The following post is true.
Moonchild's been potty training. He does pretty well with the pee pee, but the pooping is hit and miss. Mostly miss. He has yet to discover the glories of the classic 15 Minute Sitdown, still preferring to leave his steaming piles in his pullups.
Last night, just after his bedtime he came into our room and declared "I gotta go potty." Mrs. Foot climbed out of bed and helped him on to the toilet. After sitting there a moment he declared in a somewhat distressed voice "I gotta poop!"
Now, Moonchild was a bit constipated. It'd been a good two days since he had plopped his last stinky. So Mrs. Foot stayed with him and encouraged him while he grunted and groaned and struggled and basically sounded like he was giving birth. Finally, after about 5 minutes, I heard Mrs. Foot exclaim "It's coming out!" followed shortly thereafter by an ecstatic Moonchild shouting "I did it!"
Mrs. Foot called me into the john to examine Moonchild's work. What I saw there, was one of those seminal moments of pride a father feels in his son; the dawning of a new, but inevitable connection between father and son, that is only possible because of the pride that all males take in an especially well-crafted turd.
There, laying in the bowl was the most remarkable specimen I have ever seen eliminated by a toddler. Moonchild's poop was about 8 to 10 inches long and about 2 inches in diameter at its widest point; well tapered, with a healthy color and a solid appearance.
It was a magnificent poop, an observation Moonchild echoed when he proclaimed it to be "a huge, MONGO poop!"
I started to get all teary eyed when he suggested (reminder: not making this up) that I take a picture of it.
Before I even had a chance to move toward the door, Mrs. Foot flushed the toilet. Women sometimes just don't understand.