Most people, when they hear the word “beast,” think of a large, dangerous, four-legged animal. For me, though, the word “beast” brings to mind a small, loud, two-legged animal. It brings to mind the horrifying noise that a certain small beast makes from her crib at 6:00 a.m.—“I need a go pee-pee in da potty!!!” The beast howls relentlessly until I stumble through the dark to help her.
This beast stands naked in the bathtub assaulting my ears while I hang her jammies upside down over the toilet to shake the feces out of the left footy, hollers while I wipe feces off the tile with a disinfectant wipe, wails while I scrub feces of the toilet seat with more disinfectant wipes, shrieks while I wash feces off the toilet bowl’s exterior with yet more disinfectant wipes, and yelps while I scrape feces off the step stool under the bathtub faucet.
Yes, the word “beast” does not remind me of cattle or lions. It reminds me of a much noisier, smaller, more irksome two-legged beast that roars while I sluice down her poopy legs, that bellows while I scrub her poopy bottom, that growls while I carefully clean the poop off her face, that moans while I rinse her curls (just in case).
I think of a beast that, as I towel her dry and slather her with lotion, finally stops whimpering. Suddenly she squeals with excitement, “I need a go pee-pee in da potty!!!!” I start scrubbing the bathtub, and she climbs onto her potty seat. She tinkles on the toilet, wearing an enormous grin. For a moment she is blessedly quiet, and then the beast starts shrieking again: “I need a potty tweat! I need a potty tweat!”