Tag Archives: potty

Poop Part Two: Life of Poop…

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So, we are potty training the baby. I remember with my first child praying about the potty training. I remember strategizing and having interminable patience. I remember having the epiphanic moment at the grocery store, slowly scanning the produce department, “Every single one of these people was potty trained by someone.”

Somewhere in between one and three whatever novelty there was to potty training has worn off and I’m left most of the time thinking, “This should be done by now. How come he’s not already potty trained? Wait, who’s supposed to be potty training him?”

He’s doing really well and today was a no-diaper day. I got home from work and Dad and baby happily reported no accidents. So proud. And then Dad left.

And now it is my turn. It is bed time. I am tired. It is still light outside and there are complaints from all children that they have to go to bed while it’s light. I explain AGAIN about how the light gets longer but our daily hours don’t change for two more weeks, only two more weeks! “When school’s out it’s going to be different, but for now we still have to wake up at six-thirty.” And waking everyone up was a killer this morning.

I think I’ve got everyone down. Then I hear, “Poop coming, Mama.” I run to find a tiny well-contained turd on the floor and rush the boy to the toilet. One additional tiny turd plops in the pot. There is excessive wiping with a yard of toilet paper that has been squashed into a sphere the size of a golf ball. The pajama pants are poopy enough that they go in the laundry. The boy goes back to bed and I entertain with slightly less patience another complaint of going to bed in the light.

(“Poopy enough” is a term utilized by parents of multiple children to indicate the item’s position past a threshold marker on a long gradient scale that moves in correlation with the inconvenience of adding anything to the laundry pile.)

Two minutes later, “Poop coming, Momma.” I come in to find a larger, yet, still-contained turd on the floor. This one left a trail down the leg. I wipe the leg clean. One additional turd in the potty later followed by excessive wiping and yet another pair of pajama pants. The boy is back in bed.

And yet again, “Poop coming, Momma.” This time we make it with the turd still firmly clenched between his butt cheeks. Now we sit on the potty. One tiny turd followed by excessive wiping. Three minute hiatus. Another tiny turd followed by excessive wiping. Three minute hiatus.

“Are you all done? No more poop?”
“No. Poop still coming.”

Another tiny turd followed by excessive wiping. Some gets on his fingers, he wipes it off on his shirt. I realize we’ll need a new shirt. I wipe the fingers.

Another tiny turd followed by excessive wiping. He lifts up his penis to see the poop. He gets pee on his hand and wipes it down his leg. I realize he is now dirty enough for a bath.

(“Dirty enough” is a term utilized by parents of multiple children to indicate a child’s contamination level past a certain threshold point on a long gradient that moves in correlation to the parents willingness to snuggle said child.)

Another tiny turd followed by excessive wiping. I try to explain how to wait and wipe just once at the end. He doesn’t buy it. I eye the dwindling roll of toilet paper and tell myself to let it go. Take your victories, leave some battles for later. One square to get the drip of pee off the tip of his penis. We flush to make sure we don’t clog the toilet.

Forty-five minutes later AND a bath AND an entire roll of toilet paper, a fourth pair of pajama pants, a new shirt, kisses, hugs, and covers, and we are in bed again.

It is now dark. No one is complaining about going to bed. The girl is already asleep.

And I realize again that the two greatest things I may ever do in this world are teaching three human beings to read and teaching three human beings to poop on the potty.

Potty Mouth…

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This is where it gets real, people.

I wasn’t going to blog about this. I wasn’t.

I’ve blogged about angry nipples and vomit cascading down bunk beds, but this seemed, somehow, to cross a line.

But my husband texted, “This is where it gets real.” And if my blog is anything I want it to be real, so here it is. The truth is this: I am not the only one who lives here.

This is not my first kid. The house was thoroughly baby-proofed for the first kid. When he started to crawl the floors were clean. When he started to walk my husband and I were very good about keeping the bathroom door closed.

But there are two more this time. I am severely outnumbered. The floor is a little dirtier and now there are Legos, immense amounts of Legos. If any child dies from choking on a Lego it will be this one. And, then, my daughter started to leave the bathroom door open.

She was doing very well closing it after her, until last week or so. Luckily, my baby has been mostly interested in the bathtub, until today.

Today, I hear my daughter cry, “Baby’s in the bathroom!”

I run in to discover him standing at the toilet bowl mouth stuffed with toilet paper he fished from the water. It had been used to blow a nose, his nose. Does that make it better? I feel like it must. Rest assured, whoever had used the potty last had, thank goodness, remembered to flush, which is not always the case. The wet covered his face, dripped down his chin, and saturated his front with toilet water.

I grabbed him and washed his hands, pried the wad out of his teeth, flushed the potty, closed the lid, screamed a little, and changed his clothes.

I texted my husband, the one with whom I can share my parenting horrors without fear of judgment. He’s met my children. They look like him.

And he texted back, “This is where it gets real.”

The baby will survive. (But, I mean, just in case I’m keeping an eye on him.)

There’s a motto written on an index card hanging by my kitchen sink. It says, “Making dirty things clean.” It helps me to remember in the midst of the endless cleaning that this is the privilege of housekeeping, to perform the tangible illustration with my too physical body, the exhausting task of making dirty things clean into perpetuity. Me and Jesus, all day long, making dirty things clean.

I mean, this is where it gets real; you’re never too dirty to come back.

That’s why my baby just got a kiss on his cheek.