Potty training is in full force at Fort Pseudonymous, opening up the entire dwelling to excretory crossfire. We’ve had good days and we’ve had bad days, but the bad days are way more eventful, and thus way more entertaining. Accordingly, I’ve curated the following very special moments from our experiences with The Great Transition, so that you may laugh at our expense. (Fair warning: This is called “House Potty” for a reason.)
. . .
The Organ Trail
“Hey baby, do you have to go potty?”
“No,” my daughter giggled as she sprinted laps around the house with her brother in crime.
I’d asked her at least three times in the past five minutes because she’d just downed an entire cup of water, and I knew it was coming.
I returned my attention to the mound of dishes in the sink, and after rinsing a few more glasses, looked up again to see her standing in the middle of the living room with a look of distress.
“What happened, baby?” I asked, dread welling up inside me. “Did you go pee pee?”
I then noticed the carpeted floor surrounding my daughter, where she had left a liquid trail behind her: first a circle around the perimeter of the room, then looping around the ottoman, a few sharp turns, and finally a puddle at her feet.
She had essentially created a real-life version of the Family Circus comics depicting Billy’s wayward path through various scenes but…well…with urine.
My daughter–who stood there frozen–had still not answered me, so I asked again. “Baby, did you go pee pee?”
. . .
Get Off My Case
I don’t know why, but during the day, our son gravitates toward our daughter’s bed. The Twins have separate rooms–and hence their own beds–but it seems he’s decided his own bed is solely for sleeping, and his sister’s bed is for jumping, reading, and throwing all 500 of her stuffed animals (which she calls her “babies”) on the floor.
And so one day, when my wife and I were out in the living room while the Twins were playing in their rooms, we suddenly heard the unmistakable toddler squeals of impending shenanigans/twinanigans. From the sound of it, our daughter had joined forces with our son in the jumping/reading/throwing thing. Just as we were getting up to check on them, we heard our daughter shout, “Oh NO!”
Rushing to see what was the matter, my wife discovered that in the excitement, my son had had an accident (number 1) all over his sister’s pillow.
“My pillow!” she whimpered.
“It’s okay,” my wife eased. “Here, let’s get you another pillow.” She put the pillow in the laundry room for decontamination, found a new one, and put on a clean, new Yo Gabba Gabba pillowcase.
As she put it back in the bed, our daughter was beyond grateful:
“Thank you, Mommy. SO MUCH!”
. . .
I’d Prefer a Bird in the Hand
I hung up the phone and looked up to see my daughter standing there in her training pants, offering something to my dog, who was sniffing it curiously.
Aw, how cute, I thought. She’s sharing her snack with the dog.
But then I realized she had not been given a snack.
“Hey baby, what is that?” I asked, reaching out my hand. “Can Daddy see it?”
She obliged, and I investigated the grape-shaped object in my palm.
Is that a rock?
No, too soft.
No, unless she somehow found a Tootsie Roll somewhere.
Wait a minute…
And then I sniffed it. And knew for sure.
“Sweetie, did you just try to feed the dog your–”
“I go poopy. In my pants.”
Yep. That’s what I thought.
At least she was honest with me this time.
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If not, do you need to go potty? Do you want to go try?