It's amazing how our lives change with children. Whatever seems important in their world at the moment suddenly becomes paramount in our lives. Our everyday lives revolve around these tiny creatures and their entry into the world.
I assumed potty training would go like every other milestone in Juni's life: he'd find a way to make it as difficult as possible, but throw in a few laughs for comic relief and to keep me sane. I was correct.
Juni takes after his dad. No bladder control. And he has taken to peeing outdoors. And I'm not talking about on a tree in the woods. I'm talking about off our front porch. In front of my uber-clean friend, and at the beach on a holiday weekend.
He shows no shame. He once pulled his swim trunks down in front of my germiphobe friend and pooped in the rocks beside the pool. I asked him what he thought he was doing, and he replied "it's okay mommy. Just squirt the watergun up my my butt, and Duchess (our dog) will eat my poop." I didn't even know what to say after that.
Then there was the time he proclaimed "mommy! daddy! Come watch me poop! It's gonna be a big one!" When a potty training toddler asks you to check out his business, you check out his business. And I've got to admit...it was huge. Of epic proportions.
And there was the time he had an accident in his undies, and while in transit from the undies to the toilet the poop took an unexpected detour...to my son's head. It smacked him right upside the forehead. To this day I don't know how that happened, but it did. It bounced off his head and plopped itself right in the toilet. A perfect landing.
After a particularly large sushi meal of avocado roll, my husband once beckoned me into the bathroom to show off his son's prized poop. "Mommy! It's as big as a dragon's tail," Juni proclaimed. My redneck husband was so proud.
But nothing compares to the Pooptastrophe. Nothing.
I'll be the first to admit that the Pooptastrophe was my fault. Mine and Levi Strauss. Whomever decided it was a good idea to fasten a size 4t pair of jeans with a button in lieu of a snap needs to be slapped. Hard. With a large, dead fish. Right in their big, fat, non-toddler-thinking mouth.
Juni was just learning to center himself on the toilet. "I need privacy" became his favorite bathroom saying. And he meant it. The kid likes his privacy. So he'd sneak into the bathroom, and call me when he was ready for a good butt wipe. Never leave the job of wiping up to the toddler. You will absolutely find three results: a great loss of toilet paper followed by a severely clogged toilet, and a toddler with his finger in his ass, telling everyone who will listen that his butt itches. But I digress.
It was early morning, and I was busy checking the business email upstairs. I heard him close the bathroom door, which meant it was poop time. Then I heard him say "mommy! I need you help me peeze..." Of course I assumed he needed a wipe. I obviously assumed wrong. Very wrong.
You see, when a four-year-old boy has to poop, he waits until the last possible moment before leaving his toys. Using the toilet serves no purpose to that four-year-old, other than to interrupt his playing tractors. And so therefore, there is a very limited amount of time between when he begins moving toward the bathroom, and when the turtle head starts to pop out.
I hopped down the stairs about 30 seconds later and was hit in the face with two things. First, the smell of a very ripe bathroom. Second, the sight of my son, his urine-soaked pants around his ankles, a giant turd resting in his underwear, and his hands reaching down to pick it up.
Before I could mutter even the beginning of the word "stop!" Juni had grabbed the log, tossed it in the toilet, and was unravelling the toilet paper.
He'd made it to the potty on time only to find that his new pants didn't have a snap, but a grown-up button. He fumbled with the button, and my bathroom paid the price. I stripped him of his clothes, disinfected his hands, and began to scrub down the bathroom.
Too bad I didn't give him specific instructions to NOT make his own breakfast while I was cleaning up after the Great Pooptastrophe. When I finished the bathroom, I had a box of Nesquick, a bag of cereal, and a gallon of milk to mop off the floor.
Most of my experiences with Juni the Toddler make me laugh. Some make me cry. Others, like the Great Pooptastrophe of 2009, leave me in stitches. I learned something extremely important through the Pooptastrophe: Never ask a potty training toddler, especially a boy, to "hold on just a sec."
No comments:
Post a Comment