This one is for you Kelly, since I found out your favorite posts are the ones about poop and pee.
As I have said before, we have been in potty training mode for a few months now (I can feel the experts cringing). If we lived in a nudist colony—aside from my chronic state of mortification—Pierce would be potty trained. He will always use his potty chair if he has nothing on from the waist down, but because he diddles himself, I can only take so much of feeling like I walked in the room at the wrong moment.
I resorted to putting his pull-up back on and giving him explicit instructions (threats of bodily injury) about telling me when he needs to go to the bathroom and NOT to do it in his pants. Yeah…not terribly effective threats when something is put in place to absorb the nastiness, and you’re a lazy boy.
One again, I tried the cotton training pants the past few days, and the first day he had an accident, Mikey came out to tell me and slipped in the puddle. I scolded and put more training pants on him. He didn’t have any more accidents, because I also took away all liquids for the rest of the day. But seriously, he was fine for the rest of the day. Then yesterday we tried again, with a very intense tutorial about not going in his pants, but rather coming to tell Mommy when he needed to go. I even reminded him at one point when he was in my bedroom with me while I was making the bed. Seriously, not 10 minutes later, he walked in and told me “Mommy, need to pee-pee.” I was about to praise and celebrate until I noticed the large patch off darker fabric on the front of him—he already went. Really? Didn’t we just talk about this? I have to admit that I got pretty mad and really scolded–I even swatted his bottom, hoping that he would not want that result again. I also put him back in a pull-up so that I didn’t have to clean up any more accidents.
Which leads me to my real story… I finally surrendered the day before yesterday, to throwing away the fancy, wool rug that has become its own eco system from residing in the boy’s bath for the past five years. I probably should have donated it to science, but when it started to fray and fall apart, leaving pieces of its and my children’s DNA on the floor, I had to surrender to my loss. It’s hard when the thing in question is 99% intact. Seems like a waste, but alas, it’s gone to that great landfill–in Sanford.
Just in case I was feeling regrets over my decision, the Universe has given me a couple of signs that it was the right one.
The first thing I do when Pierce wakes up is strip his pants off so that he will go use the potty. Yesterday was no different except that for some reason Michael and I accompanied him to the bathroom. I was doing something distractedly at the sink, and Mikey was sitting on the step stool next to his brother who was propped on the “little john.” Next thing I knew, I heard water spraying everywhere. Apparently Mikey wasn’t paying attention, either, because he heard the same thing, but didn’t make the connection. We look over to see that Pierce happened to be groping himself when he began to piddle, and like Old Faithful, he sprayed like a geyser—everywhere, except in the potty chair. In his panic about getting it all over himself (face, legs, feet), he froze and continued spraying himself much like a suddenly unkinked garden hose does when the “hoser” is studying the nozzle to figure out why it isn’t working. All the while I am yelling “Push your hoo-hoo down! Push it DOWN!” Finally, when he had pretty much drained his bladder, he made the connection and decided to redirect the stream into the potty, but not before he had covered every inch of the floor where my rug had been the day before. It even splattered into the bath tub. When I left the room to get rags and cleanser, Pierce got up and ran after me tracking his mess with him. Once again, my bathroom floor is the cleanest surface in the house…until this morning, when I realized that Pierce had trouble with his aim again…unless he was aiming for the floor. In which case, he was spot on!