Shit Storm or...Toddlers Are Like Monkeys at the Zoo
More often than not it is difficult to be a parent. Parenting isn't for the lazy. It isn't for the weak. And it definitely is not for the squeamish.We had a veritable shit storm on the parenting front this weekend. And, I'll tell you right now, I'm kind of mad that none of my friends who have older children and who have been down this road neglected to fully make me aware of the facts of life as they regard toddlers.
That's right! All you bastards smugly nodding your heads and smirking...I mean you. This post, while it may give you a chuckle, is really for those who will come along behind me. I'm going to warn them what they are in for.
So...as I have posted in the past, we are still struggling with potty training. Bunny Boop is trying to step into her big girl shoes and lay claim to her independence.
She has her own backpack - just like Dora - and all of the big kids who go to school. She wears it around the house, puts things in it; it makes her feel very grown up, I'm sure. She is now sleeping (as of Saturday night) in a big girl bed. She has her very own twin bed in her room now. The prospect was so exciting that - quite literally - she was bouncing up and down. And then, there is also the fact that she is exerting her opinion on fashion choices. Saturday she decided she must wear her Mary Janes instead of her boots - I have a budding fashionista on my hands, I think. But, potty training is still the Mt. Everest of Independence. And we aren't quite there yet.
We've been having some issues, to be honest. Bunny Boop will sit on the potty. She expects her m&m for doing so, but tinkling in the potty?...not so much. She hasn't yet connected the sensation of needing to go with the consequences of not going on the potty. We are close, however. She does know when she's dirty. She will now assume the position for a diaper/pull-up change without argument. And, if you don't get to it in time...she'll do it herself.
Not the whole job, of course, just the removal of the offensive item. Which means, and you are probably sensing the connection to the title, sometimes she manages to get shit...everywhere. If you aren't being attentive to every nanosecond, she will have that thing whipped off and be playing in the clinging...debris. She just doesn't want it on her, that's all.
So, imagine, if you will, the scene that faced me early Saturday morning. I woke to the equivalent of the parental fire drill - her father was shouting "YOUR MOTHER IS GOING TO KILL YOU!" to my toddler who was standing up in her crib. I leapt out of bed and ran to the scene of the crime. Like a monkey, my caged animal was head-to-toe feces, with footprints on the bedding, on bibi, on the hand-embroidered monogrammed duvet cover for her crib....
It was shit far and wide, though it was contained within the actual constraints of the crib. She had it in her hair, on her arms, on her legs, and all over her little bare butt. Who knew that my child was a monkey? Why didn't someone warn me about the ugly side of potty training?
Ack. Even now I can see the scene. I gave Prince Charming the option and he took tub duty, leaving the rest of the cleanup to me. Yeah. He owes me. 'Cause I had to hold onto her until he was ready for her. Keep her from touching anything, including me. While she was in the bath I did a quick scrub of her room and carried the...soiled linens downstairs. Then I spent 30 minutes hand-washing them before they went into the washer.
The whole time, I couldn't escape the smell and the vision of my shit-covered kid stuck in my mind. My gawd, I've given birth to an animal! It is the kind of realization that makes you want to laugh/cry in hysteria.
I swear to all of you, if she starts swinging from the ceiling, I'm gonna need therapy.
Labels: Bunny Boop
