Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 21
Father Time

Tuesday morning, Patrick didn't leave for work. He came downstairs in jeans and a casual shirt instead of his usual suit, poured coffee, and settled at the kitchen table with the newspaper.

"Daddy's taking some vacation time," Shannon explained as she fed Ash his oatmeal. "He'll be home all week. Won't that be nice?"

Ash's stomach tightened. Patrick home all day meant different dynamics. More supervision. Less chance to just space out during play time. More potential for "teaching moments."

"Why?" Ash asked around a mouthful of oatmeal.

"Because I want to spend more time with my family," Patrick said, not looking up from his paper. "And because there are some things we need to work on with you that are easier with both parents around."

Things to work on. That couldn't be good.

After breakfast, Shannon carried Ash to the bathroom instead of straight to the living room. In the corner, next to the regular toilet, sat a small plastic potty. Bright blue with a cartoon whale on the front.

Ash's chest tightened. "What's that?"

"Your potty!" Shannon said brightly, setting him down in front of it. "We're going to start working on potty training. Well, not full training yet—just getting you used to sitting on it."

"I don't need—"

"You're two years old," Patrick said from the doorway. "Most children start showing interest in the potty around this age. We're not expecting miracles, but we want you to start learning."

"I'm not—" Ash stopped himself. Not a child. But saying that would just earn him consequences. "I don't want to."

"I know it's new and different," Shannon said gently. "But this is an important skill to learn. Right now, we're just going to practice sitting on it. No pressure to actually use it yet."

She unfastened his diaper, set it aside. Ash stood there, exposed, his new anatomy on display, while both parents watched.

"Have a seat," Patrick instructed.

The plastic potty was cold. Ash sat gingerly, his bare bottom on the strange seat, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable.

"There we go! Good boy." Shannon crouched beside him. "Now we just sit here for a few minutes. If anything comes out, that's great. If not, that's okay too."

Ash sat on the potty, naked from the waist down, his parents watching him expectantly. The humiliation was different from diaper changes—this required active participation, conscious effort, performing a bodily function on command.

"Try to go," Patrick said. "You might surprise yourself."

Ash sat in stubborn silence. He couldn't control his bladder—the pee came whenever it wanted. But he had control over this. Over bowel movements. It was the one thing his body still let him regulate.

"Push a little," Shannon encouraged. "See if anything happens."

"No."

"Noam—"

"I don't need to go."

Patrick and Shannon exchanged glances. Some silent parental communication.

"All right," Patrick said finally. "We'll try again after lunch. But from now on, after every meal, you sit on the potty for five minutes. Even if nothing happens."

They let him up. Put a fresh diaper on him. Carried him to his table for morning playtime.

But Ash's mind was racing. The potty. They were adding potty training to the routine. Which meant more opportunities for them to control his body, more chances to shape his behavior, more infantilizing rituals to endure.

And they'd said "not full training yet"—which meant eventually they'd expect him to actually use it. To announce when he needed to go, to ask permission, to perform like a toddler actually learning toileting.

The day continued with Patrick's presence changing everything. He played blocks with Ash after snack time—not hovering like Shannon sometimes did, but actively engaging, building towers and knocking them down and praising Ash's construction efforts.

"You've got good spatial reasoning," Patrick observed. "Building higher and more stable structures than last week."

Because his toddler hands were learning. His brain was adapting to his new body's capabilities. Progress his parents saw as good, as development, as success.

After lunch, back to the bathroom. Diaper off. Sit on the potty.

"Remember, just try," Shannon said. "You might need to go after eating."

Ash sat on the cold plastic, arms crossed, stubbornly refusing. Patrick sat on the edge of the bathtub, reading something on his phone. Shannon perched on the closed toilet lid. Both waiting.

The five minutes stretched out endlessly. Ash's legs fell asleep. His bottom got cold. But nothing happened.

"Okay, that's time," Patrick said finally. "Good job sitting still. We'll try again at dinner."

This was the routine now, apparently. Three times a day. Sit on the potty and be watched and expected to perform.

