You know how I’ve lamented in the past about my kids growing up, time passing too quickly, and my aching uterus which will never bear another sweet baby into the world? I’ve found the cure. And in order to help my fellow woman-kind, I’m willing to share. Please, come borrow a cup of cure for an hour or an afternoon. Hell, I’ll give you an overnight.
You see, I’m potty training Felix. Y’all, it’s awful. I’ve become a firm believer in the “wait until they’re really ready” school of training. Stella was kind of late for a girl. I want to say she was about 3-3 1/2. I should remember better but Felix was reasonably new to the household so it’s not like we were celebrating buying that final box of diapers. I do know that I sent her to Oui Oui’s one night and she came home the next day done. Felix hasn’t gone quite so smoothly.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Boys are different. Boys are harder. Boys take longer and wait until later. Well we have – or are – ticking all those boxes in spades. Don’t get me wrong. He’s showing all those signs of “toilet readiness” (and how I hate these terms). He asks to go frequently. He stays dry for long periods. There have been several days with either no or only a single accident. But this weekend….(shudders) Just yesterday I got to clean crap off my son three times in public restrooms, once after it had run down his legs clear to his ankles.
This is another one of those “oh shit what do I do” mom moments. You can’t put your 6′ tall preschooler, smeared with crap, on the fold-out changing table in the ladies’ room which is clearly designed for infants. You haven’t carried a diaper bag in years, so you’re trying to manage some kind of biological Macgyver sanitation operation using only cheap toilet paper and those brown paper towels that feel like sandpaper, all the while crouching on the floor of the stall, desperately trying NOT to think about what manner of germs and filth is on that bathroom floor and now on the knees of your jeans – which must clearly now be incinerated. Your son will not be still, causing the further smear of the offending biological foulness he has wrought up to your wrists.
And then what to do with the ruined clothing? On the first occasion you reluctantly throw away a pair of his new Star Wars briefs, as you clearly can’t place shit-crusted underwear in your purse. The second time – same venue – you send your husband out to the car for supplies, including a Walmart bag, so you have a place to put the smelly clothes, opting to pull the first pair out of the trash so you can save them.
The final occasion, hours later, is an “I told you so” moment for your husband, who gave you shit for wanting to put your kid in a diaper just while you’re at the museum. He offered to take one for the team “next time.” Yeah. Didn’t happen.