My phone buzzed. And like the Pavlovâ€™s dog response the text indicator has now created in me, I looked down at my phone.
Iâ€™ve said it before â€“ raising boys isnâ€™t terribly dissimilar to living with frat boys. Alas, my house has begun to resemble the fraternal abode. In less delightful terms, my house smells like pee.
(And also like sour milk. Because yesterday Search swiped his napkin from the table without paying attention to the fact that Destroy had placed a big boy cup of milk atop it. The contents landed atop our black lab.)
It feels like there is pee everywhere. Probably because there is. And once youâ€™ve been doused, itâ€™s extremely difficult to feel clean.
In the great potty training Stream saga (bad pun, but not intended because itâ€™s our last name), weâ€™ve gotten pretty skilled at herding the house hamsters (aka Search and Destroy) to the potty every 45 minutes-ish.
Aim? Non-existent. So thereâ€™s a good amount of time spent wiping up around the toilet. (Are you jealous yet? Just waitâ€¦)
The tiny peeps use a potty seat. This is preferable so they donâ€™t fall in, which Iâ€™m only assuming would further delay training efforts. The seat has a splashguard, theoretically meant to prevent backsplash. Yet the design apparently did not take into consideration the potential for the aforementioned lack of aim (or discretion for that matter).
Then thereâ€™s the small matter of the tiny seat being, well, too tiny for adults to use. So one must gently remove the potty seat and place it upon the floor before using the facilities. Inevitably, drips go dropping to the floor, which necessitate a quick mopping due to the ick factor.
However, theyâ€™re not yet adept at telling us when they have to go. Is it an additional resume skill to note, â€œCan interpret potty dance indicatorsâ€? Of course, even that isnâ€™t foolproof.
You know the potty dance. Legs crossed, knees bent together â€“ all accompanied by a wiggle at the waist, whilst fondling oneself like the masculine appendage is a personal worry stone. When the suggestion of a potty break is proffered, Destroy has been known to throw his hands up in surrender. â€œI donâ€™t have to go. I NOT PLAYING WITH MY PEEPEE!â€ (Granted, in his defense, maybe it just feels good.)
Then there is the look. Not to be confused with The Look, which brings with it Olympic caliber eye rolls and an attitude of defiance, the potty look simply lets the receiver know that you are about to get peed on. In short order. No matter how fast you move toward the bathroom.
Curse (under your breath), wipe, soap, wash, rinse, costume change. 409 carpet cleaner, blot, scrub, mop, dry. Repeat.
â€œYou have to TELL me when you need to go potty, sweetie!â€ I squawk umpteen times a day.
You will often find me on my hands and knees in the bathroom â€“ either encouraging the dissemination of bodily fluids, or cleaning up soils around the danger zone. I have spent more time upon the bathroom floor in the past six months than in the entirety of my a frat boyâ€™s collegiate career. This is what you have to look forward to party people! (Disclaimer â€“ I didnâ€™t actually ever go out during my co-ed days, so that may have an impact on the comparison hereâ€¦)
When not obsessively bemoaning the menâ€™s room appearance of the household bathrooms, there is a high probability that a load of laundry is being started. Consumer Reports tells me that todayâ€™s washer and dryer sets have an average life span of 11 years. One can only assume that the never-ending torturous workload even the Geneva Conventions would frown upon of our set is what brings that average WAY down.
Armed to the gills I stepped into our garage with the 37th load of the weekend. The garage smelled like pee and I began wondering if the smell would ever come off me (and you wonder why I prefer my showers to be of a temperature that would boil lobsters).
But it wasnâ€™t me after all. While the basket hitched against my side did contain several soiled garments, the ardent ammonia-tinted aroma assaulting my senses was coming from the large cardboard box awaiting recycling day.
Our black lab had marked his territory by peeing on the Diapers.com box.