It all began to unravel after I made the presumptuous comment to my friend that my 2-year-old had finally mastered potty training. We were getting caught up while our boys were in gym class – essentially a padded room for toddlers to bounce, jump, crawl through tunnels, and dive without fear of getting hurt. It was at this moment in our conversation when my little guy snuck away to hide in a tunnel and do his business. In his undies. When I spotted him, he said, “Don’t change it. Don’t change my poo-poo anymore.” This is code that he is actually in the process of pooping. There is no warning in his rule-book. He just goes.
I drag him to the bathroom, with a poop load. I get most of it into the potty, with the remainder in his undies. I try scrubbing the undies in the sink, which ends up clogging drain. As I scoop the poop out of the drain with a paper towel, I assume that this is just a minor set-back and I put another pair of undies on him and we return to class in tact.
After gym class, we head to Toys-R-Us to finish some birthday shopping. As I’m in the game aisle, I start wondering why my feet start feeling wet. I look down and I am standing in a puddle of pee. My little guy is sitting in the cart, smug as a bug. I grab some wipes, pray for evaporation, and wipe the pee puddle with my feet. Not surprised that I can’t find a single employee to warn, we race off to the bathroom and hope Toys-R-Us doesn’t get sued for someone slipping on Aisle 12.
After Toys-R-Us, I decide to swing by my friend’s house for an impromptu play-date with her 3 kids. We let my chocolate lab, Sutter, take a break from sitting in the car and let him run out his energy in the backyard. He escapes. We catch him. Meanwhile, my little guy is in the backyard pooping in his underwear again. “Don’t change it,” he says. This time I’m borrowing pants and a pull-up (forget the undies… we’ve had a major potty set-back today). I take him to their changing table in the bathroom, and as I pull off his undies, his poo flings across the bathroom and lands on the floor and the cabinets.
It gets worse.
The boys are playing again in the backyard with my friend’s chickens. (Remember that Sutter is still in the backyard.) For some reason, we leave our 2-year-old boys in the pen area with the chickens and go back inside for something. Meanwhile, one of the boys opens the pen, and Sutter starts attacking one of the chickens. We come out, and Sutter has an entire chicken in his mouth and is wringing it from side to side. My friend and I tackle Sutter, and he is covered in feathers… bits of chicken are dangling from his mouth in a foamy mess. The chicken survives (praise God!), but Sutter is lunging with all of his might to go for the kill. I drag him with every ounce of my being to get him back in the car.
My friend and I finally have a moment of peace, we think, to sit on the couch and complete a sentence. Realizing that we haven’t heard our boys in a little while, we meander to the back of the house and find the boys in her shower rubbing all of her good shampoo over the shower doors and on themselves.
Stick a fork in me. I am done. It is time to end this day and pray for a good start tomorrow.