The potty training archives

Today I will tell a tale from my potty training archives. It takes place about a year ago, and as I look over it I think — boy am I happy this period in time is done!

Today I will tell a tale from my potty training archives. It takes place about a year ago, and as I look over it I think — boy am I happy this period in time is done!

I would love to start the story with, it was a wonderful morning, the air was crisp and I was feeling buoyant…

Instead; it was a bitter, god awful morning. I woke up beside a massive sodden spot smelling of urine. What happened here?

Was my first reaction but then I noticed the Scooby Doo blanket resting across my left foot.

Lars must have woke up at some point in the night to simply make his way into my bed, lay two inches away from me, pee, and then wander back to his superbly dry urine free sanctuary.

Wonderful. I glance at the clock, making my best effort not to grace the cold wet spot with my bare thigh — unsuccessful.

The clock read 5:30 am.

After three cups of coffee, I deemed myself ready to begin the day.

The shower felt beautiful, but as the warm water sprayed down on me I heard, “Mamaaaa, I awake, you get me cereal please.”

And it begins.

An hour later the sheets were in the wash, the kids had consumed their breakfast and Jamie was off to work.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I felt a familiar tingling in my nostrils.

When I say tingling I mean a burning sensation that would offend anyone who is not well versed in the parental condition.

And I knew it must be bad as it never stinks this much when confined in the diaper.

At first I saw nothing expect my son accosting me, yelling in a tongue that I couldn’t quite understand. He was pointing and screaming his sister’s name while motioning towards the computer chair.

I spot a pudgy little leg behind the chair, except, it did not wear the pink leggings I had dressed it in this morning, but instead a thick slimy brown.

“NO!” It was all I could bring myself to say as I frantically began searching for the diaper in question.

The computer chair will need a complete overhaul after I get her cleaned up, I think for a brief moment.

That’s when I saw it — violently shoved under the desk, hidden away from disciplinary eyes. Its contents destroying the one piece of clean carpet I could still speak of.

Keep it together Lindsay, keep it together.

After I cleaned the girl up, I calmly made my way to the cupboard with the cleaning supplies, picked out the tools for the job and moved back to the computer desk.

And I cleaned up that feces with grace and dignity, because that’s what mothers do, we do what we have to… because that’s what our mothers did, and when we became mothers, that’s what they taught us.

I was doing okay, until the doorbell rang.

A little girl selling chocolates. I hurriedly ran to my change jar to get the three dollars needed to retrieve a box and get rid of the kid.

But while I was scrounging for the cash I glanced down at my brand new Wal-Mart shirt and realized it was sullied with poop.

A streak that felt as though it could have filled the depths of the Hell!

It was that streak of poop on my new Wal-Mart shirt that started the breakdown.

The tears were welling up in my eyes, and that poor little girl selling her chocolate, she saw the poop streak, she knew it was there. I knew it was there, and she knew I knew it was there.

We still exchanged our trade though, because at this point what else could I do? I could care less about the dang bonbons, I literally am wearing a shirt full of poop right now.

I will always remember that little girl and how kind she was, not to mention the rank smell of toddler feces that was emanating from my new Wal-Mart Shirt.

And when the door closed the tears began to flow. Streams of Lash Blast mascara flooded my face, the foundation I had caked on earlier streaked in a manner that held a Van Gogh-ish appeal, but the beauty of the situation was lost on me, as I dwelled in a puddle of self-pity… and poo.

My daughter, came to me.

She saw me sprawled on the floor with my face in my hands sobbing tears of frustration.

She raised her pudgy little fingers, touched my face and I looked up towards her.

She then backed up a step and began laughing hysterically at me. This of course invoked my son to come over and yes, he too began to find humor in my desolation.

And this my friends is life, I then felt the laughter rise up within me and in-between sobs and the gagging smell of poop, I grabbed the two most important little people in my life and we all laughed together…For about 30 Seconds then I couldn’t take the smell anymore.

Lindsay Brown is a Sylvan Lake mother of two and freelance columnist.

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