Now, lets us venture into the nuts and bolts of how things went after we the people of Lint Trap Manor understood how this was going to go down. Translation: as long as I don't bug, Her Highness will refrain from peeing on the floor on the regs. Got it. Mommy and Daddy are trained. On to part deuce. If you don't like talk of fecal matter. Stop now. There is going to be a lot of mention of the poop from here on out.
I have not discussed it much here, but we have a little problem called constipation. And by we, I mean my delicate flower. When one consumes only dairy and carbs with the occasional fruit washed down with approximately 30 ounces of whole milk a day, there ain't a lot happening in the shadoobie arena. And what is happening is achieved with great effort and little to show for it. Even with twice daily doses of Miralax, there is sweating and gnashing of teeth and much hand wringing. And it all happens huddled in a corner of the den or her room, set to a chorus of "Move. No Mommy. You go away. NO. Move. I pooping. MOVE I POOPING." Not to mention the delights of having to give her an enema every once in a while. So you can imagine how I was feeling about the prospect of getting her to go number two in the potty. I had my own sweating, gnashing of teeth, and wringing of hands every time I dared to ponder it. If I can hardly get near her to change her diaper, how would I get her to take it off and poop sitting down? The answer? I wouldn't. Dada would. *Insert angry mommy face here.*
The first day of training there was no pooping. Not uncommon in our house. The second day of training, she pooped in her panties and steadfastly refused to even come in the bathroom. Super fun removing 2t panties filled with poo while the wearer is flailing in the living room. Along about day four I got her in the bathroom halfway through a 30 minute push session. I wrestled her draws off as soon as she was done and then set her down on the mini potty. Sounds reasonable. And it was in theory. The actual scene was straight from the potty training hall of horrors. Terdlets on the floor. Terdlets smeared all over the tiny bum. Terdlets squished all over the potty. Terdlets on my hands. As she watched me clean all this, Her Highness casually pointed at the floor and said "Mama. There is poop on the floor." As if I didn't notice. As if I wasn't trying sanitize the bathroom while she stood there naked and gloating. I swear if she could, she would have given me a lecture on why it is better to just poop in your pants. All I could think about was that I had gone to four years of college, managed a successful medical practice, and now I am picking up someone else's poop up off the floor. And they don't even appreciate it. Ain't that some shit. (Pun very much intended.)
Toward the end of the week, I was wearing down. Some may even say desperate. I decided upping her fiber was the obvious answer. Maybe if the pooing was less uncomfortable she would be more apt to sit and chillax and let nature take its course. I gave her a Fiber One bar for breakfast, thinking that would get things a'moving. Per usual, anything left unprotected that is edible gets eaten by our dog. Come to find out, Fiber One bars included. So now I have to worry about the dog and the child crapping up my living room. Awesome. I dispensed 2 m&m's for a tinkle job well done to Lady Baby and headed to the shower, concerned with the state of my child's and dog's bowels. Doing my post shower rituals, Her Highness trotted up to the bathroom door. I glanced over and saw poop. Hands, pee-joms, face, mouth, paci. Poop everywhere. Commence extreme freak out mode. I alternated between rapid fire questions to determine how this happened in the three minutes I dared to leave her alone and utter dumbfounded panic. I had not the time nor the patience for this. I somehow determined in my panic that it was not her poop. "Is it the dog's poop?," I screamed. "Dog poop?," she parroted back. I saw this as confirmation. Has the dog sprayed my IKEA couches with Fiber One induced cha-cha's? This cannot be happening. The whole time I am freaking out, which was actually only about 30 seconds, Lady Baby is staring at me like I am bound for the institution. Seeing poop on your child's precious face will do that to even the toughest mama. Then, in a flash of reasoning amidst the chaos, I smelled her hand. Sweet relief washed over my taught nerves. Twas not poop smeared all over my child. Chocolate. Freaking Chocolate. She did not scarf her reward m&m's down in .2 seconds, like she normally does. She carried them around. Melt in your mouth, not in your hands, my foot. Crisis averted. Both the child and the dog lived another day.
|Poop face. Perish the thought.|
We have had no more poop incidents, save the end of a road trip, when she started it in the car and finished it up on the potty. Actually, things seem to be moving a little better. More happening with less stress and angst. I chalk it up to the sitting position and being relaxed, versus being hunkered down on the defense every time someone gets near. Another battle won, though the potty wars are far from over.