Yes, more talk about AM using the potty and pooping and stuff. But it gets really funny towards the end. At least I think so.
So AM is doing pretty great with the bathroom. Through no brilliance other than his own. Seriously, it all started because he started asking to go before or after a bath a few weeks ago, when he didn’t have clothes or diapers interfering with whatever signals his body was sending. More time without pants, more potty success. He has been dry all night for a while, so physically I knew he was good to go. But I have no tricks; apologies to everyone who has twins or 2 year olds or 2 year old twins. You’ll live. Miss M was much harder in terms of the flat-out psychology. This time I didn’t care nearly as much, and it fell into line.
We graduated from naked time (which is fine for indoors, not so fine for outdoors in 26 degree weather) to diapers + potty runs to pull-ups (some sort of psychological hurdle was overcome for this) + potty runs. Pull-ups have been super, but I don’t really want to devote more money to them. I’ve had a pack of 44 in my house for ages, and now we’re down to maybe a dozen.
The sticking point is poop. His isn’t toddler normal, it’s more breastfed babyish. (Whether this is because of the nursing, because of some intolerance or allergy–lactose, maybe?–has not been determined because it doesn’t upset his stomach at all. I’ve been talking about it with his pediatrician since he was 15 months, but the idea of eliminating dairy or wheat from his diet, or the kids’ diet, or everyone’s diet, makes me want to curl up and die.) Which makes it hard to catch because when it comes it’s fast and loose. We’re doing it maybe half the time. So, really, good on the pull-ups.
Today I was feeling brave, so I put him in a pair of those crazy ugly toddler training pants, which are basically cloth diapers cut in the shape of underpants. Three hours later, we got in the car for a 35-minute drive. (I know! I made him pee before.)
All was well.
Before our return trip, I led him to the bathroom. He allowed me to stand him in front of the toilet, balanced on a stool, but he told me in no uncertain terms, “I don’t need to make.” So he didn’t. He has not been reading Moxie‘s rules for life, clearly. (Have I taught that little data point nothing?!)
Our journey took us through a five-mile stretch of road with a ton of gas stations and strip malls. Then we passed the hotel where Taxman and I got married. Approximately four seconds after that, as I was in an irreversible turn onto I-80, I hear a voice from the back. “Ema, I need to make!”
“Pishy or poopy?” I inquire. (Yes, I know. Stupid terms. Miss M picked them up from someone, and now two years later here we are. I own it. But, frankly, I think asking a two year old if he has to urinate, while “correct” and all that, makes you sound like a pompous ass.)
Hypothetically, I had a little time. He’s got remarkably good control. Better than, say, mine. But at the same time, I don’t know my way around South Hackensack and wasn’t compelled to wander. I did think we were too far from Teaneck, which I know very well. So I immediately got off the highway. No gas stations, no restaurants, just an industrial park. So I pulled into a parking lot, found a bank of dirty snow, thanked my lucky stars it was 50 degrees, and let AM be all the boy he could be.
As I tucked him back in his carseat, I could not stop thinking about the Awesomeness that is potty training a boy. I was practically crowing to myself and writing Facebook status updates in my head.
I steered back onto 80, heading towards the GWB.
“Ema,” came the little voice again. “I need to make!”
“AM, you just did!” From time to time he has sort of phantom feelings, I think, a minute or two after he’s done in the bathroom. At home he just trots over, tries again, and then shakes his head and walks away. He couldn’t do that, clearly, in a car traveling at 60 mph. “You just made a pishy.”
“I have to make a poopy!”
And then, to borrow a phrase from katydidnot, my head exploded. His pants had just been around his ankles. I could have changed him into a pull-up in the car. But no, I was too busy doing my end-zone dance. Because I am a dumbass. (Sometimes.)
Again with the frantic calculating. “Can you hold it a little bit?”
“I want to make in the potty at home,” he told me.
The bridge traffic was under five minutes, supposedly, but we were easily 15 minutes from home. This was not a chance I wanted to take. Visions of poop soaking the car seat, the smell, all of it, danced in my head.
I stumbled into a hotel in Teaneck, right off 95, with both kids. Found a bathroom. Nothing.
“I want to make at home,” he explained. Right. Or in that pull-up I slapped onto his tush.
(By this point the adrenaline had made me need to pee; conveniently enough, there I was! In a bathroom! Hooray!)
I think, maybe, another pack of pull-ups just might be worth it. Sanity can be bought at Target for a mere $18. I’m in!