Skip to main content

How to Potty Train Your Porcupine

My old roommate, Tom Toro, became a cartoonist for "The New Yorker" after college. You can find his work online.

I think my favorite of his cartoons has a cowboy approaching a Wild West saloon. Some barflies are watching. Bizarrely, the cowboy's feet are not visible underneath the doors--those weird half-doors that we tend to envision in Wild West saloons.

So Barfly One draws the only logical conclusion: "THAT is one bow-legged cowboy."

Think about it.

I'm really enchanted by this silliness--I'd love to spend more time with that cowboy--and it's the same kind of silliness you can find in Toro's debut picture book, "How to Potty Train Your Porcupine." This is available now; it's a beautiful book.

The story involves a family eager to adopt a porcupine. But you can't put a diaper on a porcupine; the quills will poke holes in the cloth. This is a particularly intellectual porcupine, so if you set out newspaper for him, he just becomes distracted by the crossword puzzle and forgets to poop.

In my favorite passage, the children try to tame the porcupine's quills. The kids use curlers. Without the pointy quills, we think, the porcupine can just sit right down on the toilet.

But a problem arises: Newly-"curled," the porcupine becomes a kind of beach ball, and he rolls right off the porcelain throne and into the hallway.

All you need, if you want to tell an effective story, is a sense of delight--and this new book has delight in spades. The resolution isn't really important. I'd buy the book for the diaper scene, alone. It's exciting to see a new children's writer in the world.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52880263-how-to-potty-train-your-porcupine

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...