Have I mentioned that my son is terrified of going poopoo on the potty? He's got pee pee down, but when it comes to number two, well...it's just not going to happen for a while. Which is fine, except I have a gag reflex like my father. I gag changing diapers, much less peeling poop-filled underpants off a 2 year old with socks on and washing them off in a toilet. Oh, Lord. Just typing that made me gag a little.
Needless to say, my life has become a nightmare. Since he's terrified to "go" on the potty, he saves it up until the evening. We'll sit and sit and sit on the potty with nothing, then 5 minutes later, he'll run off to his room or to the study for 20 seconds and come back with a book and a certain aroma about him. And then it's time for me to cry on the inside while I gag on the outside. Last night was one of those nights. He had just sat on the potty and gone pee pee. I went back to the kitchen to clean up dinner dishes. Ben was in his office and Scooter was doing homework at the table. Bubba ran to the living room, hugged the couch, and then threw a pillow onto the floor. That was my cue to go pick it up. And there was the familiar odor of what my evenings have turned into. Ugh.
Several minutes of clean-up later, and we were in Bubba's room to put a pull up on (we're out of clean underwear). We pulled it up, and he gave me a long hug and said, "Thank you for cleaning my poop up, mom." Awww...what a sweet heart. Except, wait. Nobody should have to clean your poop up, kid. And I got the foreboding suspicion that I'll be hearing those words again and again for the next 20 years or so. Hopefully his hugs and thanks won't have lost their luster by then.
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