Beware of puddles on the dance floor

Posted in Mom Stuff, Potty Training
by besttech

Genevieve Hinson MotherofConfusion.com

Potty training is an intricate dance. You have to know when to let your partner take the lead and when to drag him off the floor. There’s a time for fun-loving disco, and there’s a time for a get-tough slamdance.

I had been content mostly — to let my 4-year-old son set the pace on this big boy milestone.

I’ll admit, I wasn’t always so easy going about it. When Craig was 2, I forced the issue. However, I quickly learned that potty training before its time only leads to squish and ick on the carpet. After that I waited for the appropriate readiness signal.

It wasn’t until this last week I saw it.

I was choosing Craig’s outfit for the day when I asked him, “Do you want to wear underwear or pull-ups?” It was the daily question.

He responded, “Dawwpoh.”

Huh? That wasn’t his regular decision. “You want to wear a diaper?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Are you sure?” It didn’t hurt to nudge. “Big boys wear underwear and baby boys wear diapers.”

“Dawwpoh. I be bayee boy. Want Dawwwpoh.”

I chose a shirt and a pair of shorts, grabbed a pull-up and got him dressed. Afterwards he ran off happily singing about babies and diapers.

Five minutes later he returned. “Mama, I poop.”

“You pooped?” He did; I could smell it. My brain clicked a gear. Something happened here. Something … different.

It was at that moment the lights dimmed, music started and a disco ball sparkled. Craig placed one hand on his hip and pointed the other in air. He shook his diapered booty, performed the famous John Travolta dance move and spun across the floor.

That was it! Craig’s rendition of “Boogie Fever” was the signal. Potty training in all seriousness could commence.

Craig had asked for a diaper because he knew what he was going to happen. He recognized the tell-tale indicators and planned for the main event.

Diaper indeed.

GOING PUNK

The easy-swinging days of The Sylvers were over. It was time to go hardcore like the Sex Pistols.

I stuffed Craig’s daycare backpack with half-dozen underwear and shorts, gave him a pep talk, took him to school and announced the plan to his teachers.

No more pull-ups.

If Craig was going to drizzle drip, or doop, he’d have to do it in his underwear.

Later that night, once we were home again, reality plopped. I noticed Craig was walking funny and looked perplexed.

“Got something to tell me?”

“Nooo.”

“Did you go potty?”

He ignored my question and started to walk away. I reached out and to check for dampness.

Craig gasped, staggered back and crossed his hands in front of his private parts. “You no tuh. No wook. My unner-are.”

What the heck? He acted like I was an old man trying to sneak a peek up his skirt. “Craig, I’ve got to check.”

He backed away. “Noh, I deww it.”

“Okay, fine.” I walked him to the bathroom.

He stood in front of the toilet, resisting.

“I already know you went potty.”

He mumbled.

“Just take them off and I’ll get you a clean pair.”

Craig grumbled and then took a stance. “No, you deww it.”

I reached forward to help and then remembered we were hardcore. It was time for me to back off and let him learn.

“No,” I said and gave him a Johnny Rotten snarl, “You do it. This is your mess. You clean it up.”

My proclamation shocked him into following direction. However, he didn’t like it, especially when it came time to shake the underwear biscuits into the toilet bowl.

This last couple of days has been like stage diving into a mosh pit. I never know if we’re going to crowd surf or get plopped onto the floor.

Either way, it’s time to rock!

———

Genevieve Hinson is a writer, wife and mom to two boys. More of her adventures can be found at MotherofConfusion.com