Yah, so, Jordan pooped in the bathtub the other night.
Apparently, this happens to everyone. It's just a matter of time.
We have these texturey sliding doors on the tub, and lately, once a bath, he likes to close them and splash around all privately for a couple minutes. I see no harm in letting him. I can see, so I know if he's up and about and not drowning.
So he announced that it was time to close the doors, and I let him. I could see that he was sitting up. He was being awfully quiet, but I figured that maybe he'd discovered his penis.
After a couple minutes of quiet I said, "I'm opening the door!"
"No, mama! Keep your face away!"
And then I went ahead and slid open the door anyway, and there were three long strings of poop, bobbing in the tub.
I won't bore you with the cleaning up and scrubbing down details, but after we both got over the poop trauma and got all clean and into jammies, Jordan announced, "We don't poop in the bathtub!"
"No, we don't."
"And we don't poop in Daddy's bed!"
"You're right. We don't poop in Daddy's bed."
"And we don't poop in Nana's bed!"
"Actually, we don't poop in anyone's bed."
He pointed to the toy-filled tub in his room. "But we can poop in that bathtub."
Because we are not raising him in the same places and way that my brother and I were raised, this seemed a good time to say that we only poop in diapers, and potties and toilets - and nowhere else.
We now have regular conversations, however, of where we don't poop. The sofa. The floor. The chair.
Um, right. No, no, and no.