Aria had diarina, as Riley used to call it, and everything she ate tore through her like Junior League members running through the ghetto. Either up or out. Didn't I just write about being vomited upon, in http://momsnewstage.blogspot.com/2011/09/top-ten-you-know-youre-mom-when.html? Note to the universe, I was talking about when the kids were infants! I did NOT need my maternal maturity tested with a toddler-sized meal worth of barf.
Gross factor aside, I am totally stressed out about my little girl. She's a tiny little girl to begin with, and now I think our Sleep Sheep weighs more than she does.
Riley was in another potty training push. The tough cookie of the three teachers in his class strongly encouraged that he show up in underwear on Monday. Last Monday when Riley arrived at school wearing a diaper, in spite of their agreement that he would train over the weekend and continue at school, I knew that I was being scolded. This weekend, in order to avoid more stink eye, he wore underwear at all times except for naps and making number two, which is a whole other ball of wax, apparently. He did great, holding it in for up to an hour, during several intervals. Then he'd get distracted, or we'd get too confident in his abilities, and he'd pee his pants.
And wouldn't it be this weekend, while I was busting my hump to monitor a whacked-out G.I. tract and an immature bladder, that Riley chose, in the throes of a tantrum, to wail over and over again, "I wan Daddy! Daddy's my favorite!"
Ain't that some shit?
It is the messy mishaps that inspire us to be the mothers we never thought we could be, and look back and laugh. In that spirit, here is a hilarious potty training tale, written in July, from former MNS Mom in the Spotlight, Liz Zorek.(http://momsnewstage.blogspot.com/2011/08/mom-in-spotlight-liz-zorek.html.
Last week, the girls and I met my mom at a diner for lunch. We were on day five of potty training with Anna, and let's just say that we were getting about a C- at that point so it was pretty brave of us to even be out of the house. Just as we were finishing our food, I looked over at Anna whose face was going red while she made a little grunting sound.
I knew exactly what was going on.
I grabbed her by the hand and raced her to the bathroom, leaving my mom with Marie, my one year old, at the table with all of our stuff. I thought I had caught Anna before anything had actually, ahem, been dropped in the pants, but alas, when I got into the bathroom stall with her, I realized the error in my assumption. The pants and underpants were way beyond what a few measly scraps of toilet paper could do for us at that moment.
AND in my rush to get us to the potty, I had forgotten to grab the diaper bag with our arsenal of extra underpants, clothes and wipes.
So, there I was in a bathroom stall with a more-kid-than-toddler who's naked from the waist down. I needed to go back to our table to get the diaper bag, but I wasn't about to leave Anna in the bathroom by herself with no clothes on and poop all over her legs -- I mean, can you even imagine walking in on that?
I looked around at my options:
- wrap her in toilet paper and make her a "skirt."
- somehow weave the toilet seat cover into a dress.
- take her shirt off and somehow turn it into something that would cover her nether regions.
None of the above.
I looked down at what I was wearing – a blue dress with a somewhat transparent cami and leggings underneath. My only option was to take my dress off, put it on Anna, and then hope no one in the restaurant noticed that I was basically in my underwear while I ran with Anna out to get the diaper bag.
I threw the dress over Anna's head, took a breath, and out the door we went. The first person we saw was a boy who looked to be about 12 waiting for the men's restroom. He took one look at me, and then quickly tried to divert his eyes to examine the lovely ceiling tiles while his face turned red.
We raced to the table, Anna in my dress that was bunching up around her ankles and me in what was more whore-ish Halloween garb than trendy yoga wear. I made eye contact with my mom, who kept looking back and forth between me and Anna with a confused look trying to figure out exactly what was going on. Anna and I were like marathoners coming up to a water station -- we didn't even slow down, continuing our mini jog around the table, grabbing the diaper bag in one smooth motion, and then bee-lining it back to the bathroom, hoping people were enjoying their food too much to notice the almost-nude-and-certainly-odorus circus act running between the tables. Needless to say, I think we gave the other patrons some really good Facebook status fodder that day.