Parting Shot

It was the second time this week Chip pulled this maneuver successfully. It’s a simple tactic on the face of it. But it takes a man of undaunting sprit with a fearless desire to take on extreme challenges despite prior knowledge of dreadful consequences in its wake. Or, a two year old. The first time Chip pulled his toddler version of the shock and awe, his poor, unsuspecting grandmother was yes, shocked and indeed awed and she gave Chip a sound earful, which given her rather gentle and soft voice, did not do much do discourage Chip. So, he tried it again on his very suspecting mother last night.

The notoriously difficult to potty train Chip has been doing pretty good the past few days, and that meant mostly whispering his intent to answer the nature’s call, grown-up in earshot or not. Yesterday I was within the hearing range of the said murmur. Elated, we proceeded upstairs to “his” bathroom amidst joyous chorus of “Chip is a big boy”, “Wow. Chip just told me had to go do poo-poo” – you know the step right before you start garlanding him and lying prostrate in his path to seek blessings.

The call having been answered and the news conveyed over the (toy) phone sitting on the potty to the ‘other’ grandmom, Elmo, neighbor’s dog, the moon, the shower head, the lion on the shower curtain, his sundry friends and the new school, we were ready to wrap it up. Now, we are the green sort of people and try not to use paper where water can be used. So while I was filling ‘the’ every-desi-household-has-one plastic mug, Chip ran away. Before I realized what had happened, he was in the guest bedroom, across the hall standing on his grandmother’s bed. Panic reigned. “Get down now!” I thundered in my most ominous voice. “Now. Get down.” Chip was obviously having too much fun. I stepped into the room to grab him but like a well-oiled monkey he jumped away to the far corner of the bed and sat on his haunches. The bed a mere half an inch away from his tushie. Taking cover of the shadows, I slithered behind him and picked him up to carry him to the bathroom, but my poopy samurai would still not concede defeat. In one swift move he was back on the floor amidst my high pitched screams blurting every threat known to mankind. That had its effect. Chip froze. Time stood still. And then Chip did the unthinkable. He stuck two fingers of both his hands in the place where the sun don’t shine. Half-dragging him to the bathroom to clean him up, I said, “You are getting a swat on the bottom for this. Wait till you have washed your bottom and hands.”

Tush and hands cleaned, bottom swatted, eyes filled with tears and the tiny yet powerful voicebox emitting loud protests, I sat him down. “Why do you do these things Chip?” I asked in my most motherly voice. “Are you out of your mind?” I said tapping his head. Chip peered into the semi-darkness. Twinkle had returned to his waterlogged eyes. “Aie,” he said throwing his arms around me, plopping in my lap and tapping his own head, “Ithe batate (potatoes here).”