Extort the Extortionist

            Last week we thought that we had turned the corner on the pooping thing. Not so, but that’s another matter.

            Instead, prior to World War III: Apoocalypse Edition, I had decided that it was about time that I start distributing my absurdly extensive collection of My Little Pony (MLP), (circa 1983 through 1988) in order to keep little miss making deposits on the potty. This would take place over the course of several weeks, where a new pony is released once a week. She has been watching the newest iteration of MLP. Side note: that show has gone to a very VERY dark place comparatively speaking to generation one.

Motivated by perhaps finding the most valuable of the toilet training currencies, I went poking around my storage room where the collection has been safely tucked away for several years. I’ll spare you the embarrassing details of what I would imagine is an E-Bay goldmine of plastic from Hong Kong. When I finally located the box in question, after a few minutes of frantic searching, and I pulled out her favourite generation one version of Applejack. I also found another box of fabric. Bonus!

I tucked Applejack in the box of fabric and emerged from our rather full storage room. (Someone needs to have a garage sale). I carried the box across to the sewing room/office and left the box of fabric with the others. I may have a sewing problem involving not enough time and too many ideas.

She had been upstairs and did not see me enter the storage room but had seen me emerge. She paid me zero attention because she was hanging with daddy and the TV was on. I quietly walked into the ruin of a TV room, stepping over a minefield of toys that are meant to maim and cripple. She was tucked under a blanket fully engrossed in whatever was on.

“Addy,” I said, hiding Applejack behind my back.

Eyes glued to the TV, she replied as though in a trance, “what mama?”

“I am very proud of you for pooping on the potty and think maybe it’s time that I give you something very special.”

Immediate. Full. Undivided. Attention.

“Which is your favourite My Little Pony?”

“Rainbow Dash!”

Fuck sakes.

“Who else?”

“Pinkie Pie!”

Sigh.

“Um no, who else?”

“Applejack!” Third time was a charm. I pulled Applejack out from behind my back and passed her down into little awaiting hands. Was that a tremble I detected? I was starting to internally gloat about the awesomeness of the surprise, because I love causing surprises. She was transfixed by the little orange bodied, yellow haired pony with apples on its ass. But then a torrent of questions started to form and she could barely get them out of her mouth fast enough. It was like her brain had a short.

“But where did you buy her, where was this, did you make it, are there more, where did you find it, I LOVE APPLEJACK.”

“This is a very old pony that I got when I was about your age. She is very old and that means that she cannot leave the house. She is not to go to Angel-a’s house. OK?”

“OK, Mommy,” she paused and then more questions tumbled out of her mouth in fragments. This continued right up until bedtime and Applejack took her esteemed place with the other revered toys in bed with my very grateful child.

“Thank you for giving me Applejack,” she said, clutching the pony to her chest. I would say she was rubbing her eyes and yawning, but I am positive that she has a stash of caffeine that she eats right before we need her to sleep.

“You’re welcome sweetie.”

The next day, she shit in her pants. Twice. Applejack spent the following twenty-four hours with an amazing view of the kitchen from the top of the fridge.

I giveth and I will taketh away.

Wade has reported that she has started to look for the other ponies. This is how children develop their keen sense of über-snoopiness. I can only hope that she doesn’t clue in to where the collection resides.

We are currently T-Two Sleeps until she earns another pony.

Extortion

            It would seem that my earlier declaration of “fuck you PEG,” may have been a bit premature. We are experiencing day 8 with no shit incidents in the pants. It has been a glorious week. The laundry pair is on a holiday and beginning to suffer from laundry deficiency syndrome. The bathtub plumbing is wondering what all this clear water with soap in it is, and where the great lumps of raw sewage are. (I assume that the tub drain aspires to be a toilet someday).

            It is heartening to ask my kid where she’s off to only to have the casual response, “I have to poop.” My heart grows every time she utters the words I’ve longed to hear for 2.5 years, and I am sure I’ve now developed cardiomegaly. The skin on my hands are now dry due to the winter air and not due to washing them every five minutes.

            As with every good thing that has come into my life, there is always a tinge of darkness. We have rewarded our little cutie with candy and other edible currencies to extort poop out of her. But the tables, it would seem, have turned. She is now shitting on demand. Her motivation? Kinder Fucking Surprise Bitches.

            This morning she declared that she had pooped, even though we have been carefully timing her PEG to ensure she poops in the evening after she gets away from Angel-a’s house. Skeptical, I went in for a gut-contents-check. There was nothing there. The negotiations began:     “Can I have an Eggy Prize?”

            “No, you didn’t do anything.”

            “Well I want it.”

            “No. There is hardly a poop in here. You have to actually do something in the toilet.”

            “BUT I WANT IT.”

            “I’ll make you a deal. You know the Eggy Prize you opened last night? You can have the chocolate that you didn’t eat.”

            “OK!” What she failed to realize, until the chocolate egg was in front of her, emptied of its prize, was that I was not giving in to her demands. I don’t negotiate with toddlerists. She was displeased with this turn of events.

            I started working on my O Chem lab report and she went back to the bathroom, presumably to wash the low-quality chocolate off her face. A few minutes later, I heard: “MAMA I POOOOOPED!”

            Irritated by interruption, I went in after her to look at what she was on about. I fully expected her to be in front of the mirror, budgie-style, checking herself out. Nope. There she was, perched on the potty like a bird of prey. Eyeing me up.