That afternoon, Shannon announced another change. "Your hair is getting a bit long. Time for a trim."

She produced scissors and a comb from the bathroom cabinet. Set a towel around Ash's shoulders while he sat at his little table.

"Just a little cleanup," she said. "Make you look neat and tidy."

Ash sat frozen while Shannon combed through his hair. It had grown out from the procedure—not long, but longer than the short style he'd woken up with. Still nothing like his old hair, the style he'd cultivated as an adult. But his.

The scissors snipped. Hair fell onto the towel.

Patrick came to observe. "Nice and short. Good clean cut."

Shannon worked carefully, cutting it close at the sides and back, leaving just a bit more length on top. Classic little boy haircut. The kind Catholic school children wore.

When she was done, she brushed off his shoulders and held up a mirror. "Look how handsome!"

Ash looked at his reflection. The haircut made him look even younger. More proper. More like exactly the kind of well-behaved toddler boy his parents wanted him to be.

"Perfect," Patrick approved. "Very presentable."

Presentable. Like he was a display, a project, a thing to be groomed and shaped and presented to the world as evidence of their good parenting.

That evening's potty session came after dinner. Ash sat on the plastic whale potty, both parents present, waiting expectantly.

"I really think you might need to go," Shannon said. "You usually do around this time."

She was tracking his bowel movements. Of course she was. Probably had a chart somewhere, monitoring his digestive schedule like everything else about his body.

Ash sat in stubborn silence. He did need to go—could feel the pressure building. But he wouldn't. Not on their schedule. Not on command.

"Push a little," Patrick encouraged. "It's okay. That's what the potty is for."

The five minutes ended. Nothing happened. Shannon diapered him and carried him for bath time.

But during the bath, Ash felt it coming. Couldn't hold it anymore. The bowel movement came while Shannon was washing his hair.

"Oh!" Shannon noticed immediately. "Honey, you're going in the bath. It's okay, these things happen, but this is exactly why we want you using the potty."

The humiliation was complete. Shannon had to drain the bath, clean him off, sanitize everything. All while explaining in that patient maternal voice why it was better to use the potty instead.

"Tomorrow we'll try earlier," she said. "Before bath time. I think that might be your natural schedule."

That night, lying in the crib with his new haircut and the memory of three failed potty sessions and going in the bath like an actual toddler, Ash felt the walls closing in further.

They were systematizing everything. Tracking everything. Adding new routines and expectations and training.

Haircut to look proper. Potty sessions three times a day. Patrick home to reinforce everything Shannon was doing.

This was the next phase. Not just managing his current state but actively training him toward developmental milestones. Making him perform the stages of early childhood, hitting markers, showing progress.

Soon they'd probably celebrate when he finally used the potty successfully. Would praise and reward and mark it as achievement. Would add it to whatever records they were keeping of his development.

And eventually—not soon, but eventually—using the potty would become routine. Would become automatic. Just like cooperating with diaper changes, just like eating his meals, just like all the other things that had become normalized through repetition.

Wednesday brought the same pattern. Morning potty session after breakfast—nothing. Lunch potty session—nothing. Ash sitting stubbornly on the plastic whale while his parents waited patiently.

"You're holding it," Patrick observed during the afternoon session. "I can see you tensing up. You know you need to go but you're refusing."

"I don't need to go."

"Noam, everybody needs to have bowel movements. We know you do. This isn't about forcing you—it's about teaching you to use the appropriate place."

"I'm wearing a diaper."

"For now. But eventually you'll wear underwear like a big boy. And big boys use the potty."

Big boys. Like that was something to aspire to. Like progressing through artificial childhood milestones was achievement instead of just more control.

That afternoon, during playtime, it happened. Ash was building with blocks, Patrick reading nearby, when the pressure became too much. He couldn't hold it anymore.

The bowel movement came. In the diaper. While Patrick was right there.

Patrick noticed immediately. "Ah. Let's get you changed."

The changing was matter-of-fact, but afterward Patrick sat Ash at his table for a conversation.

