My wife and I have heard it countless times by now: expect accidents, they “happen.” Krakatoa just “happened.” Train derailments “happen.” What “happens” is made all the more terrifying by the fact that we have wall-to-wall carpeting. My wife wants to switch to hard wood floors, but my counterargument has always been to think about the serious injuries this carpet prevented in the last year alone, but that’s for another post…
We have two potties, a cute green Baby Björn for him to use anywhere in the house, and a Sesame Street toddler cover for the toilet, so that the little booger won’t fall in. As much as I suspect he would love that, maybe turn it into his new game, my wife would probably draw and quarter me if I let that happen. We have the Elmo potty training book where he wears tighty-whiteys to show he’s all grown up, an image that should be banned as a crime against humanity. In a rotten instance of karma, I’ll now most likely have dreams featuring an underwear-wearing Elmo. My wife even devised a potty dance for him to do, as a signal that he needs to go.
We started this in earnest about a week and a half ago, and it’s been funny. Like Pablo said in a Backyardigans episode, “Funny weird, not funny ha-ha,” but there’s been some of that too, and it’s been downright pee-on-yourself (pun intended) hilarious.
First there’s the entire standing vs. sitting thing, and for my wife’s peace of mind, we settled on sitting – at least until he learns how to aim, which should be another adventure entirely. Secondly, there tends to be a lag – funny (not ha-ha) how parents of already-housebroken children conveniently “forget” to tell you – between the warning and actually going. If we get a warning at all, he’ll say it right around the time comes to flush.
Then there’s the sitting part, where we’re afraid that he’ll start equating sitting with going. Happened last week, thank goodness the Mrs. thought of lining his high chair with a produce bag and dish towel.
Mostly, we ask him (while acting like this is the most exciting thing to ever happen), “Ryan, do you have to shee?” (Korean for #1), or “Do you have to ung-a?” (Korean for #2). If it’s yes to either question, we start the potty-dancing convoy to the bathroom – he’s developed a preference for the padded cushion on the Sesame Street toilet cover, and the Baby Björn has become his backup TV-watching chair. When he’s done with #1, since doing #2 in the toilet is still uncharted territory, we cheer and applaud like he just broke the land speed record while curing cancer. Have I mentioned that he could flush the toilet all day and not be bored? If I record it on my phone and play it for him when he gets cranky in the car… Sorry, got off subject for a moment.
At my mother’s house yesterday, something most definitely “happened.” I was in the living room with my mother, thinking it was almost time for him to go shee, and he was running around commando-style with an unbuttoned onesie. He went around the corner to her kitchen, then it got quiet. Too quiet. My mom went to investigate, and the sound she let out wasn’t a scream, it was more of a loud “oh!” followed by “Oh me na!” Best translation from Korean is “I can’t believe this.” He’d squatted in the corner between the fridge and the cabinet, and let loose with #2, far far away from his Sesame Street toilet cover.
Well, we had #2 on the moulding and the kitchen floor (thankfully, not on her living room rug), the kind of big ung-a that makes me proud to be his father, as long as it’s in his diaper and not on his grandmother’s kitchen. As a coup de main, he even stepped in it, in his haste to get away – yes, my wonderful son, your stuff really does stink. He looked up, saw how worked up his appa and grandma were, and I think he came to the quick conclusion that we had this under control. Like, “Okay, looks like you got this, you take care of it. I’m out – peace!” So he pointed at it, said “Look, mess,” then started to nonchalantly walk away.
Needless to say, I think I’ll be a wee bit more vigilant, but again, these things “happen,” even on Grandma’s kitchen floor.