            “I want an eggy prize.”

            “Did you actually poop?”

            “Yes.”

            “I don’t believe you,” I was moving toward her. She lifted a tiny ass cheek and displayed the fruits of her labour. “Let me get this straight, you’ve gone from not pooping on the potty at all to pooping on demand when there is an Eggy Prize on the line?”

            “Nooooo,” she said, laughing. “Aren’t you so proud of me?”

            What could I say? Her ingenuity and passion for candy is becoming legendary. Apparently, she is a cunning toddlerist that is a force to be reckoned with. “I’m always proud of you Sweet Pea.” Now I have to figure out how to cut this shit off before candy bills bankrupt us.

Locked Doors Mean Nothing

            There are days when I marvel at what my kid can do. We all know what she can’t do, but I have a feeling my readers are suffering from shit fatigue. So, let me tell you a story of intrigue and problem solving that my kid did a while ago.

            Most of you will remember that we nicknamed her the Ninja when she was still a fetus and it would seem that she heard us and took it to heart. She has a tendency to sneak around when she is up to no good and is alarmingly stealthy. In my house, as with any other child infested home, silence usually means some sort of mischief and possibly a mess to clean up.

            This story begins a few months ago. It was a Friday and I was off school and having a lie-in. She was up relatively early and after some early morning cuddles, she was off to play in her room. I was enjoying the beginning of my day with dozing and checking my phone. In between the two states of consciousness, I heard a crinkling coming from her bathroom. Suspicious of her getting into anything under the sink, I hauled myself out of bed to check on her. Between my becoming aware of her doing something I wouldn’t approve of and checking on her, she had booked it into her room, closed the door and locked it.

            We have had some issues in the past with her getting into things [READ: smelly, soapy, toothpasty things] in her bathroom when she was supposed to be sleeping. As such, we have a habit of locking doors on the upper level when she was put to bed. Since the whole potty-training thing is ongoing, we have stopped locking the bathroom door in case she has to go. Hence why she knows how to lock a door.

            Being prepared for a lock out, we have a screwdriver for lock picking purposes on the doorframe above our bedroom door. I grabbed it and opened the door she thought was secure and would keep me out. She was in her bed with her dental flossers. They had been dumped out and she was playing with them. I am not sure what compels the small ones to play with non-toy things. But I let her know my opinion, while putting them back in the bag from whence they came. I deposited them back in the bathroom and locked the door. Satisfied that I had won that round, I went back to bed to continue my lie-in.

            A few minutes later, after she cooled down from the indignity of losing her new “toys” she came to my room and closed the door. Thinking nothing of it, I continued to look at my phone. I could hear her go down the stairs, move the baby gate, push a chair around in the kitchen and then come back upstairs. A few minutes later I heard the door on her room shut and the lock click. That was followed by the only thing that a parent dreads; silence.

            Curious, I got up and went to investigate. The first thing I noticed was that my door was locked. Strange, but sometimes she plays with the locks for whatever reason. Even stranger was that she had locked it with no noise. I unlocked and opened my door, finding nothing amiss. The bathroom door was still secured. I went to her door, screwdriver in hand and heard the same crinkling. Even more curious, I once again picked the lock and opened her door. There she was, merrily playing with her flossers again. Now, instead of getting angry for her not listening to me, I went into detective mode.

            “So, tell me, how did you come to have these flossers?” I asked her, eyeing up the mess on her bed.

            “Du-na-no,”she replied.

            A likely story.

            “Did you pick the lock on the bathroom door,” I went on, knowing full well I had her trapped like a rat.

            “No,” her voice inflected skyward at the end of that no. So, she was going to play sly.

            I took the flossers away, again, much to her chagrin. I then went to the bathroom and opened the door. She was hot on my heels protesting in a high-pitched whiny voice which was outside of my hearing range (but had my dog alarmed). I then relocked the door and turned to her.

            “Show me how you got into the bathroom,” I instructed her, passing over the screwdriver. She looked at me with narrowed eyes, sizing up her chances of time out.

            “Du-na-no,” she said again, taking the screwdriver from my hand.

            “Look, we both know you picked the lock. The flossers didn’t just march out of that bathroom on their own. Show me what you did.” She took a deep breath, stepped forward and carefully put the screwdriver in the slot on the lock and turned. It made no sound because she was so careful. I was watching a future criminal mastermind at work. She opened the door and looked over at me with a big grin on her face. But that left me with another question. What had she picked the lock with? I went back into her room looking for the tool of her crime, she followed, too casually. I found a button on the floor. I tried it in the slot on the doorknob. She didn’t quite have the dexterity.

            “What did you use to open the door?” I asked. She was sitting on the bed with the sweetest, most innocent look on her face. In response she leaned back and reached down behind her bed. My eyebrow moved in an upward trajectory. She pulled out the screwdriver from the high counter on the main floor. “Oh. Interesting”

            What could I say, I was proud. But, at the same time I was disappointed that we would have to find another way to outsmart her.

            “Can I have that please?” She turned it over and I got down to her level. “Stay curious kiddo, I want you to always keep me on my toes.”

            That evening, the doorknob from her bedroom was moved to the bathroom because the lock mechanism is harder to pick, if you’re a four-year-old.

             Now, we just have to figure out where she learned how to her record shows on the PVR…