"You just went in your diaper during playtime. That's proof you need to go regularly. But you're refusing the potty."

"I don't like the potty."

"You don't have to like it. But you do have to try to use it." Patrick's voice was firm. "Starting tomorrow, if you refuse to even try during potty time—if you sit there and don't push at all—you're getting a timeout afterward. We're not going to force you to produce results, but we are going to require genuine effort."

Ash's stomach sank. Another consequence. Another way they'd push him toward compliance.

Thursday morning's potty session came with the new rule. Ash sat on the plastic seat, arms crossed, refusing to try.

"Are you pushing?" Shannon asked.

"No."

"Noam, you need to try. You know the rule."

"I don't want to try."

The five minutes ended. Shannon sighed, put his diaper back on, and led him to the corner.

"Five-minute timeout for not trying during potty time."

Ash stood in the corner, face burning with humiliation. A timeout for not trying to shit on command.

This was his life now.

After the timeout, Shannon sat him at his table. "We're not trying to be mean, honey. We're trying to teach you an important skill. Using the potty is part of growing up."

Growing up. The irony would have been funny if it wasn't so horrible.

Lunch potty session: Ash tried. Actually pushed, actually attempted, because the timeout was worse than trying. Nothing came out, but Shannon praised him anyway.

"Good job trying! That's all we ask. You don't have to produce results—just genuine effort."

Dinner potty session: Ash pushed again. Felt the pressure there, right on the edge. But his body refused to cooperate, too stressed, too aware of being watched.

"That's okay," Patrick said. "You tried. That's what matters."

But later that evening, after bath, in a fresh diaper before bed—it happened again. The bowel movement he'd been holding, coming when he wasn't being watched, when he could relax enough to let it happen.

Shannon changed him with practiced efficiency. "Tomorrow we're going to try four potty sessions. I think you need more opportunities throughout the day."

Four sessions. More watching. More pressure. More requirements to perform bodily functions on their schedule.

Friday brought the expanded routine. Morning session after breakfast. Mid-morning session before snack. After-lunch session. After-dinner session.

Ash tried at each one. Pushed, attempted, performed the effort they required. But nothing came out during the scheduled sessions.

And then, inevitably, it came in his diaper during playtime or quiet time or whenever his body finally relaxed enough.

"We'll keep working on it," Shannon said during Friday evening's diaper change. "Eventually your body will learn the schedule. It just takes time and patience."

Time and patience. They had infinite amounts of both.

That night, Ash lay in the crib, his new short haircut itchy on his neck, his body exhausted from four potty sessions of futile pushing.

Patrick's vacation week had been about reinforcement. About adding new routines and requirements. About both parents working together to shape him, train him, move him toward the developmental milestones they expected.

The haircut made him look proper. The potty training added another layer of control and scheduling and expectation. Patrick's constant presence meant no breaks in supervision, no moments to just exist without being observed and assessed and guided.

And next week Patrick would go back to work, but the routines would stay. The potty sessions would continue. The expectations would remain.

Each week they added something new. Refined something else. Made the training more comprehensive, the control more complete.

"My name is Ash," he whispered into the dark. "I'm twenty-four years old."

But he had a little boy haircut now. Sat on a potty four times a day trying to perform on command. Let them track his bodily functions and adjust his schedule and praise him for "trying."

Was being trained like a toddler because that's what they'd decided he was.

And slowly—so slowly he almost didn't notice—he was learning to comply.

To try when told to try. To sit when told to sit. To accept timeouts for non-compliance and praise for effort.

To be shaped into the proper Catholic boy they wanted to present to the world.

Clean cut. Well-behaved. Making appropriate developmental progress.

Their success story.

Five thousand seven hundred and eighty-two days to go.

And each one bringing new refinements to the training.

New routines to master. New expectations to meet. New ways to be molded into Noam.

The proper little boy with the neat haircut and the potty training schedule.

Not Ash.

Never Ash again.

Just Noam.

And Noam was learning to be good.