Learning the wet way

Some of the best advice we have gotten about Beckett was from our pediatrician. Not one to waste time repeating things we already know, she skipped the first timers pointers except one: When diapering a boy, make sure you point his penis down.

In fact, she didn't just TELL us to do this, but gave us the general reasons... if a boy pees up, instead of hitting the absorbent part of the diaper, it goes up, out and around. This ends up soaking the kiddo, his back, and whatever (or whomever) is unlucky enough to be under him.

Now, this was unsolicited advice so I decided to take note. Because if the ONE thing your kid's doctor spends time telling you isn't about keeping them alive, but rather is meant solely to keep you from being covered in urine, I assume its fairly pertinent information.

Diaper penis down. Check.

So imagine my annoyance when late one night after Ben changes Beckett I find myself covered in some sort of liquid. Upon closer inspection... um, yep, that is pee. And NOT my own. I walk into the office where Ben is and told him that SHOCKER, our pediatrician wasn't lying about diapering your son. He looks up from his laptop and kind of squints at me and my wet pants. 

"Huh, she was serious about that?"

(Banging head against wall) THIS is what I'm working with people.

But at least he DOES diapers. And toilets. (He is reminding me of all this as he reads over my shoulder and threatens to quit, crowd source an "I hate Liz" campaign or worst of all, diaper up ALL THE TIME, resulting in lots more wet laps for me. Touché Ben, Touché).

Just when it can't get worse, it gets better

Yesterday I was having a rough day. Not only was I coming down with a cold, but I had no energy and no patience. After ten plus days of 100+ degree weather, I was toast. All I wanted to do was lay in bed with the a/c turned down to "FREEZING", while reading some senseless romance novel and rubbing lotion on my ever-expanding belly. Instead, I found myself rolling around on the floor of our play room, reading a book about Elmo's first day of school for the 500th time and playing dolls while my two-year old literally used my aching, 35-week pregnant body as a jungle gym/barca lounger.

I finally needed a break and hauled myself into Kate's mini-chair (which I barely fit into). She followed me from across the room and handed me one of her dolls. "Say HI" she demanded for the millionth time. I burst into tears, tossed her doll across the room and sobbed "I don't WANT to say "hi" Kate. Please, please for the sake of mommy's sanity, please PLEASE play BY YOURSELF for just one tiny moment."

Kate looked at me with VERY little pity for a moment, then wandered across the room to find where I had thrown her doll while I continued to boo-hoo. And in a case of perfect timing, Ben came home while I was still pulling myself together, so he got the full tattle-tale report from Kate who indignantly told him I threw her doll and cried. I gave her the stink eye, but apparently she is impervious to its power because I swear she just smirked at me over her dad's shoulder and repeated "and then SHE CRIED daddy!"

Ben decided I needed to get out of the house so we packed up and headed to the mall to run some errands. He promised to be in charge of Kate and let me just wander around, leaking hormones and hopefully de-stressing. We walked into the mall and I mentioned, "By the way, keep an eye out for the closest bathroom everywhere we go. You want to be able to book it if she has to go."

I don't know if that comment jinxed my poor husband, or if this was all destiny, but not five minutes after I sat on a bench to do a little zen people watching, I saw Ben RUN out of a toy store with Kate in his arms. He ran down a hallway that I knew to be a dead end and then came running back out with panic on his face. I decided to take pity. "Bathroom?" I called. He nodded and I trailed him shouting directions to the closest toilet. He disappeared in the men's room as I came huffing around the corner. I sat outside and waited to see if he needed any help.

Five minutes later, I heard Kate giggling and saying "OHHHH BUBBLES." Another minute or two and Ben popped his head out of the bathroom to ask if we had any extra clothes. I had to tell him no, I had been a little too mental when we left the house to be my normal, prepared self. He popped back into the bathroom and then came out carrying Kate with paper towels wrapped around her bottom.

"Can you tell she is naked under there?" he asked me.

Not to get into too many details, but apparently Kate had some bowel troubles and Ben had to throw away her panties and wash out her pants. Which meant he had to carry her through the mall half-naked. With me trailing them, alternating between laughing out loud and then giggling to myself the whole way. Because, when it happened to me, yeah, it was pretty traumatic. But to see my daughter poop on my husband? That is some funny stuff right there.

