Potty Politics
by Leslie Lamarre

Of all things to agonize about when bringing a new baby into the world, I never expected one of them to be the naming of "number two" (as in the big B.M.).

You see, my family always called number one "tinkle" and number two "grunts." Sure, tinkle was fairly mainstream. But grunts, well, that was unique. And my father deserves every bit of credit for that invention. Most everyone else I knew called it "poop," so I always felt special among my peers in this regard and I can honestly say that it helped instill a sense of personal identity that's with me to this day.

OK, maybe that's stretching it. But I liked that we called it something different and naturally, I wanted the same for my child.

Enter Sydney. When she emerged from the womb, she wasn't doing anything I'd call grunts. The product was as sticky and black as tar. Fortunately, this phase lasted only a few days so I didn't have to give the substance a name. (Although I did grow rather fond of "tar" during that brief period.)

As breastfeeding kicked in, Sydney's tar rapidly faded in hue and ultimately acquired a vibrant yellow tone. The color and consistency of a fine French Dijon, these specimens were worthy of a special name. But what? One of my baby handbooks acknowledged that they looked like mustard. Hmm.... "Mustard." I liked that. And so it was that "tar" became "mustard" and even "Sydney's mustard surprise" for its tendency to materialize at the most inopportune moments.

On our first family flight across the country for a Christmas vacation, three-month-old Sydney responded to the pressure of ascension by delivering an immediate (and impressive, I might add) mustard surprise. She fired it out with such force, in fact, that the people behind us must have heard it above the roar of the engine. Even the best diapers in the world could not have contained the pressure of that mustard blast. It blew the contents of Sydney's diaper through the waistband and out the elasticized leg holes of her Huggies®. While other passengers were leaning back in their seats and flipping through magazines, I was trooping off to the restroom, holding a watery baby bottom at arm's length. Amazingly, our connecting flight triggered duplicate results.

Sydney's mustard stage lasted for 9 months, or until she transitioned from breast milk to formula. (Fortunately we did not travel much during this time, so most of our mustard surprises occurred on terra firma.) Then came the real thing (or something close to it). And with it, came the big question: What do we call it? My husband comes from the poop camp, which apparently is taking over the world. But being from the grassroots grunts camp myself, I was hoping for something a little more interesting. Of course, grunts had already been done, so to speak. And besides, it was my dad's term. We had to find something new--something unique to our own family unit.

My sister's son, who was the first grandchild in the family, invented the word "poofie" about the time he started toilet training. Since then, my other sister's two boys joined the poofie camp. I have to hand it to my nephew: Poofie is unusual. But there's something about the word that doesn't quite sit right with me. "It's too soft? Like fluff," I told my husband as we were in the midst of a what-to-call-it discussion one evening. He agreed. No poofie. No way. But what else was there? One day in a conversation with my brother, I mentioned our dilemma. "What about 'doogie'?" He asked. Doogie. Kind of cute. I liked it. On the other hand, it did sound like something sticky on the bottom of your shoe-like something that could have come from a dog. That's the problem with doogie. It's too dog-like. Nope. Doogie wouldn't do, after all.

In the meantime, Sydney maintained a steady production of 3 to 4 doogies (for lack of a better term) a day. And as the months flew by, they began to resemble less the meal she'd last eaten and more the true McCoy. At the same time, her powers of comprehension were increasing exponentially. Time was running out. I had to think of something--quickly--and use it so she would know what to call it.

Then one day, it came to me out of the blue: "stinkle." It was perfect-a sensory word, like tinkle, that even rhymes with it. Besides, I was never allowed to say "it stinks" when I was growing up (we had to say "it smells") so stinkle allowed me a rebellion of sorts-a rebellion my very own daughter would lead. I was absolutely positive she would love this word. And I imagined this hip-sounding term might even win her some admiration (not to mention a few "poop" converts) from her future peers in preschool.

Through the ensuing months, I took advantage of every possible opportunity for instruction. When we saw a dog defecating on the sidewalk, I'd point and shout with excitement that the doggie was doing a big stinkle. (This seemed to embarrass the dog owners somewhat. But I considered it a small sacrifice in the name of education.) If one of Sydney's friends needed a diaper change, I'd trumpet the news that her buddy made a huge, stinky stinkle. And throughout Sydney's own diaper changing sessions, I dutifully chatted about tinkle and stinkle, pointing out when she'd produced one or the other or both.

Then one balmy evening in her 17th month, it happened. She pointed to her diaper emphatically and said . . . "Poo-poo."

"What?!" I responded in disbelief.

"Poo-poo," she shouted, jamming the tip of her finger into her diaper as if to say, "What are you, a moron? I've got a crap in my pants!"

I couldn't believe my ears. Not only was this a new phase of development (never before had she ever acknowledged the existence of a semi-foreign object in her diaper), but she wasn't even using my word, her word, our word-the special word I'd been grooming her to pronounce all of these months. She was using, God forbid, a variation on the poop camp's theme. I tried to resist the surge of disappointment that rushed over me just then. After months of struggling to find the right term, I'd been beat out by a poop-camp splinter group.

But maybe I was misunderstanding her. Maybe "poo-poo" had nothing to do with the state of her diaper after all. Maybe she was trying to talk about her day at the park. Tentatively, I pulled back the waistband of her diaper and peered downward. Sure enough, there it was. "Ah, stinkle!" I exclaimed, not wanting to give up just yet. "A great, big stinkle. Good girl, Sydney. Thank you for telling me!" And off to her changing table we marched.

That night, after tucking Sydney into bed, I talked it over with my husband, who offered much moral support. After all, he explained, how could I-one mom with a new term-expect to go up against an infantry of toddlers and their caretakers who have been passing on the "poo-poo" tradition for generations?

This made me feel a little better. Sydney's choice of "poo-poo" was, indeed, solid evidence that she had other strong influences in her life--namely, her three day-care buddies and their babysitter. Although little Sydney probably didn't realize it, she was asserting her intellectual independence. Yes, she was growing up. This was hard for a new mom to take. But at the same time, I had to acknowledge the positive implications: She was beginning to make her own choices--albeit very small choices in the grand scheme of things, but choices nonetheless. And this was something of which to be proud.

I decided to swallow my defeat and do away with "stinkle" once and for all. If Sydney wanted to revive the term later in her life, that would be her choice. But for now, "stinkle" was dead-a thing of the past. "Poo-poo" had won the day.

A few days after the milestone "poo-poo" incident, Sydney woke up from a nap. "Poo-poo," she said, once again. I checked her diaper and sure enough, there it was. "That's right. Poo-poo," I said, catching myself by surprise. And she gave me a big hug.