Original Unedited Version: Noah Discovers the Bidet

This post has been rated R by PRIM
(Polite Review of Innocent Material — Founder and President: Miriam, The Proper Half)
and G by TOOT
(Council on Toilet Observation, Oversight, & Testing — Founder and President: Shane, The Funny Half)

***TOOT ratings assume the reader is a(n) (im)mature adult with a sense of humor.***

It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally, Noah and I share a moment so funny it feels like a reward for all the less-glamorous parts of parenting.

Over New Year’s weekend, our family stayed with our friends, the Noji’s, in North Carolina. Ruel is one of those guys who owns every gadget ever invented. Electric salt and pepper grinders. Coffee foamers. Air purifiers in every room. If there’s a button that does something unnecessary but impressive, Ruel owns it.

Which brings us to the bidet.

This weekend, Noah had his very first bidet experience.

He’d just had what Miriam calls “an accident”—which is code for what everyone else calls crapping your pants. I cleaned him (doing my best to avoid baby wipe breakthroughs) and settled him onto the toilet. Feeling I deserved a little comedic payback for icky services I am forced to render, I pressed a few buttons on the bidet monitor.

Three simple clicks.
A short pause.
Ka-BOOM!.

Noah went from space-cadet mode to full-blown DEFCON 1 as a powerful stream of warm water stormed his very own private beaches of Normandy.

It took him a few panicked seconds to realize he was not, in fact, under attack. The look of shock and fear melted from his face as it lit up and he shouted, “WEEEEEEEEE!” and he began toilet-dancing to his own Noahnese remix of I Can Make Your Hands Clap by Fitz and the Tantrums. (I’m fairly certain “hands” were replaced with “cheeks” in his version.)

The boy was doing a full jig—face beaming, giggles chortling for the entire cleaning duration.

Naturally, the next time it was my turn on butt-cheek-cleansing patrol (we alternate to maintain sanity) after another “accident,” Noah had logged enough bidet experience to develop his own preferences. He wanted a different cleaning option—specifically, the frontal one.

I explained, calmly and confidently, that this option was for women and that boys didn’t need it.

Without missing a beat, Noah grabbed his testicles with his right hand, shook them for emphasis, and pointed at them with his left as he declared:

“This! This! This!”

I was almost in tears from laughter. We don’t get moments like these often. But when we do, they’re priceless.