We have been a bit homebound lately. There is a perfect storm following us everywhere. It is the unpredictable horror of a potty training two year old boy. He goes through more underwear and shorts in a day than Cher goes through costumes during a concert. I have washed the bathroom floors (and <gag> walls) more these past few weeks than I have in the YEARS we have lived in this house. Pee-pee everywhere. Well, not everywhere. The toilet bowl has managed to come out relatively unscathed. Because of the constant puddles I have insisted the boy wear a pull-up when we go out to face the public.
A couple of days ago I decided to put on my big girl underwear and attempt the terrifying. The unknown. The boy wearing underwear in public. I had that boy empty his tiny human bladder three times before we walked out the door and headed to the park sans the ultra absorbent peace of mind device (the pull up). This may seem like the lame sauce of bravery, but you have to understand just how useless a momma I have been lately. We live in Texas and every day has been billions of degrees this summer and I am pregnant, tired, and have been technicolor yawning for weeks on end. However, we are having a cooler front blowing through so it is only half a billion degrees this week.
We pull up (haha) to the park. Connor bullrushes a group of adorable little pigtailed cuties and hollers, “WANNA SEE MY UNDERWEARS!?!” The silence after this announcement was incredible considering there were two bus loads of kids there. The parents of these pigtailed princesses looked at my two year old like they were memorizing his face so they could turn him in to Dateline’s “To Catch a Predator”. I stammered, explaining that he is two and potty training and super proud of wearing underwear in public. They grinned and nodded, then averted their gaze from us and quietly guided their children away from my maniacal-grinning, big-boy-underwear-wearing exhibitionist.
He responded to their lack of interest as any potty-training-two-year old would. He peed everywhere.
Later that day his big brother had a T-ball game. This time before we left I had him go potty multiple times and then put on a pull up. See, there is only a porta-potty for taking care of business, and I am certain that entering the claustrophobia-inducing poop chamber would kill me especially considering pleasant smells are causing vomitus reactions. Welp about halfway through the game, while I was standing there talking with our pastor’s wife and my sweet mother-in-law, my little guy impishly grins at me and says those dreaded words, “Momma, I have to go to the bathroom really really bad.” Oh sure, weeks of no warnings, just peeing willy nilly, and this time he makes the announcement. I smiled sweetly at my youngest boy and said, “Well, then I guess it’s a good thing you are wearing a pull-up.”
Our pastor’s wife and my mother-in-law looked scandalized at my proud parenting moment. As I lamely offered excuses as to why I couldn’t possibly take him, my son announced he would rather his Nana take him. And she, brave saint of a woman, did.