Morning begins with a cry for Mama (oh who are we kidding – the cry is for waffles). One of the little men is awake. Except he doesn’t want to get out of bed. (Maybe if he hides under the covers no one will notice him.)
The adult of the house least able to feign sleep entreats the sleeping muppet to get up and get dressed. The real motive behind such excitement to start the day? No one knows how well the Nighttime Pull-up has held up against the unwilling bladder of a 3-year-old.
To the potty!
One boy races down the hall – an impressive performance in movement. Eat your heart out Alvin Ailey; you’ve got nothing on the potty dance.
Wiggling, squirming and scooting, the race is on to beat the pee. He makes it to the potty with nary a moment to spare. You help him shimmy out of his pj pants and pullup, but the peepee of a little boy is no match for the cool morning air. (Not the morning shower you envisioned in your golden vision of grown-up life from back when you were that all-knowing teenager is it?)
“I peed a little in my pull-up,” informs your son. “But I peed a lot in the potty!” he continues proudly. (Near the potty anyway. A splashback drop may have landed in, but that’s about all.)
Meanwhile, his brother has come sauntering over toward the scene of the accident in no particular hurry. We’re all stripped down now (you having removed the unfortunately soggy sweatpants). You heft the no longer quite so tiny dude onto the potty seat.
“I don’t have any,” he informs you.
And that would be because, while he may have woken up dry, he altered that situation right quick. And [insert other parent here] is busy changing the sheets because Nighttime Pull-ups apparently don’t last through morning release.
Breakfast. Frozen waffles. Milk. An hour later another plea to void bladders due to copious amounts of liquids to wash down the aforementioned freeze-dried pastries.
Shocking – no one has to go.
Until an hour later. In his pants. Followed by a tantrum because the Superman briefs aren’t acceptable. But the tractor boxer briefs are soggy and he hates the green ones.
You’re gonna need to get out of the house. A playdate perhaps?
Gather with a few fellow moms. Large cups of coffee around a kitchen table with intermittent sniffs to determine which small child needs a diaper change. Half a cup in one of yours will yell, “I tooted!”
To the potty!
Ask the little man if he has to poop. “You can do it! Do you have poop?”
“Yes Mommy,” he replies peering down and looking into the toilet. “Here it is!” as he hands you a smearing.
Ew. But can’t take too much time to dwell, because his aim’s not the greatest. And while this time the pee did go in the general direction of the potty bowl, amid shouts of, “PEEPEE DOWN! PEEPEE DOWN!” it still totally came out the front in force.
Return to the kitchen to inquire about a plunger. Also cleaning solution and some paper towels. Apparently the kid has embraced the concept of wiping before the actual act of pooping. Oops?
But the entire contingent of mama’s are cracking up – all in part due to the fact that the pooper’s brother has opened the backyard sliding door, dropped his pants and is now peeing on the closest plant.
To the potty!
“No. I all done,” says the child arcing pee across the backyard landscaping.
Once you’re done cleaning and unclogging the bathroom it’s time to head home. The entire drive comprises conversation about the joyous benefits of modern day plumbing. And also an internal revelation that you are thus far spending the majority of your 30s kneeling on the bathroom floor.
Once you get home you’ll need to make another potty trip. Just in case. DO NOT PEE ON THE DOG!
Clearly as a result of your earlier heart-to-heart conversation and stellar parenting/potty training methods, one child will decide he has to poop. Or rather, he has already pooped in his pants. But at least he wants to sit on the potty.
“I did it!” he gleefully cries, noticing the, ahem, deposit you’ve dumped into the potty.
Meanwhile his brother has now decided to get in on the action. He has stripped off all his clothes and retreated to a corner. Oh my god he’s pooping!
Scoop the kid up – holding him out at arms length – as you race toward the potty shouting that the other kid needs to be moved. In. A. Hurry. He’s pooping!
The bewildered brother crawls into the bathtub still wearing his socks. “I not pee in the bathtub,” he says proudly. As he pees on the floor mat you’re crouching on. Your spouse will retrieve the third roll of paper towels you’ve gone through today. One of you can start load of laundry 27.
Bedtime is when your son will decide it’s a great time to work on his potty pooping skills. It really is a masterful stalling tactic. At some point you’ll take a stand and declare him done, dragging him into his bedroom kicking and screaming – literally.
Besides, it’s time for bedtime stories. Proud to be a parent that reads to your children, you’ll break out the “Potty Train” picture book and crow “chugga chugga POO POO” with great enthusiasm at the denouement.
The anguished wails will die out in about 15 minutes. You’ll pour yourself a glass of wine and think unmotherly thoughts about the bodily fluid emission of 3-year-olds.
A truly upset sob will shake you from your disgruntled revelry. “I had an accident,” cries a genuinely upset kiddo. Because he was apparently unaware of what would happen when he stripped off all his clothes in protest of the curtailed poop-stall.
“Shit,” you’ll announce, fearfully wondering if you’ll discover you’re uncouth platitude is actually the denotative declaration of what you’re about to find.
In any case, laundry load 28 looms on the horizon. (And yet you’re about to realize none of those loads are your clothes and you’re on the verge of running out of clean underwear. 29. 30.)
Wash. Rinse. Repeat tomorrow. Also research if public kindergartens will be required to enroll twins not-quite potty competent. And buy more paper towels.
I hate potty training.