The amount of poop is awesome. And please don’t misunderstand: although I am a child of the 80’s, I actually mean “extremely impressive” as opposed to wicked great.
This morning, after I finished taking care of some business of my own, I hear, “Mama, I did something yucky while you were on the potty.” Well, hm. Whatever could that be?
I’ve become a professional “swisher” and think that if I had a second child, I could easily handle cloth diapers — the old school ones, even — because I, apparently, (I never knew) can get down there and swish those little undies in a bowl full of poopy water and not even dry heave. Not a gag, even. That’s almost more awesome than the amount of poop was. Friends tell me they just abandon the messy underwear, but I can’t. These were the first ones I bought for him, in preparation for training, and they have firetrucks on them. Firetrucks, you guys.
Later, he gave me the boy-who-cried-wolf “my belly hurts; I have to go potty!” and so I ushered him in there. He sat. He looked down at his little business and then back up at me and said, “sometimes it takes a little while.” And then he sighed. And then he got down, nothing doing. Within minutes, though, he was teetering around with that tell-tale bowlegged walk and I found myself on my knees again, swishing my hands in a toilet full of foulness.
I have since washed the first layer of skin off my hands. We have little, laid-out, drying underwear all over the house, and the smell of lysol is fresh and pungent in the bathroom. At least he seems to be pee-trained. Yes, at least there’s that.