The three year old is in the midst of learning to use the potty. We don't potty train in this house - we potty encourage. Let the kid decide when they are ready to use the potty- less psychological damage that way. So, basically the rest of us are stuck here in Poopacalypse, mainly me, but I take weekends off. Seriously, No shit!
For those of you that aren't counting - this means two people who need their arses wiped and diapers changed on a regular basis. Occasionally, the five year old throws in a few accidents just to keep it interesting.
We have battled a bit with the three year old (hencetoforth to be known as Bubba) over whether or not he should wear diapers or pull-ups. His Dad is not keen on the idea of Bubba wearing underwear and having accidents in his underwear- especially the poop kind. His Dad has put underwear over the boy's diaper...I am still flummoxed over this...
So, here it is Monday (it has taken me awhile to get over the shell shock and write about this). Tiny (the one year old) and I are downstairs making lunch, Bubba is upstairs playing.
Several times I have yelled up the stairs that he needs to change his pull-up... Several times I have done the time remaining (you parents out there know what I mean... 5 minutes until blah blah)... He has responded with his usual stubborn Bubba screech/growl... Usually one ends up hollering and shouting and showing off their counting skills with this one (The Count-up - either counting to a certain number or in our very cerebral house The Countdown 5...4...3...2...1! Blastoff!). Bubba is STUBBORN!
Finally after all of this and threats of no DVD in the car, etc., Bubba appears downstairs and sheepishly admits that he has changed his pull-up.
At this point we are running late to go pick up Sassy (5 year old) from school.
I hate being late and my kids hate getting out the door on time.
I rush upstairs to find Tiny's missing shorts.
I am sure that the expletives I uttered were rich and thought provoking.
All over the beige carpet...
dirty wipes scattered everywhere.
I see red...errr...actually brown.
I holler for Bubba and once I realize that the offensive pull-up is missing I get very insistent that he tell me EXACTLY where it is... His demure whispers of "I just don't know..." Infuriate me... This interrogation will get worse if YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE IT IS! NOW! NOW! NOW!
I think that perhaps smoke is pouring out of my ears.
I run around looking in each room and then finally go into MY room...
all over MY bed...
Dirty wipes all over MY bed...
smears all over the beige carpet...
WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?!
WHY MY BED?!
This is what I scream to my poor little, crying, Bubba.
Not very AP (Attachment Parenting) of me. At. All.
I am now very humbled by my behavior and ashamed. I did not spank him (we never hit our children). But I hit him with my yelling. I am very sad about that. We have apologized to each other. I have hugged him, and praised him and told him that accidents happen. We have come up with a plan for next time...
My behavior did not follow our house rules: "Be Safe. Be Kind. Be Respectful."
I just snapped. Poop decorating just pushes me over the edge... I am flawed. I am human.
Sassy has offered to teach me some breathing exercises to calm down...
But Bubba owes me, big time. And when he is older i will regale him with the story of
I am sure that his cute little girlfriend will enjoy the story as well. *smirk*