Monday, June 7, 2010
Seriously, I didn't think that my son would be potty-trained until puberty. I don't know why he went from sitting in his own poop for hours (and liking it), to going every single time on the toilet. I was a hair's breath away from crossing that thin and very fragile line between normal and psychotic. Just a phone call away from 'please, come to pick me up for a visit to the farm'. Just when I think that I don't know what the hell that I am doing as a mother, he goes and pulls a 'gotcha' on me. I am totally unprepared for what he has in store for me next...what will it be?
Cleaning his own room? Doing his own laundry? No. That can't be it. I asked him to bring me the broom today and he replied ''Sure. What does it look like?''
I am not a spanker, so I had to hold my breath and bite my tongue every time I caught him 'hiding behind the chair'; which comes in pretty handy anyway. I usually had to hold my breath for hours. By the time I 'came to', I was laying in the middle of the living room floor with popcorn kernels, cheerios, and pop tart debris smashed into my hair, one of my socks missing, sharpie make-up on my face, and Toy Story 3 stickers on the back of my shirt. (OK, the sharpie make-up was a total dramatization, but believe me, it would have been an improvement.)
Now he makes a point to tell everyone that he goes potty in the big potty chair. He not only tells our waitress, grocer, neighbor lady, postal worker, pharmacist (my pharmacist already knows), doctors, nurses, random teenagers, and whoever is on the phone if he manages to answer it before I can; he tells them that his mommy can't pee like him because she doesn't have a wiener.
So, this evening, I am enjoying a well-deserved glass of wine. The kids are in bed. We said our prayers to the toilet gods and thanked them for saving mommy's brain from being studied at a local college. I am going to my quilting room. I am going to quilt until I grow a wiener.