We get to the car and use every wipe, sanitizing gel and napkin we can find to ensure both Kate and Ben are squeaky clean. And thanks to an extra set of Kate clothes in the car, we are able to head back into the mall to finish up our errands. The only real issue is the leftover poop stains on my husband's long-sleeve work shirt. He rinsed and rolled up the sleeve to hide the offensive stain, but wasn't sure if it was enough.

Ben: "Can you tell I've got crap on my sleeve?"

Me: "No, but you are wearing an undershirt, why don't you just take your button-up off?"

Pause.

Ben: "Gross, no. I'm wearing a V-neck"

Pause.

Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?

The poop grenade

I want to talk about poop for a moment.

Yes, you read right. Poop. Because I've decided poop is worse than a grenade. Specifically, a grenade of horror that can come out of your sweet, potty training toddler at any moment. And, not only can it go off IN YOUR HAND, you never really know when it is coming. You just know it IS coming, so you better prepare yourself and hope you are fast enough to make it to a bathroom before... KABOOM!

Last week I wrote about our first (mis)adventures with potty training. It started out pretty rough but with some tips from commenters (HOLLA K. Elizabeth!) we nixed the pull-ups (too absorbent for Kate to notice when she was going potty) to panties (Yeah... feel that running down your leg little one? That is pee pee and it is GROSS) and she quickly began to realize the feeling of needing to go potty. We were going gang busters and I was patting myself on the back for potty training in, like, THREE DAYS (am I a bad ass or what?) when the poop grenade went off and blew me straight off my high horse. 

We spent most of the first week of training at the house. That allowed for quick access to a toilet and quick access to our sticker chart (REWARDS! FOR NOT PEEING ON YOURSELF! YAY!) but by the end of the week, I was going stir crazy so we headed to Target for a quick shopping excursion. 

We took care of "business" and I figured we had about an hour to get through the store before we'd have to worry about any potty-related activities. We cruised through the dollar section, checked out a few books and were making our way through clothing to hit groceries when disaster struck. And by disaster, I mean poop.

Kate randomly ran to hide behind a three-way mirror on our way through clothing and as I rounded the corner to get her I saw her face scrunched up in her "Leave me alone I'm working on something here!!" face. "ARE YOU POOPING??" I stupidly asked her. She shook her head no and grunted as she pushed something fierce and I saw my life flash before my eyes. Kaboom.

I grabbed her up and ran off down the aisle, dodging carts and innocent shoppers, all while chanting, "Hold on, we are almost to the bathroom, hold on and you can go like a big girl, hold on FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY!"

Yeah. There was nothing holy about what waited for me in her panties when we got to the bathroom. We bundled into a small little stall and I squatted down as much as a seven month pregnant woman can and checked out the damage. My hopes of a few little nuggets I could toss into the toilet were erased by the man-sized poop grenade that my daughter had innocently set off in my face. I set to work trying to minimize the damage, while my daughter tried to do everything in her power to make me cry. 

I asked her why she didn't tell me she had to go. She just repeated, "I'm so sorry mommy" over and over while I bit my tongue to keep from telling her she had a shitty (haha) way of showing me she was sorry. I told her it was okay as I tried to scrape poop off her backside with the THINNEST TOILET TISSUE ON THE PLANET (thanks for that Target). But, while I was busy reminding her not to touch anything, she was busy reaching around to see what I was doing and she got poop on her hand. 

"So, so yucky" she said as she WIPED HER HAND ON HER SHIRT before I could even react. I may or may not have said some curse words in front of my sweet innocent at that moment, but the REAL low-point for me was when, after repeating 200 times "Mommy said DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING" as she grabbed for the toilet seat, her panties, my face, and the tissue dispenser, I saw her start to put her fingers in her mouth (a comfort issue because mommy was being so nutzo I'm sure). In a panic, I popped her little naked hiney and shrieked "I SAID DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING AND DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH." I mean, I'm sorry, but poop fingers in the mouth can't be good for ANYONE and I just reacted.

Since I never have touched the child in any kind of frustration before, this little tap on the bottom sent her  STRAIGHT over the edge. That and mommy's yelling and crazy eyes. She stood perfectly still for a good five minutes wailing while I got her panties washed out in the sink, got our hands (and legs, shirt, etc.) as clean as possible and basically patted myself on the back for so traumatizing my daughter she would NEVER go poop in public ever, ever again. Like, running home from work when you are 30 so you can take a dooce type trauma. Yay for me, Mommy of the Year!

