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It was a Wednesday. Or maybe a Thursday. The days blur when one lives at the mercy of a tiny man who considers a toilet an affront to his lifestyle.

James stood in the doorway, pants halfway down, staring at the potty like it had personally offended his ancestors.

“No,” he said with quiet menace. “I poop… in the diaper.”

I blinked. “But we’ve talked about this. You’re big now.”

He blinked back—once, slowly—like a raccoon planning an escape route.

I offered incentives. A sticker. A popsicle. My soul.
He declined.

We sat across from each other like rival diplomats at a summit.
I explained the benefits: comfort, independence, fewer surprise laundry incidents.
He explained his counterargument by dropping to the floor and dramatically curling into the fetal position while clutching a stuffed elephant named Tuna.

Jack peeked in with the weary wisdom of an older brother who’s seen too much and pooped too long.
“Just let him do what he wants,” he whispered. “He’s in a mood.”
Then he backed out, nodding like a man avoiding toddler eye contact.

I tried everything:

• Reason
• Emotion
• Interpretive dance
• A PowerPoint presentation called “We Don’t Fear the Flush”

None worked.

Finally, James stood, exhaled like a weary Shakespearean prince, and announced:
“I will wait for diaper justice.”

And just like that, he was gone.
Diaper intact. Dignity… undisturbed.

I stared at the potty.
It mocked me.
I closed the bathroom door and whispered, “Tomorrow.”

Some battles are loud.
Some are dramatic.
Some smell faintly of betrayal and banana.

This one?
This one is ongoing.

But one day, that boy will sit.
One day, he will poop.
One day, that toilet will know victory.

Until then, I stock diapers and silently negotiate with destiny.