For those dear souls in the throes of potty training, or for those who are still traumatized by it.
It was the perfect storm – lack of brain cells due to child-birth, talking on the phone to my mother and attempting to home school the children – all coming together in one fateful morning to create a playroom disaster of epic proportions.
After breakfast, I brought my little guy downstairs to watch Sesame Street . He was proudly sporting a pair of “big boy pants.” I pulled out the potty chair and placed it in front of the TV. I instructed him on what to do if he had to go potty. We even practiced a few times for good measure. With a (false) sense of security, I went back upstairs to feed the baby and get the older two kids started on their lessons.
With the baby fed and down for a nap and older kids working quietly, I decided (recklessly) it was a good time to call my mother. I (responsibly) forgot about the time and didn’t notice the older kids abandoning their school books and wandering downstairs. Then the words no mother ever wants to hear:
Phone still in hand, I rushed down the stairs. Horror.
The two older ones were standing there pinching their noses. There stood the little guy – naked. He’d had an accident – #2 variety, not solid. He had taken off his big boy pants (trying to be helpful?) and had tossed them on the carpet beside his potty seat. His subsequent activities were clearly marked.
He had slid down the plastic slide and scooted in and out of all the little plastic holes on the play structure. He had built a beautiful Lego house, while sitting in the Lego box. He had somersaulted across the carpet and ridden the spring horse. Ride ’em cowboy!
I think I blacked out. I don’t remember hanging up on my mother. I vaguely remember spending the day with a bucket of bleach water but I’m not sure about that.
I do know we took an afternoon trip to the store to buy a truckload of diapers.