We got home and mommy apologized for being a whack job and we snuggled and all was forgiven. Although I was still positive that she would never, ever poop in public again.

So imagine my complete surprise, joy and overall HELL TO THE YEAH when Kate ran off the playground yesterday to do the toddler "I gotta go" dance for me. I picked her up and ran (waddled quickly) to the nearest bathroom where I swear a chorus of angels SANG for her as she pooped in the big girl potty. I gave her a hug and a high five and nearly cried tears of joy because despite my parenting failures Kate is a sweet, smart and well-adjusted kiddo. Who can drop a poop grenade in the potty. 

And I must say, that is pretty freaking awesome.

Potty training is for the dogs

In my adult life, I've potty trained two dogs. And, yeah, I know parenting a human isn't quite the same thing as dogs but I have seen some VERY similar parallels (SPIT THAT OUT. DON'T LICK THAT. GET DOWN.) so I had hoped my successful canine track record might translate to a toddler.

It didn't.

I know, shocking, right?

Kate has had a potty in her bathroom for the last six months or so. She goes on it every night before bed, and sometimes during the day if she thinks of it, or if mommy is trying to go to the bathroom (HELLO CHILD, GOODBYE PRIVACY). So I'm all, "Kate is TOTALLY ready for potty training" and the universe is all, "HAHAHAHA, LAUGHING MY ASS OFF!"

We decided to get started on this little project yesterday. In preparation, we purchased some pull-ups, some big-girl panties and I made... wait for it... this little jewel of craftiness (don't be jealous, I'll TOTALLY make you one of these for your birthday, what color glitter do you like?):

If you can't read it, it says "Kate's Potty" which was supposed to be "Kate's Potty Chart" but I ran out of room and didn't have the time, patience or give-a-damn to create a second sticker/glitter chart. Especially because Kate CAN'T READ.

The whole idea was that every time Kate went on the potty, she would get stickers for everything she did right (i.e. wiping, flushing, washing hands). I read this strategy online, and even got the template for the chart, so NO, I didn't make this shit up. Which means, it should totally work, right?

Sigh.

It started out fine. She went potty first thing in the morning and we put on a "big girl diaper" (pull-up). But a toddler in training is like a ticking time bomb, so I found myself asking her every ten minutes if she had to go potty, and I swear, at some point she started rolling her eyes. After her first little accident where she TOLD me she didn't have to go, but went in her pull-up anyways, I decided to up the ante... I offered her CANDY if she would go on the potty. So about every five minutes she was running to the potty seat and STRAINING to get a little water to come out, followed by sticking her adorable (but greedy) little hand into my face for her promised candy. Like, NOW. Okaaaay, so that backfired a little, but at least she didn't pee on my sofa again.

Today I woke up refreshed and ready to tackle the potty again. But, VERY quickly I realized another full day at home chained to a potty was not going to go well. For me. Because I was tired of playing pretend with Kate's dolls, especially since they had such a limited vocabulary (we covered breakfast, lunch, dinner, clothes, hair, favorite playgrounds, the Easter Bunny and bubbles. And that is where Kate and her doll ran out of topics so we would start all over. About 500 times. And frankly, I can only talk about eggs, slides and hot dogs so many times in one hour).

I decided to take Kate out to the playground to burn some energy and get away from those devil dolls. Once there, she immediately pooped and then peed in two different "big girl diapers" while never giving any indication that she needed to go to the potty. Back at the house she has been good again, going on the potty when asked to, but since I filched on the whole candy promise (due to her overzealous candy-related urination), she STILL isn't indicating when her bladder might be full.

So tell me, oh wise women (and men) how does this all work? Do I need to become a mind (er, bladder) reader? Keep on beating my head against the wall for a few more days to see if she comes around? Or take my favorite action, pretend this all never happened, call this a failed experiment and chalk it up to... MAYBE she LIKES going in her diaper and I should just leave her the hell alone? You know, at least until high school?

I can't help but feel she is mocking me and my "potty chart" in this picture. But then again, she is all hopped up on candy so she could just be a little over-excited.