Why No Kids? Pee-pee Teepees and Tinkle Targets!

Tit Tent

Tit Tent

Before tackling the topic of Pee-pee Teepees and tinkle targets I’d like to digress briefly to matters more mammary and less urinary.

I remember hearing from a friend when he became a new father that his wife had received a breastfeeding cover-up (aka nursing cover, Bebe Au Lait, etc.) called a Hooter Hider. Although I practice selective hearing when talk turns to tykes, this gem caught my attention.

“A what?” I shot back.

“A Hooter Hider, you know, like to cover up your boobs when you’re nursing,” he explained.

No, I didn’t know.

This remains one of my bigger disappointments about choosing childfreedom. No breastfeeding chez nous. I’m sure it’s a less sexy proposition when your wife is oozing funny colored milk, but the idea of a bare boob being thrust into the limelight around the clock has always fascinated me. But I’m getting offtrack.

Introducing the Tit Tent

As if the name Hooter Hider isn’t good enough already, my friend brought it to my attention because he was certain he’d dreamed up a viable contender brand. Tit Tent.

While Tit Tent could indeed inspire clever advertising ditties (and graphics), I suspect that it would not be a big hit with the target market: mothers. Fair enough.

But I couldn’t resist the urge to Google “Tit Tent”. And much to my surprise and amusement I discovered that my friend was beaten out by a clever European marketing team.

The Tit Tent: This one was really popular in Belgium in the summer of 2009 after a massive marketing campaign by the newspaper Het Nieuwsblad! A tent in the shape of, well, a boob. (10 Coolest Camping Tents)

808 Solutions… designed round tents (a breast is round -not square like most tents are-) fully customized, including a nipple and aureole on the top of the tent. (808)

I must admit that I can’t figure out exactly what the marketing campaign was promoting. Nor can imagine that market demand for Tit Tents is high enough to justify manufacturing these maternal camping cribs for campers. But it sure would make finding your own tent at the end of a concert a little easier. (BTW: Two-tone beanies which looked just like the Tit Tent were allegedly part of the marketing campaign. Sleeping caps, I suppose.)

Okay enough with my breast digression. On to piddle products.

Pee-pee Teepee

Pee-pee Teepee

Pee-pee Teepees

I sometimes joke that the more I lower my standards, the more I exceed my expectations. Well, my poop post inevitably invited similar potty post suggestions from the peanut gallery including links to the two following items. So, yes, I apologize in advance. Part of being childfree is being able to avoid poo-poo and pee-pee conversations. In fact, it’s a HUGE bonus. But, I figure parents’ don’t have an exclusive on potty talk, so I’m weighing in.

First up, is a product that looks for all the world like a fun party hat. Referred to elsewhere as wee-wee tents (the moniker that reminded me about Tit Tents), “Pee-pee Teepees for Baby Boys” were just too bizarre to resist.

Why is it that the act of diaper changing always seems to inspire an extra “contribution” from the little one? Parents of baby boys have been particularly vulnerable – until now. Just place a pee-pee teepee on his wee-wee during diaper changes, and the hazard is averted. An ideal baby shower gift, the five powder blue 100% cotton pee-pee teepees are decorated with airplanes and arrive in a miniature cotton laundry bag. (UncommonGoods)

Are you kidding? I’ve heard that the occupational hazards of changing little mister’s diaper include sprinkler shows on a par with the Versailles fountains, but a Pee-pee Teepee?!?! Won’t the little rocket either:

  • fall off, or
  • blast off?

Weird. And ready for weirder? Remember my all-too-real urinal deodorizer experience? Sorry, but we’re headed back in that direction again.

 

Soccer Ball Tinkle Target

Soccer Ball Tinkle Target

Tinkle Targets

At first I thought this was a pretty cool idea. You know, give the little man a fun challenge that will keep his junior manhood trained on the toilet bowl. Small boys’ attention spans wander, and their wizzers’ wander with them. If you can lock their attention on the inside of the potty, you might be able to reduce the perennial pee-pee parfum of children’s bathrooms. But I’m not certain soccer balls, cars and airplanes are the best tinkle targets. Sends sort of a mixed message. Next think you know the rug rat will be tinkling on your soccer ball and marking the airplane aisle. If recent experience is a useful guide, I’d recommend using a target that looks like the front cover of the New Yorker magazine sitting in a caddy next to the toilet. They hit that every time!

