Pee pee and poo poo

We're potty training AJ. He's about two years and four months old, so it's going exactly about how you would expect it to. It was his idea, actually. One day I was changing his diaper and he just decided he was over that scene. "No diaper, daddy," he informed me. "AJ want to wear big boy underwear." This was kind of a revelation, since we had thought about doing this, but we hadn't exactly proposed the idea to him.

It is an ongoing process. He's got the "pee pee" part down pretty well, aside from the aggravating habit of telling me that he needs to go anytime we walk within five hundred yards of a public rest room, regardless of whether he actually feels the urge or not. But even this is probably my fault. On the first day we began, we institued a simple treat for a successful potty trip: a couple of M&Ms. And I mean a couple--literally two. This was incentive enough, and he was thrilled. This was a few weeks ago, and now he still looks forward to the M&Ms, or, in his language, "M-M-Ms," each time he goes.

But the problem is this: he's getting good at peeing. He also has learned that two M&Ms really isn't very many, so now he asks for "lots M-M-Ms," which, luckily, means any amount more than two. If I dare to just hand him a pair, he usually requests lots, yet takes the two, often wrapping up the whole exchange by adding "one, two, buckle my shoe." Anyway, the shady little character has fine tuned his bladder manipulation to maximize his M&M reward intake. Somehow, he has taught his tiny bladder to release miniscule, thimble-sized splashes of urine. Thus, he needs to pee six times in the morning, resulting in half a dozen "successes" for which he expects treats. Whatever. It beats peeing in his pants.

The "number two" side of the equation has not been quite as fruitful. He hates going. I don't know why. He understands what's happening, he knows that the end result is stinky and dirty, and he realizes the difference between dropping a deuce in the potty like a big boy, or doing the business in his pants and having an accident. We even offer him even more lavish chocolate treats for a poopy win. No luck. He can be pawing at his bottom, tiny buttocks clenched, with a brown turtle head nearly poking out, and yet he still does not want to sit on the toilet seat. He unleashes bloodcurdling screams and immediately announces that he is all done, vociferously maintaining that he does not need to go. You'd think that we were trying to remove his organs with a rusty butter knife, given the amount of stink (no pun intended) he puts up to avoid the whole show. Little does he know that I'd gladly give him a bag of M&Ms if he would learn to just shit and get off the pot.