Have you ever noticed how little kids often have a language of their own, and can communicate with one another?

My brother, Mr. Trick, did not talk early. According to my mother, he really had no need to. Mom said I was talking at 11 months, and I’ve never really shut up since.

She used to call upon the secret language of children to have me tell her what Mr. Trick wanted. She often told this tiny story, complete with sound effects which I cannot duplicate here, and comical facial expressions, again, cannot duplicate.

Mom: Why’s he crying, witchypoo?

witchypoo: Ba didddle blup do blug?

Mr. Trick: Gah googah gee bah bah.

witchypoo: He’s got a pain in his belly. He has to poop.

It’s official now. I’m a poop interpreter.

Usually I log into the Psychic Power Network to take calls after I have gotten my first morning coffee and associated metabolic activities out of the way.

I need to be available to answer calls within two rings. So, before I visit the smallest room in the house, I check to see where I am in the queue of logged in psychics. That way, odds are good that I won’t be interrupted.

The thing about playing the odds is that your number will come up eventually.

And?

This morning it did.

With a wad of TP jammed in mah drawahs, I picked up the phone with my unwashed hands and choked back the epithet “shit disturber” (thanks, Dad, for inserting that phrase into my vocabulary, always aimed at me. I HAVE NO IDEA WHY.)

Instead, the most pleasant, smiling voice greeted my client. “Hello. You’ve reached Gracie, extension 51650. May I have your first name, please?”

I proceeded to give him a kick arse right-on reading.

Now, I’m looking suspiciously at my tarot deck to determine just how many poo germs are on it, and if I have to wash my hands after every reading for the life of the deck.

I’m quirky like that.

The story is recycled, not the toilet. Just so ya know. It’s from a year or so ago, back when I had 300 hits per month.

One of the characteristics of autistic behaviours is obsessions. Come to think of it, I just might be autistic myself. But this isn’t about me. Hah!
Ass Burger Boy was obsessed with toilets ever since toilet training began. I think I may have helped to fuel this obsession, since I was pretty eager not to clean up poop.

This obsession impacted my older sister, who had taken ABB to Sears and was thoroughly mortified when he demonstrated his big boy skills in the display toilet. I don’t think she praised him for it. Encouragement is critical during toilet training. It may have set him back a bit.

By sheer accident, I stumbled onto the “What’s in it for me?” method of motivating ABB. I swear I knew the instant he was toilet trained for real. I could see in his eyes the connection as he made it to being a big boy, toilet training, and another fascination of his, which was beards. Since every time he used the potty, I told him he was getting to be a bigger boy, it really clicked with him when I said that when he was bigger, he could grow a beard of his own, much preferable to feeling up the beards of random strangers. I swear I used all the creativity I could muster to motivate that chile.

During this very long period of time,we lived in a place with air in the pipes, and the toilet made a horrifying noise, which I tried to explain by telling him that the toilet needed to clear its throat. Yes, in hindsight, this was entirely stupid of me, but hey, the kid was terrified. Frankly, so was I. Terrified he would never come near a toilet again. I saw myself changing poopy diapers up to the time I might need mine changed. The noise it made sounded like a screechy ERRRRRR, so we made friends with it, and called the toilet Errr.

This led to a great curiosity about other people’s toilets. He wanted to find out if anyone else had a toilet with personality that he could befriend.

Every time we went to a place he hadn’t been to before, he would ask the inhabitants right away “What colour is your toilet?” followed by “Can I see it?” These are the questions he came up with after I had to hurriedly explain to him that only our toilet was called Errr, because of course, he asked to see their Errr, and they had no idea what the Errr he meant.

A few years after he was toilet trained, he asked less often to see people’s toilets, and he quit entirely asking them what colour their toilet was. I didn’t fully understand the perseverance of his obsessions, but was happy to let it go.

A few weeks ago, I asked him if when he goes to a new place, he makes it a point to use the bathroom.

Yes, yes, he does. He has just gotten more subtle with his obsessions as he has matured. And now, I have more mildly amusing stories, and less explanations to provide.

You may remember my SIL twice removed.

She was wrapped pretty tightly. One horrible (gasp) nightmare she told me about was when she was showing her house to be sold. In her dream, she opened the curtains to display the view and OMG the window was dirty! Imagine her horror!

Her dog was rebuked when he farted to the point that he was somewhat neurotic about it. I suspect her first husband used to cut the cheese and blame the dog a lot. She was that uptight.

I was at her place near Montreal with my first husband where I was spending some quality time, just me and the very cute dog.

I played a tune with my nether flute, and the dog bolted out of the room.

Seriously traumatized.

And I?

Lost it. Cracked totally up.

Whereupon, SIL twice removed investigated the hilarity, and then demanded that I (are you ready for this?)

Apologise to the dog.

That’s when I knew for sure she was insane.

This alert is for you, Loralee. Don’t read it. Cover your eyes. It’s all about poop.

Ass Burger Boy: “Shit mittens!:

witchypoo: “Shit mittens?”

ABB: “That’s when you’re so deep in shit that your hands are covered in it.”

witchypoo: Oh.

Now I can’t stop saying it to myself. Shit mittens. It has a ring to it.

Then I got to thinking of all the excrement-themed sayings my mother had.

“Down will come your shithouse.”

I had a vision of an outhouse toppling, until I realized that her doom-infused voice meant my drawers would come down. (for a spanking)

witchypoo: “What’s for dinner, Mom>”

Mom: “Shit and with it.”

Note: I never figured this one out. But she said it often.

And then, then? I remembered all her sayings that accompanied farts.

“Speak again, oh, toothless one.”

“Clear your throat before you speak.”

“Another country heard from.”

“Better an empty house than a bad tenant.”

Mom was a colourful character. She never considered that some of the things she had to say might be inappropriate for her children.

She was a free spirit.

Gosh. I really miss her.

Pull my finger, please.