The Potty
“Gabe won’t use the potty,” my wife said.
We were sitting on the couch. She was watching one of her various reality shows. I have no idea which one, and I was reading the newest book by Stephen King when she said it.
“I thought we were past this,” I said, taking a sip of my beer and only half-listening.
“So, did I, but he wet himself this morning, and when I asked why he wouldn't use the potty, all he’d say was a scary monster,” she said.
“Does he think the toilet is a monster?” I asked, setting my book down and giving her all of my attention.
“I asked him that, and he said no,” she answered, pausing her show. The face of a handsome yet vacant-eyed young man remaining frozen on the screen.
“So, there’s a monster in the toilet?”
She nodded, “he said it’s trying to get him.”
“What are we going to do? We can’t put him back in diapers. It took long enough to get him used to the toilet over the potty chair, and let’s be honest, four is too old to let him regress,” I said.
“I finally got him to use the toilet before you got home, but the only way he’d do it was if I went in with him,” she said. The look on her face was a mixture of concern and exasperation.
I was willing to bet she was looking at the same expression on my face.
“I suppose we just keep telling him that the toilet doesn’t have a monster in it. I suppose we’ll also have to escort him to the bathroom until he stops being scared,” she said, shaking her head in resignation.
I nodded in agreement.
Over the next week, things didn't get better. If anything, they got worse.
Trips to the bathroom turned into crying and begging. Gabe was convinced the “Monsta in da potty,” as he put it, was going to come up through the water and get him.
I’m ashamed to admit that as we dragged into day nine, I was getting angry.
I love my son more than life itself, but I have a stressful life. Between my days teaching at the university and my nights grading papers, combined with trying to squeeze in family time wherever possible, I was being crushed.
But Gabe was still terrified of the potty.
It all came to a head on a Saturday night.
It was the middle of the night, and we were sleeping when Gabe came in and jerked on the blanket.
“Daddy, I have to potty,” he whispered just loud enough to be heard.
“Gabey, just go potty. Daddy is tired,” I said, not opening my eyes.
“But—” he started, and I cut him off.
“Gabriel Michael Jacobs, go to the potty and then go back to bed,” I ordered.
With a sob, my son left the room, and I felt like a piece of shit. I decided we’d do something fun the next day. Maybe go to the zoo and see the bears. Gabe loved bears.
I was almost back to sleep when I heard the scream.
“MOMMY DADDY HELP!” Gabe screamed.
My wife and I were out of our bed and racing for the bathroom faster than we’d moved since our teenage years. The terror in his voice negated any irritation or exhaustion. Our son was screaming like he was being killed.
I reached the open door first and what I saw froze the blood in my veins.
A long arm, looking more like a gnarled tree branch, extended from inside the toilet. At the end of the thing, a skeletal hand had a grip on my sons arm.
“HELP!” Gabe screeched, terror laser etched on his young face.
Without hesitating, I grabbed the slime-covered arm. At least I hope it was just slime and attempted to break it loose. The thing seemed to be made of coiled steel, and my attempts to free my son failed before they started. Letting go of the arm, I’d grabbed.
I heard my wife's footsteps as she ran from the scene.
I didn’t know what she was doing, but I hoped to return with something to help me free Gabe.
“Daddy, it hurts,” Gabe sobbed.
“It’s going to be ok, Gabey,” I grunted, grabbing his arm in front of the gripping hand so as not to hurt Gabe, and pulled.
The thing didn’t budge.
I was starting to panic when my wife, cool as ice, returned carrying the bolt cutters we kept in the garage.
“Hold on, baby, mom’s here,” she said, spreading the cutters.
She looked at me as if to ask if I was ready.
I nodded and braced Gabe as best I could.
My wife closed the bolt cutters on the thin demonic arm and closed the handles. It wasn’t easy, and she broke out in a sweat, her face turning red, but in the end, she severed the hand from the arm.
CLICK!
The hand released, falling to the ground, and a shriek erupted from the toilet bowl.
The arm, sans hand, retreated into the bowl, disappearing past the S-curve.
My wife dropped the cutters, and we both took Gabe into a tight grip.
“Never again,” my wife whispered.
“What?” I asked, tears of relief running down my stubbled face.
“We never go to the bathroom alone again or without a weapon,” she answered, kissing Gabe on top of his head.
I nodded.
Of course, she was right.