But there’s another little issue with the vinyl targets that adhere to the inside of the porcelain. Splash back. If I were target training my sharpshooter, I’d want him focused on the deep well in the middle of the toilet, not the sides which soon enough will result in pee ricocheting back onto the New Yorker. Again.

And besides, would you want to install and clean and remove those?

Yuck. Why no kids? Pee-pee Teepees and Tinkle Targets!

Mommy, Come See My Poop

One thing you’ll never hear at our house: “Mommy, come see my poop!”

And – just to be clear – no “Daddy, come see my poop” either.

Never. Ever!

Call me self absorbed. Call me squeamish. Call me a Prissy Potty Pooper. Call me whatever you like, but don’t expect me to celebrate a floater unless we’re watching Caddyshack. That’s funny. So funny it’s almost worth celebrating. Though not quite, not unless I’m willing to risk my marriage…

Poopy Flashback

So what’s up with my scatological line of ranting this morning? Déjà vu. A poop flashback!

A little over a decade ago I found myself in Turks and Caicos, miserably happy with my then-girlfriend-now-bride. Pristine beaches, zippy sailing, plein air massages, decadent food and drink, and ten days with the woman who I was (and am still) crazy about. Bliss.

One morning a 4-5 year old boy and his older brother swung by our suite in the morning to visit us before heading off to the ocean. (I’m omitting the name and relationship of the lads to preserve their post-poop years propriety.) They did this most mornings, and we enjoyed it. After eating fresh tropical fruit for breakfast on our balcony we’d debrief the previous days adventures and plan new escapades for the hours ahead. Yes, parents, this side of being around kids is actually really cool for many childfree adults. You see, we share a unique and often exciting bond with kids because, to a degree some of us don’t always admit, we’re not quite as grown up as you!

Suddenly the younger boy burst onto the balcony (I guess he’d wandered off to explore the cool stuff childfree couples leave around their bedrooms?) and grabbed me by the hand. I stood and followed dutifully, thinking he was about to demonstrate how a bra could be used as a catapult or maybe ask me to show him how to make condom water balloons.

He pulled me into the bathroom and pointed into the porcelain throne. “Look!” I looked into the toilet where a Halloween candy sized “Baby Ruth” was floating. I looked at him beaming, and instantly I understood two things. I was supposed to congratulate him in the hopes that this small victory would propel him toward diaper independence. And I would not invite a repeat performance from him or any other little boy (or girl) for the rest of my life. What’s funny in a film is decidedly less funny off-screen.

Yes, parents, I know that you’re rolling your eyes. Fair enough. Juvenile. But honest. And stop rolling your eyes, they might get stuck that way!

Come See My Poop!

So the recent [almost] repeat performance struck a familiar chord. Again I’ll keep the eager crapper’s name and relationship under wraps. It’s only fair. Besides, he’s a cool kid that I enjoy, and his parents are our good friends. Wouldn’t want any hurt feelings, especially since my gripe is with poop inspections and not this specific pooper or poop inspector. Do you follow?

After the youngster’s timely announcement (just prior to dinner), his mother dutifully trotted off to inspect. Cheers (and hugs, or so I imagine since I stayed in the living room and witnessed only the audible congratulations) followed. The turd must have been solid gold. Maybe it’s time to remix the The Golden Goose?

So I get it. Super pooper celebrations fast-track diaper independence. I’m a teacher; this is familiar pedagogical territory. Except that my lessons steer clear of toilets. Childfree bias, I guess. That said, I don’t want to wrap this rant without a heartfelt “Thank you!” to all the parents who celebrate their tikes’ turds. Golden or otherwise. Especially when it works. Because I’m not equipped to deal with a world full of crappy britches, and poop inspections and celebrations are best left to Bill Murray.