Boober isn’t afraid of spiders.  But he is definitely concerned about them.  Perhaps it is that he is a boy, or two years old, but he becomes quite anxious whenever he sees a spider or its ilk (and ‘ilk’ should be read as all bugs, not immediately discernable as a butterfly or ladybug, which are given the appellation ‘spider’, deservingly or no).  This preoccupation seems to have risen from witnessing the execution of such an arachnid.  So perhaps more deeply it is a two year old attempting to wrap his brain around the concept that one has the power to impart death upon the living.  Or that such an extreme measure is an acceptable course to protect someone from danger.  Or that spiders exhibit a threat, to both his own person and those of his loved ones, that warrant extermination.  It’s a good thing the boy has such a big noggin.  But to see the turbulence of concern and agitation in his big, dark eyes is pretty wrenching…

But at the end of the day, he is a boy.  Quintessential, even, with his trucks, spaceships, dinosaurs (with their sudden and inevitable betrayal), football helmet, and need to play rough and tumble.  And so when confronted with a bug on even footing, say an ant on the sidewalk, he proudly, dutifully, almost gleefully, squishes it.  And does so with a Spartan exclamation, announcing victory to his comrades and a warning to his enemies, that he has killed it.  While in our fallen state death is a necessary part of our existence, I am tasked with teaching him to honor and respect all life.

Death is not the most difficult issue Boober has been struggling with lately, however.  He has taken great strides down the treacherous path of potty training.  I suppose the horrors of potty training are less for the child and more for the parent.  We remember all too clearly the bloody war we endured with our eldest.  And those scars, perhaps not fully healed beneath the silvery skin, kept us content to keep Boober in diapers.  Plus, he’s a boy, which adds a certain… something to the process.

Mater works on Wednesdays.  The kids get dropped off with a friend who graciously takes care of them, along with her own little ones, during the day.  Her youngest is a little older than Boober, and so there is a potty seat in their bathroom.  Boober started successfully using the potty there, but we never did anything to reinforce his achievement at home.  Apparently he is quite consistent using the potty on Wednesdays.  We realized that perhaps we were dropping the parental ball.

Hypothesizing that Boober’s lack of pottying at home could be directly related to context (there’s an available potty at our friend’s, not so much at home), Mater brought forth the potty seat from the basement and set it up in the kitchen.  (What?  So there’s a potty in the kitchen.  There are two litter boxes in the mudroom off of the kitchen, and the potty seat is far more sanitary.)  Boober was so pleased and genuinely excited to have his very own potty.  “Is the potty for me?” he asked.  And promptly used it.  And used it.  And used it. And used it. And, well, you get the idea…

When one is two years old, the most challenging part of using a potty is getting one’s pants down and up.  An executive decision was made to simply divest the child of his pants (though he really likes pants, and honestly, who doesn’t want a decent pair of pants?) and allow him to wander the kitchen (tile) pants-less and utilize the potty at his leisure.

We have a simple bi-fold door that latches with a hook to secure the kitchen, mostly to keep the cats out, but it works well to confine the younger children.  Provided the door remains closed and latched.  Inevitably, the safe-state was compromised.  And perhaps also inevitably, Boober had an accident.

It wasn’t much of an accident.  It couldn’t have been at that point, the boy pausing to potty for almost every drop of pee as it arrived in his bladder.  But Meatwad gave witness that there was indeed an inappropriate deposit on the floor.  Behind the couch.  Naturally.

If you’ve been around Boober enough, you’ve witnessed his serious/work voice.  When engaged with a purpose, Boober marches from place to place, head down slightly, one hand at his side – in a pocket if available, while the other swings with the driving rhythm of a steam locomotive.  He talks with a deep, serious voice, eyebrows pinched together, dark eyes focused intently.

When Mater made it out of the kitchen to investigate the accident, Boober still hidden behind the couch, he announced to her, in that serious voice, reassuring and matter-of-fact, “I kill it.”  And gave the little puddle the stomping it deserved.