It is finished. The potty training, that is. I know, last week I said that I was giving up. Throwing in the toilet paper. Tossing out the baby with the bowl.
And it felt good. The giving up. I placed the Pampers back in the changing table cabinet, while whistling a happy tune. I stuffed the super hero boxers into the dark recesses of the sock drawer. I Lysoled the Diaper Genie, just for good measure.
I had my baby back.
But then, a couple of days later, the baby walked up to me, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “Mommy. I need to go to the bathwoom.”
I sighed, popped a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol, and dutifully opened the bathroom door by squeezing the baby safe door knob thing-a-ma-jig (a technical term).
Let the games begin.
Junior flung open the door, banging into the well worn wall. He climbed upon the potty, fully clothed. “Nice try, Junior. Drop ‘em.” Before accomplishing his mission, he rolled and unrolled the Charmin Ultra Mega Roll toilet paper, knocked all of the shampoo and conditioner bottles into the nearby tub, pulled the bath mat down and flung it across the small room, and managed to pee on my foot. Then he got down to flush. And flush. Flush yet again, for good measure. And flush once more.
Please don’t get the idea that I stand idly by, manicuring my nails. This child, lickity split, can dismantle an entire bathroom facility, all while I hold his hand. He should have been born to an octopus.
And on the last and final flush, he sticks his head into the toilet. To watch the water go down. Up close. Once I pry his head out, he slams the lid down hard. I’ve warned him, more than once, to make sure he stands back far enough to avoid Mr. Happy. Something like that could set potty training back a few years. Just sayin’.
Then he loves to pretend like he’s Nakey Boy, being chased by the super hero underwear, carried by the evil stepmother. After I’ve wrestled him into Spiderman, Superman, or Bob the Builder boxers, I tell him to wash his hands.
“A dot is a lot,” referring to the soap dispenser. His definition of a dot, and my definition of a dot are not in the same dictionary. After the perfunctory splattering, showering, and rinsing, he dries his hands on my shirt.
And then announces that he has to poop again.
That’s when my head explodes, and the brain matter is scattered to the far reaches of the house. Which, fortunately is just about the only mess I have to contend with. Since he has not had any accidents. Which I hesitate to say out loud.
Fiddledaddy was blissfully working out of town during the brunt of potty training. And upon his return, he put an abrupt end to the bathroom shenanigans of his young son. Except for the sticking his head down the toilet part. Some habits are just hard to break.
Jensen is still wearing a diaper at night, since he’s trapped in his jail crib. The one with a net over the top to prevent a daring escape. And that is fine with me. Because I intend to keep him in the crib, even if I have to saw leg holes to accommodate him as he grows even bigger.
Now I am wrangling three offspring in the public restrooms. My joy knows no bounds.
I thought that when I was through with diapers, once and for all, I would throw a potty party. But alas, I’m just a party potty pooper.
Looking for a glimpse of my baby, as he dashes away from me in Spiderman underdrawers. Trailing toilet paper behind him.