The P Word

As some of my loyal followers might have noticed, there are few things I don’t talk about on the blog. 1) how skinny I am (I know, I know, I am clearly getting too thin) and 2) potty training.

I know you thought I was going to say penises.

I was at lunch with my friend Melinda last week, telling her the story of James’ potty training and she said I had to put it on the blog. I gave her my lecture about how people don’t want to read the word “potty”, “pee” or “poop”. And by people, I mean me. People, do not use any of those words in your Facebook status. We, moms, are thrilled for you and your diaper free house, but I don’t want to read about it unless you are telling me how to do it in one day and with no alcohol, Then you have my attention.

Unless you have successfully completed this stage using the above mentioned conditions, I barely want to talk about the subject that monopolizes 95% of my life. But she insisted it was a funny story and should be shared. So, if you would like to not read about pee or the potty, please go away now. Or at least after you look at this photo of me in a pee stained shirt.

That is right, those stains are pee. I sent this text to my sister so she would understand the dire position I found myself in. I still don’t know how he manged to hit my shirt. There is pee all over my bathrooms. Please don’t come visit and expect to use the bathroom without me handing you a Clorox wipe and protective shoes. I mean, I clean it up, but my baby boy manages to pee out the door and into the living room.

I don’t get it. I really don’t get it. Zach was not like this. Granted, I am clearly remembering it all perfect – but he was done in three days, his pee always went directly into the pot and he was standing up in about 2-3 weeks. Done and done.

Then came the love of my life, James. He was determined to wear underwear. Spider-man underwear which he and his lisp call Biderman underwear. He first refused to go on the potty, he just peed in his pants. Like a boss. Not the least bit concerned that his socks and shoes were now soaking wet. He would look you in the eye and lie that no, his socks were not wet and no, he did not need to change his pants; he was busy and could you please stop pestering him with this insane talk.

Once that phase passed he now runs to the bathroom, sits down (that is what baby boys do) and pees everywhere. I am running right behind him shouting, “put you penis down! You can do it!” like a perverted cheerleader. He just beams at me, pees on my good yoga pants and says, “I did soooo good not pee-pee in my underwear”. He is just so proud of himself, I can only agree. Even though of course he has peed on his underwear as they sit on the floor at his feet.

I tried to talk to my co-parent and got zero help. “He will just have to learn” and “He didn’t do that for me [for the 2 hours I had him]” do not help me as I am using my, now catlike reflexes to dive out of the way of the stream.

So here I am. Cheering and doing a dance to the “We did it!” song from Dora the Explorer after every successful trip to the bathroom, even if “success” now means he didn’t get his shoes wet. Or mine.

So now, he is exclusively going in the backyard. Yes, we are those people. I don’t care. Not even a little bit. My baby drops his pants to his knees and flashes his teeny tiny bottom and my bathroom stays clean.

Unless it gets rains again. Sigh.

Clorox wipes and vodka can be shipped to my mailing address.