(Heh. See what I did there?? #2??)
The other day I was making a 4 hour drive and got stuck in traffic, making it more like 5 awesome hours with two kids in the car. At the 4 hour mark, I called K and forced him to meet us halfway for dinner so that we could all get out of the car, and I could feed C (in public, and all, since it was National Breastfeeding Week). This was all well and good, except I left my $80 sunglasses on the table. I called back the next day to see if they had mysteriously walked off, but the hostess put me on hold just long enough for me to realize that the hold music wasn’t Italian (those imposters.), and jumped back on the line saying that she’d found them.
So, yesterday, I made the 30 minute trek down to O.G. with two kids in tow for the sole purpose of recovering my sunnies. I had a scheme that I could just pull up, call the host/ess, and meet them at the sidewalk instead of unloading the Mom-UV just for a 3 second errand. So, I called.
Me: “Do you have a large pair of Michael Kors sunglasses in the lost and found?”
Hostess: “Let me find a manager to look in the office”
(8 full minutes later)
J: “MOMMA! I HAVE TO POOOOOOOOOP!”
I parked, unloaded my chaos and had a little chat with J about how Momma had to talk to the guy first, so he had to wait to poop until we got to the bathroom. He said he could, and we were off to reclaim the sunnies.
When we (finally) got into the store, a manager was at the hostess desk. I explained the whole situation, including a quick description of the glasses (black, oversized, silver plates on the side that say Michael Kors), and he went back to the office to check. “Is this athletic-y Nike pair them?” Uh, nope. (rustles around in a storage bin) “What about these round tortoise-shell reading glasses?” Even nope-ier. “Oh, what about these oversized black Michael Kors that were in the hostess stand, literally inches from where I was standing 10 minutes ago??” I’m pretty sure he was the type of guy that would pull Jennifer Aniston aside and bug her about wearing more flair.
Moving on. I quickly escorted J back to the bathroom quicker than the manager could say “customers only,” and found it to be clean, empty, and stocked with seat covers. Score! I got J all settled on the toilet, including a quick lecture regarding germs, toilet seats, and please always use a cover!; he climbed up, held my hands and peed like a champ. Guys, this was a big deal. We high-fived, yelled “yay!!” loud enough that the whole restaurant probably thought that there was a rather indiscreet rendezvous going on in the Olive Garden bathroom, got J redressed, and packed out.
After I got everyone loaded up, we traipsed off to Target to spend all of the money. We had barely gotten our Starbucks
bribery snacks, when I heard my socially clueless boy loudly announce, “MOMMA!!! I HAVE TO POOOOOOOP!” Because, apparently that’s all he says these days. Thankfully, the only other people who patron Target at 1pm on a Monday are moms, most of whom have at least one kid whining about wanting popcorn/an overpriced toy/a trip to the bathroom. I got a few amused side-eyes, one or two chuckles, and more than a couple sympathetic smiles. Because if you can’t bond with fellow moms over your preschooler’s lack of bathroom etiquette, you’d never leave the house out of fear of potential potty-talk-related shame.
The Target bathroom was not nearly as impressive as the ‘Garden’s, mostly because there were all of zero toilet seat covers and the floor smelled like pee — which is especially not awesome for a kid who thinks that every article of clothing on his body must be removed for bathroom activities. I carefully arranged strips of toilet paper, and gingerly set his little self up on the big toilet.
It is now that I will say: you have not lived until you’ve held hands with your kid so that he doesn’t fall in the Target toilet, while he bears down to poop. Reason #9,982,347 that I no longer have any dignity.
But! The boy pooped! This was an even bigger deal. We went straight to the pull-ups section to pick out whichever ones were the cheapest, and then wandered over to the Big Boy Underwear section. I thought he’d be thrilled, and he was… in theory. However, he deemed all of the designs too scary: Spiderman, Lego guys, Spongebob, superhero logos — even Olaf! — were all met with a “too scaaaa-eee, Momma!” But… Puppy Paws (which he’s never in his life seen), were apparently juuuuust right.
The only problem with getting these things at the beginning of the odyssey through Target was that he was so excited, he told every single person. “Hi! I have Big Boy Underwear! Nice to meet you!” On the off-chance that someone stuck around instead of making a beeline to anywhere else in the store, he proceeded to recite to them who exactly wore Big Boy underwear: “Daddy wears Big Boy Underwear. Momma wears Big Boy Underwear. Baby C wears diapers. Nana and Papa wear Big Boy Underwear. Grandma and Grandpa wear Big Boy Underwear.” From there it just got weird. “Airplanes wear Big Boy Underwear! [giggle] Doggies wear Big Boy Underwear! [giggle] And horsies! And fire trucks! And yogurt! [more giggling] Halle Berry [trans., “everybody”] wears Big Boy Underwear!” I spent the entire time at the store either pretending I didn’t see other shoppers, feigning deafness, or trying to get J to speak in a tone lower than the sound of a spaceship during lift-off. None of these things worked.
I finally got out of there with potty training
crap supplies, organic mac ‘n’ cheese, frozen waffles, and some bananas (because, you know, balanced meals), and maybe 3 other things that somehow totaled $348. Curtains?? Why did I buy curtains?? (just kidding, it wasn’t quite that bad… this time.) Despite purchasing every item in the “please just pee in the damn toilet” section of Target, the entire 30 minutes home were spent making a list of additional supplies I would need. When I pulled into the driveway, I whipped out my phone and Amazon app, and bought some serious stuff: underwear in other possibly non-scary patterns, a “seat saver” for the carseat, and, most importantly, disposable, individually wrapped (drum roll please….) toilet seat covers. Thank the Lord for Amazon.
So, not to jinx it, but… no accidents in his Big Boy Underwear yesterday evening, and none all this morning/afternoon. Might my kid be, as one of his preschool teachers suggested, one of those magic kids who basically potty-train themselves?? Please, Halle Berry, let it be so.
ps– Potty Training #3 will probably cover some of the more disturbing things that have come out of my mouth… and/or J’s. That post will include gems like, “Momma. I don’t have to go potty. My penis is just fine.” Stick around, friends, I have a feeling that this is just the beginning.