Devil’s in the Diaper

The true parable of Adam and Eve does not detail punishment by banishment from a literal utopian garden. It is an allegory illustrating the evolution of man; the development of human brains to combat the elements by donning clothing, thus leading to the invention of potty training.

Pop quiz:
Q. The forbidden fruit is to Fruit of the Loom underpants as potty training is to…
A. An act of a vengeance, thrust upon us by Satan himself, the fallen angel (who, I can only imagine, came into being sans need to eliminate waste – being angelic and all…).

Many parenting guidebooks tout that the majority of children can be ready to potty train as early as 18 months (throw these books out). A large number of mothers begin to brag when their child begins showing interest in the potty by age 1 (so were mine, but more so as a hat…). Certain celebrities smugly share their baby was potty trained by 6 months (spoiler alert – at 6 months, your baby is not potty trained, you are).

Meanwhile, the muppets are closing in on age 4. They are mostly trained. Mostly. There’s a big difference between mostly trained and all trained. With mostly trained, there’s still a lot of cleanup left to do.

And it is yucky. There is pee everywhere.

The boys do not yet have the concept of aim. Well, they may have a corrupted concept that the premise of the pee game is to hit every orifice of the bathroom except the actual toilet.

Cries of “Pee Pee down! Pee Pee down!” echo through our halls, interspersed with pleading reminders that we “do not dance the twist whilst peeing.”

Rugs are destroyed due to continuous laundry cycles. Laundry runs in such an infinite loop that I have actually lost a couple loads. (I blame Dobby.) More than one full pack of little boy undies have now sacrificed their brief lives in pursuit of happiness ditching diapers. Sometimes the cotton just can’t be saved (or is at the very least not worth risking the integrity of the washing machine to do its job.)

And discovery is just the beginning of the fun.

Last week as I walked in the door after work:

Destroy: There’s poop on the floor.
Jon: What do you mean there’s poop on the floor?
Destroy: Well it was in my underwear but then it fell down my leg.
Jon: Did you poop in your pants?
Destroy: Yeah, but it’s okay. The dog ate it.
Me: Shit.
Jon: Exactly.

Where do you even begin that cleanup?

Saturday I thought we might have turned the corner. Destroy was reading some quality literature on the potty (The Potty Train) while trying to finish the number he’d already started in his pants (baby steps).

I went to check on his brother, who had suddenly gone quiet. Awaiting me was a suspicious puddle in the middle of the living room and a mysteriously absent child. Regarding the specifics of this particular incident, I quickly found a pantsless Search washing his hands in the bathroom.

“It’s ok though, Mommy. We all have accidents sometimes,” the muppet innocently informed me as he squirted soap from the bottle everywhere but into his grubby little hands.

Suddenly an excited squeal broke the hygienic reverence. “Mommy, I did it! I pooped almost all in the potty!”

“Yay!” I started to praise. “Wait. What do you mean almost?” Alas, my wonderment was quickly diverted by the next sentence out of his mouth.

“But my little flashlight fell in too.”

And just as I began to dread dislodging the pocket flashlight from the otherwise occupied toilet bowl, I heard the FLUSH.

Oh. Shit. An actual literal thought as I thought about the contents most certainly about to revisit the boys’ bathroom.

The adventures of parenting truly are illuminating as the children continue to grow.

I’m beginning to think Beelzebub’s final faux pas was poop, poop, pooping on heaven’s floor.