Tomorrow’s my daughter’s birthday and I had the fantastic idea to her party here at the house instead of, well, having it at Jumpy Gym or Chuck-E-Cheese or somewhere else where they do the cleaning and prepping and cooking and decorating for you. So, let’s just say it’s been a crazy week. And, since it’s been crazy, my brain has no ability to think of anything witty, funny or in any other way interesting to say. So, I’m re-posting a retro post– this one from my blog back in June of 2008. Here you go:
I know, I know. Potty training is a milestone… a rite of passage. I should be proud that my son is now a big-boy and has tiny blue boxer briefs to show for it.
But being a mom of a potty trained kid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Take yesterday for example. I was kind of on a roll. I had both kids out the door and in the car at a reasonable hour. Both kids had clothes on (so what if Joey’s shorts were a bit dirty) and both kids had eaten breakfast. I think I even combed Kate’s hair.
Before you start patting me on the back, let me just tell you how the cookie crumbled (or the Lighning McQueen underpants unraveled if you will…)
About five miles down the road, Joey said those six dreaded words: “Mommy! I have to go potty!”. Gulp. I squeeled into the nearest gas station and ran into the mini-mart with a kid under both arm. I grabbed the key and raced to the bathroom.
My pride in making it that far without an accident was short-lived because when I stepped inside the tiny bathroom and saw the dingy, brown toilet and the filthy, wet paper towels on the floor, I wanted to turn and run. Of course, by now, Joey was doing the dreaded “potty dance” and I had no choice.
As I piled fourteen layers of one-ply onto the seat, Joey grabbed the roll of toilet paper and spun it around, pulling a long string out before I grabbed him and held him haphazardly over the toilet, begging him to pee quickly without so much as touching a single thing. Not a single thing.
We stood there for nearly an eternity, with me balancing a pantless two-year-old on one knee with a baby in my arms and a grimy bathroom key between my chin and my shoulder. I oh-so-calmly cheered my son on as he squeezed out the teeniest, tiniest dribble of pee. I swear. Had he peed his pants, I doubt I would’ve noticed.
When he finished, he asked for a sticker.
I scrubbed him down with anti-bacterial gel and left before we all caught some deadly infection or worse, he decided he had to pee again.
I’m seriously considering weaning him off the big-boy draws and putting him back into pull-ups. Maybe the under-draw fairy can come get them and trade them for a fancy, new box of diapers. I figure that after a few weeks, he’ll forget all about the potty and I can switch out the pull-ups for regular old diapers and go back to my safe (and easy) diaper-changing world. I’ll even give him a sticker every time he goes in his diaper without telling me about it.