Poo boot camp

Today begins poo boot camp and bikini boot camp, both created to prepare Shawn Joaquin and myself for a better life and to set off nightmares that will continue each and every night until we reach our respective goals.

Poo boot camp and bikini boot camp are in conflict with one another as it pertains to base principles (one is motivated by treats and the other is about denial of treats), but part of the shared boot camp mentality is mutual suffering and common pain and an intense awareness of our bodies. And both of us are driven to this boot camp — this lonely, god-forsaken, pleasure-drought — by Others. People Who Judge Us.

For Shawn Joaquin, it is a society that expects a three and a half-year-old boy who is capable of existential thought and memorization of all Jack Johnson lyrics to at least be able to put on some freakishly padded underwear and lose the diapers.

For me, it is the constant barrage of bikini-wearing, skin-baring models on the cover of each and every magazine in my mail box, coupled with the looming threat of a Mexican beach vacation — all driving me to want to lose MY freakishly padded bottom and put on a bikini without total and complete shame.

So here we sit, he on the toilet and me at my computer, the timer set to let him know when he's been on it for two minutes and can have his 1/24th piece of an already small peanut-butter filled chocolate egg. I have been coveting this egg all morning, the sweet chocolaty-peanut-butter-goodness beckoning me with a nearly silent whisper of "oh, it's just one bite."

"Mama, toilets are funny."
"Yeah, why?"
"It eats my poo, and then I get to eat something that LOOKS like poo."

And with that, bikini boot camp and my will power just got an unexpected boost.

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Thank you to all who wrote to encourage my continued blogging, despite my overwhelming need to be liked by EVERYONE and thus freaked out by the recent Incident in which Others Were Offended. Yes, 'tis better to blog...