Heimlich maneuver. Burped and swaddled me. I came around eventually.
I wondered how my wife and I would ever train our children to release these deadly toxins into a toilet bowl in a controlled fashion.
When it was time we figured bribery was our best option. We bribed them with “Jelly Bellies.” Jelly beans. Every time they had a poop brewing and gave us a sign we would pick them up and place them on the toilet bowl. They would crack a smile. Laugh. Drop a pebble in the bowl and we would reward them with a popcorn flavored jelly bean. If they dropped a rather larger poop we would give them like two of those espresso flavored beans. Things seem to be working well until it was time to teach them to wipe their cracks.
This was the challenging part in all of this. My wife and I had different training methods. I believed in letting them wipe. As they left residue in the butt this would create discomfort and will teach them a lesson to wipe better next time. Creatures of habit. She disagreed.
She believed our boys should always have clean assholes. Although I agreed a clean butt is nice, I strongly felt they had to learn maintaining a clean crack should ultimately be obtained as a result of failure. That was just me.
In the end she won. Her potty training method prevailed. I went with her. It’s a fight I could never win considering she was home with them and would be the one mainly monitoring the children’s ass ordeals.
They were two years of age. We got them on the bowl. Bribed by the sweetness of Jelly Bellies. Time to wipe. They tried. My wife walked in behind them. Finished up. Wiped them clean. It was cute. Three. Four. Five years of age. My boys began a pattern. They would crap and say “I’m done!” My wife would jump up ready for battle. Hazmat suit and all. Safety goggles & nose plugs. As they got older it got a bit weird & uncomfortable. Nine years old. “Im done!” My wife would run into the bathroom like she’s saving some kitten stuck in a tree. Twelve years of age. “I’m done” they would cry from the local mall bathroom and here comes my wife driving a tank with B.A. Baracus and the A-Team ready to wipe dirty ass. JR Ball “I’m done!” She descended from a hot air balloon into the gymnasium with a hand full of wet naps & cinnamon scented candles as she bent my boys over and wiped their cracks.
I didn’t know how or when this would end. What was the cutoff point? College graduation? “I’m done” as she ran up to the podium and shoved the valedictorian aside, lifted their graduation gown and power washed their anus? I was getting nervous.
I had to finally put an end to all of this. Shit was getting out of hand. She finally let go. The kids were now 35 and on their own and had to find their own way within the world of proper ass wiping.
They figured it out.
My point is this. We all have our own ways. There is no correct way. No right or wrong. Do whatever you feel is right and works for you.
Fuck everybody else!