Once upon a time, a little boy named Logan began to potty train. He used pull-ups and underwear and he learned very quickly what he needed to do. It was funny when, in the middle of a conversation, he would run in to exclaim to all present, “ME POOP, ME POOP, now yummy?” And obliging, I would hand over a small handful of jelly beans.
While we are on that, someday, I wish for a life, where I drop my pants, do my business, and get food for free. I feel someone needs to make a form of government where the basis of power is based on this principle.
Now, for all the humorous events that occurred during potty training my 3-year-old, this short post isn’t about that. Rather, it’s about the terror that every parent should have with a little boy who is freed from the shackles of his diaper.
My wife and I were in the kitchen, busy moving some furniture during my quarterly re-arrangement of the house, when Logan came rushing in with a loud shout of, “PEE PEE PEE PEE!”
This usually means one thing. It’s his way of telling me:
“PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BEFORE I PEE OVER EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU HOLD DEAR!”
To which I have responded by flying across four lanes of traffic to exit the interstate in 0.018 of a mile. (Yes, I’m that good.)
So Jo ran out of the kitchen, wondering why Logan couldn’t get into the bathroom. She found the door was open, there was toilet paper, but yet Logan yelled more emphatically than before: “PEE!”
I began to worry that he had leaked in his underwear, but as Jo checked, that option was removed from the list. She began asking 20 Questions—a 3-year-old’s favorite game.
- Did you pee?
A: Yes - Did you pee your pants?
A: No - Did the dogs pee?
A: Yes, um… no - Did the pee in the toilet get flushed?
A: No - Where’s the pee!?!?
A: Here, Mama. Right here.
Around that question, I heard the conversation shift into something more frantic:
“Oh no… wait… oh no, please no… NOOOOOOO!!!!!!”
- DID YOU PEE ON THE FLOOR!?
A: Um…. Yes
My wife then came into the kitchen, sat dejectedly in a chair, and said that I was needed in the living room.
I walked in, and Logan looked at me, grabbed his rear end, and said,
“I Sorry, Dada. Sorry, Dada. No spank.” His remorse fell on deaf ears, as my eyes beheld the newly formed lake in the living room floor. He picked up a single paper towel and tossed it onto the lake he had just created in front of the couch. It floated, for a moment, the unstoppable rush of the yellow liquid swallowing it up like the Atlantic did the Titanic.
Needless to say, it was explained in very specific directions, that we don’t pee on the floor.
I don’t, however, think he bought my reasoning—because he kept referring to the dogs’ favorite indoor accident spot.
Today is Friday. And then it’s the weekend…
16 more years. You can do it. Just 16 more years.
hope your days a good one
-austininva
