My ten-year-old daughter does Jupiter poos. While your children are doing their lovely little Plutos, Sophie is releasing toilet-blocking planetoids into the universe. Sometimes, they hang around so long that we have to name them.
I’m not sure if this is something to do with her being autistic, or if it’s some sort of family trait that has skipped a few generations. It’s not the sort of thing you bring up in polite conversation: “By any chance, did Great Grandad Comerford do poos so big that your bum would hurt just looking at them?” “Your Great Grandad, BigShits Comerford? No idea.”
The other night, Sophie made a dash for the toilet saying, “Sophie poo!” in her usual two-word English. A few minutes later she hadn’t come back so I went to check on her. She isn’t quite consistent about privacy yet, so the door was open. “Are you okay?” I asked. She was straining. It’s not surprising; just the thought of her poos gives me constipation.
“Don’t go,” she said. Also, not surprising. If I had to do one of her poos I would want someone with me for moral support. After a minute of obviously painful trying, I finally heard a splash that would put a depth charge to shame. She was relieved. I was relieved.
Then, with a delighted smile, she put her hands in the air and shouted, “I WIN!”