Poopy Goes in the Potty...or at Least Not in Your Bed

And now for something completely different, my other obsession (other than the size of my rump): my kids.   Here is a tale of Link.

 Link has found himself (dragging me along with him) in potty purgatory--not quite potty trained, not quite cluelessly soiling himself .  The mantra at our house is "poopy goes in the potty, not your diaper," "pee-pee goes in the potty, not your diaper."  I had hopes that the constant indoctrination would worm it's way into his sub-conscious & would result in a miraculous potty-training coup.

It turns out that effective communication requires two parties to interpret the message in the same way.  A couple of days ago I learned that Link had picked up on the "not your diaper," but was fuzzy on the "in the potty" portion of our platitude.

I heard him screaming from his bed during nap time.  It wasn't your garden variety boredom scream, it  intense & loud enough to wake Coraline in the next room.  Thinking I would settle Link quickly & then be able to take care of the baby, I went to Link first.  I walked into a grizzly scene.  Through tears, Link proudly held up his clean diaper & said, "I didn't go poopy in my diaper!"  There was my half naked kid standing in an epic pile of poo.  It was everywhere.  He had it smeared all over his legs, his treasured stuffed giraffe, his blankets, a book & the pack & play.  Standing there flabbergasted, all I can think is "who lets this kid eat so many vegetables?!?!" 

I threw him in the bath & proceeded to skim the chunks off the top of all applicable surfaces.  I wished on every lucky penny, birthday candle & shooting star for a can of Vapoorizer (the mythical product from "Envy"--a movie that only I & 17 other people bothered to watch). 

The book was deemed a casualty of war.  The pillow & giraffe came out of the wash a little lumpy, but feces-free.  I feel a touch of PTSD every time I go into his room.  All of that aside, I'm choosing to call this a step in the right direction.  He didn't want to put it in his diaper.  I just have to give him an alternative to painting the town brown.

Epilogue:  The next day, Link found the scrub brush I used to scour the pack & play & left to dry in the bathtub.  He promptly dipped it in the dog's water & used it to "clean" Dave's recliner.  A mother's work is never done...at least not until there aren't any trace amounts of fecal matter on the furniture.