Port-a-Potty

Today the husband and I found ourselves in a rather precarious situation. We have a wonderful maintenance crew who respond promptly to our requests to kill our unwelcome insect visitors. (Yes, I’ll have the blood of thousands of ants on my hands in the next life. Too bad they infest the same floor my kids roll around on.) When we returned from the grocery store we found that they sprayed while we were away—which means that we needed to stay away for at least a few hours while the fumes diffused.

The husband suggested that we head over to the med school and watch a movie on the projectors while we wait. I married a genius. So, we pulled my trusty double bob out of the bike room and quickly loaded it with all of the essentials: left over quesadillas, fruit roll ups, water bottles, “A Toy Story” DVD, and—oh yes—the port-a-potty. Atrain isn’t quite comfortable with public restrooms yet, and I knew the kid would need to go while we were away. The solution was to wrap the plastic potty in a blanket and tuck it under the stroller’s canopy. It fit perfectly. No one would ever know we were transporting a bathroom for our three year old.

Our plan worked perfectly. The movie was a huge hit with Atrain. Jdog slept like a little angel in his half of the stroller. I snuck in a little computer time. The husband studied away. And, when Atrain needed to go, I pulled out the potty to let him do his business—all while our ant enemies were being exterminated.

But, then it was time to go. “What should we do with it?” I asked the husband, eyeing the little potty. “Dump it,” he said as he fastened both hands onto the double stroller and chuckled. Clearly the dumping would be my job. Good thing it was just #1. I wrapped it in the blanket, listening to its contents sloshing around. After slowly cracking open the door I felt like tip toeing down the hallway to the restroom. If only invisibility were an option. Then I wouldn’t have to run into anyone we knew who might ask to see our “new little one” wrapped in the blanket in my arms.

I made it safely to the women’s restroom only to see that it was closed for cleaning. Yes—now I had a great excuse to pass the potty off to the husband. We made a swift exchange, and he made it successfully in and out of the men’s room in under 30 seconds without making human contact. Then we stowed it safely away in the blanket, under Bob’s deep canopy. We were nearly home free.

It was a windy afternoon. The walk home would be less than five minutes, but I held Atrain tightly in my arms the whole way so my skinny little man wouldn’t blow away. Jdog and the potty were safely bundled deep in the stroller. Half-way home we spotted a couple of the husband’s classmates. “Crap, hope they don’t spot the pot,’ I thought. We made small talk for a moment, then one of them said, “I didn’t know you guys have three kids.” Busted. “No, we just have two…that’s just…my lap top,” I lied, hoping she wouldn’t see my computer case sitting on top of the stroller. “Oh,” she replied, “they sure are cute kids,” she said. “Thanks.” If she only knew.

Regression

Today my world spun backwards. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fight the gravity of regressive forces sucking me into a deep, dirty, grumpy hole.

The ants came back. They crept into the pajamas I left on the floor when it was dark. When I awoke for my nightly writing routine I slipped them on and quickly gained new appreciate for the term “ants in my pants.” After our third attempt at extermination today I feel like either poison or dead pests are sticking to the bottom of my feet.

Little Atrain chose to poop in his pants. I caught him right as he stood in the doorway of the playroom, contemplating the act. I offered him any of the toys and treats in the potty box if he would just sit on the toilet for a few minutes. “No thank you,” he said. I told him I would buy him the biggest truck at the D.I. if he would just use the toilet like a big boy. “I want to be a baby,” he said. I threatened to take away his potty training toys. He went through the list of toys he owned that weren’t potty training toys and said, “That’s ok.” I begged him. He screamed, “I don’t want to!” I gave up. He pooped his pants.

After that incident I told the husband that I feel like I’m a horrible mom. He laughed at me. I wasn’t joking, so this wasn’t the reaction I was searching for. I nearly started spilling it all, trying to explain to him how frustrated I feel when I spend a half hour trying—unsuccessfully—to convince my kid to use the toilet; how guilty my conscious becomes when I wonder if my sweet little Jdog feels neglected as he watches all my attention focus on his balky big brother; and how much I hate that I can’t keep myself away from the delicious plate of brownies on the counter. But, then I realized that I would need an interpreter to relay such a load of motherly emotion to the husband. It’s not that he’s not supportive. It’s just that sometimes we speak in different languages, and I didn’t have the energy to interpret my feelings today. So, right after, “I just feel,” spilled over my lips, I stopped the dam from breaking and took the kids to the park to get some fresh air (and avoid the ant extermination fumes).

Sometimes days just don’t work the way you want them to. I want to teach my children to be good. I want to keep my house clean. I want to have dinner together at the table as a family without the TV—even if that dinner is pizza and the TV viewing is epic. And I don’t want to feel like the only one working on these things. But some days, sometimes, things don’t work the way you want them to. And that’s ok.

Tomorrow’s agenda: work hard, recover my sense of humor, and be ok with backwards.

Potty Day

I failed to potty train the Atrain again today. I hate to say that he failed because that’s just mean, and he did try really hard. The poor guy has only known how to poop in his pants all his life. And here I am, expecting him to sit comfortably upon a little throne to do his business. The nerve.

I really thought today would be the day. He woke up excited to set up his potty training premises (obviously something we’ve done before). We pushed the table over to the corner, clearing more room on the tile for games, trains, puzzles, and oh yes, the potty. He even brought it out from the bathroom. Then he strapped on the “Mater bum” underwear. I constantly have to remind myself not to call them panties. The husband is horrified when I slip up with that one.

It was my goal to not put too much pressure on him. That has backfired in the past. I let the “Frightening McMean” monster truck potty chart speak for itself. He kept eyeing it. I kept reminding him to tell me when he needed to use the potty. We set up a huge train track. I fed JJ on the tile. We put together the Lightening McQueen puzzle—four times. His panties—I mean underwear—was still dry. He was still content to keep his distance from the potty.

I knew it wouldn’t be too long until he needed to poop. He went the whole day yesterday without a messy diaper. Two hours of tile play time passed. He began to look uncomfortable—shooting sideways glances to his playroom (his favorite spot to do his dirty work). “Would you like to sit on the potty?” I asked gently. “I want my diaper.” He responded. NO. This wasn’t going down like this. I had to do something. I had to pull out all the stops. I grabbed the Lindor Chocolates bag and the Frightening McMean. “If you do it on the potty you can have one of these, and you can hold monster truck McQueen!” I could see him considering my offer…this was progress. Usually by now he’s running toward his playroom yelling at me to go away. “Ok—I go on the big boy potty? We check off five potty times and I can have it?” He said nodding his head. Phew—he bought it. “Yep.” I said.

So, there we were in our little bathroom…for an hour. He played with McMean in the box, he read “The Prince and the Potty,” he talked about who also has a penis. Not even a drop in the toilet. He was uncomfortable. He told me he wanted his diaper. He started crying. As I strapped on his diaper I considered doing the same.

But then I realized that he’s just three. He did demonstrate impeccable control…even if the diaper was still his final destination. “Big boy” steps are a little bigger than “baby steps,” but I still need to patiently wait for him to keep up. He is doing a great job.

Maybe today wasn’t the magic day, but that’s ok. Maybe it will be tomorrow. I’ll keep the train set up in the kitchen, just incase.