My older son Max finished potty training two weeks before his little brother was born. Well, he still wore a diaper at night, but Max's daytimes were spent in underwear. No more wiping the dread blueberry poop--Max loves his blueberries, and there is no more pernicious kind of "regular" excrement (diarrhea doesn't count).

Two weeks of bliss and contentment. Then Sam arrived and the whole mess started all over again. Diaper off, diaper on. Pee in the face. Poop on the hands. And the shirts. And the pants. And the floor. And the walls. And...

Before Max was born, I worried about changing diapers. I never liked it, and I wasn't sure I could handle wiping up poop almost constantly. But I got used to it. I then realized that what I didn't want was a drooler. Lucky for me, Max didn't drool. Sam was a moderate drooler, but I found that I could get used to drool, too.

That's how it works. If you have any sort of parental instincts at all, you tend to put up with stuff from your kids that you'd never accept from anyone else, other kids included.

Unlike his older brother, Sam didn't show much aptitude for potty training. With Max, the magic trick was bribery. M&M's did the trick for peeing, and Halloween candy worked for pooping (Carl Spackler would be proud, trading a Baby Ruth for dropping poop in the potty). Sam was immune to everything. If he wanted to pee, he peed. Wherever, whenever. And then, one day he started using the potty. No more wet underwear. But he kept pooping in a diaper.

Sam turned three, and I decided it was time for the pooping phase to kick into high gear. I put Sam in underwear all day long, except for naps. He would poop as soon as I put him in a pull-up or diaper. And then, right before Christmas, he pooped in the potty. Twice. I thought we were home free.

Then Max brought home this nasty mono-like virus, one that produced lethargy and lack of appetite. Sam went a week without eating much of anything. He didn't poop for two weeks. And then when he did, it hurt.

We spent January trying to get him on a regular pooping schedule. Once that was accomplished, I tried to get him to poop in the potty, but I also hedged my bets with diapers at nap time. That didn't work.

We tried bribes. My wife told Sam that he could go pick out new big boy underwear if he pooped in the potty. This interested him, but not enough to do the deed. I told Sam that he could spend "quiet time" (these days, naps come at a frequency of one a week or so) in the playroom rather than his room if he pooped in the potty. This, too, interested him, but not enough to get the job done.

So four weeks ago Monday, I simply refused Sam his "naptime" diaper. He got to wear underwear all the time, and if he wanted to poop, he needed to poop in the potty. The lines were drawn. And Sam drew upon the powers of his colon.

Monday: No poop.

Tuesday: Attempts at poop, but none forthcoming.

Wednesday: Three hours off and on the potty, but no poop.

Thursday: An hour of screaming in wretched pain, followed by five minutes of silence. Then, a chirpy and surprised "Daddy, I pooped" bubbled from Sam's room. And indeed he had.

I don't know how many of you are familiar with the "potty," but most of the containers within the plastic seat are the size of a one- or two-quart saucepan. I don't know how big Sam's is, but he filled it. To rim and up to his butt. In fact, the top of the pile clung tightly when he stood up. Momentary consternation aside, he was thrilled. As was I.

I was even happier on Friday, when he pooped in the potty once more. And he has just about every day since then, as well. Sam's a stubborn kid. Once he decides to do something, he does it. Period.

So my poopy diaper days are pretty much history. There are plenty of other childhood milestones that are probably more important, but few of them impact me quite so greatly. I know plenty of parents whose diaper days have passed, and they always appear slightly confused when faced with another child's funk in the trunk.

That's a confusion that I'm all too happy to share.

Jon Worley is thankful that neither of his boys viewed any form of excreta as art materials. That's the sort of thing that even parental instincts can't always overcome.