When we were kids, my little brother Jon loved to call me Lizardo just to torture me. I would run to my parents in a huff, demanding they force him to stop calling me that, and they would walk over and tell him to cut it out and leave me alone and be nice to his sister, as all good parents do. Then they would walk away, and he would look at me and slowly whisper “Lizaaaaaaardo” in a terrible voice, scrunching up his face into some demon/monster expression no doubt meant to embody what a Lizardo looked like in his mind.
After months of hearing me complain and telling Jon to cut it out, only to have him continue to torture me with the name, they decided to take a different strategy. So, I came to my mother one day and said, “Mom, he’s doing it again! He’s calling me Lizardo! Make him stop!” And very calmly, without even looking up, she answered, “Well, then you call him Toilet Man.”
“What?” I said, blinking at her in disbelief. Was she telling me to fight back? Was she sanctioning a counter attack? Who was this woman, and what had she done with my peace loving mother?
“The next time he calls you Lizardo,” she said, “You call him Jon the Toilet Man. You have my permission.”
I walked away in shock, but vaguely thrilled. My mother had just given me permission to defend myself. I couldn’t wait for him to say Lizardo again, but as if he could sense the impending danger, he laid low for a few days. Finally, when he could contain himself no longer, my little brother let it rip.
“What’s up, Lizardo?”
“Not much, Toilet Man.”
Silence. I could practically hear his brain clinking away. Then, “Toilet Man? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, Toilet Man, because your name is Jon and that’s another name for the bathroom. It was mom’s idea. She figured that since you love nicknames so much, we should give you one.” I was nailing this attack. I was the picture of nonchalance. I realized then I was made for this type of psychological warfare.
Jon said, “Mom did not make that up. You did.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s her nickname for you. I like it, too. I think it suits you. We could even make a little song out of it. Jon, Jon the Toilet Man, Stinking it up like no one can.” He was no match for me. I can make an obnoxious, rhyming song about ANYTHING with little to no warning. It’s my one true area of genius. Don’t even make me sing the Turducken Thanksgiving song to prove it to you. No one beats me at this game. And Jon was no exception that day. He caved. He actually cried and ran to his mommy.
And I, well, I added a few verses to the Toilet Man song just in case I ever needed them.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. This has nothing to do with a blog about your son with DS. Why are you sharing this bizarre and terrible story? The sad truth is that this story came back to me recently, and not just because it represents pretty much the only time I ever out-tortured my brother and is thus a glorious memory for me. No, this story came back to me not so long ago when Lincoln fell headfirst into a toilet for the second time.
Yes, I said headfirst into a toilet. Yes, I said the second time. The first time was on vacation when he was “helping” Daddy in the bathroom. The second time was at church. On a day when we neglected to pack an extra pair of pants and had to stay late for a children’s ministry meeting.
Yep, when I went to pick him up, he was wearing a t-shirt, a diaper, tennis shoes without socks and an I-had-so-much-fun-today-wait-till-you-hear-what-I-did grin. Oh sure, all the childcare workers thought it was hilarious. It was the highlight of everyone’s morning, giggling about the headfirst tumble into the potty. But all I could think as I walked my half naked child out of the building was, “Twice, kid? Really?” along with the vague, resurfacing tune of the Toilet Man song running on a loop in my brain. Linc, Linc the Toilet Man, Jumping into potties like no one can. (Man, I’ve still got it.)
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