We use positive reinforcement with our sweet bean, hoping to entice him toward bowel movement on the bowl. We do a poo poo dance, motivate him with stars and a chart, stickers to reward when we put him on the toilet and he does go, we let him wear his favorite Thomas the Train big boy underwear. And God looks down and laughs his ass off.

Sir Beckett refuses to tell us when he needs to use the pot. He’s perfectly content to stew in a heap of ‘rhea, swampass in his underwear. He doesn’t complain. He simply powers through, plays with his trains, behaving as if he didn’t have a pond of crap in his seat.

We don’t know what to do. When we put him on the pot, he will go. But no matter how we try to reward him for “good” behavior, he simply won’t tell us when he needs to use the toilet.

Oh, we’ve tried diaper free days, naked lunches, you name it. And when I catch him, mid-leak on the carpet, I run him over to the pot, then tell him when he feels like that, he needs to come here, to the toilet, and go here. Like Elmo does. Like Dora. Like all your neighbors. It doesn’t matter how many big boys we parade in front of him, announcing, proving, that they only use the pot, not diapers or flooring.

Bribes. We’ve gone there. A train tent for his bed. A new engine… nope, you can’t open it until you make on the pot. So, he runs over and tries, sits there. Squeezes out a few drops. Then he’s off to play, where, while pushing a tender car across a bridge, he’ll push out a hot lump of excrement. Oh, happy day.