My son and daughter share a bond, a psychic link.
They magically do things in tandem, often testing my motherly juggling duties to fulfill their needs simultaneously.
Last week, I experienced a new one: Synchronized Potty Filling.
Disclaimer: This post is not for the faint of heart or those feeling any sentence containing the words “excrement,” “crap,” “potty,” “poop,” or any other synonym of these should ever be written. Much less read.
Imagine, a regular day, like any other. The Tackler and Lil Diva finish their lunches. I ask myself the all important question: When did my son last use the bathroom?
“You should go potty now, sweetie.”
“No, Mommy. I don’t need to go potty.”
“You haven’t gone since breakfast and you’ve had a lot to drink. I think you should go try.”
“NO MOMMY! I DON’T. NEED TO GO. POTTY!”
“Go potty or I’ll take away your DC Superfriends book.”
“You can’t EVER do that!” He begrudgingly stomps to the downstairs bathroom.
A minute or so later, I realize Lil Diva also hasn’t filled her diaper in a while and I’m in the “Danger Post Feeding Zone”. I turn to her.
“Do you need to go potty?”
“Yeah! Pot-teeee!” She grabs my finger and leads me to the bathroom still occupied by my son.
I open the door and see #1 has occurred.
“Ok, wipe and get your pants back on.”
“Get her out of here, Mommy!”
“She needs to use her potty, sweetie.”
“No, get her out. NOW!”
“Do you still need to poop?”
Well. Okay then.
I usher Lil Diva out of the bathroom and grab the tiny Bjorn potty, placing it in the hallway just outside the bathroom.
She protests the removal from the typically forbidden Room With Toilet Paper To Destroy.
I quickly remove her shoes, socks, pants, and diaper and she sits on her little potty like a pro.
“I like you a lot, you’re funny and kind, so let me explain what I have in mind. I want to be your personal penguin. I walk right by your side. I want to be your personal penguin. I want to travel with you far and wide.”
I continue reading Sandra Boynton’s book – the one capable of distracting her longer than thirty seconds.
Lil Diva twists. She grunts. She claps her hands.
I finish the first reading. “Are you all done?”
She still sits in place so I read the book a second time.
“Are you ready to get dressed?”
“Are you trying to go potty?”
I read the book for a third time. Noises travel through the bathroom door, indicating my son is “the wiping” phase.
“Do you need help, sweetie?”
A stench assaults my nose as I hear a soft thud echoing in the hallway. I face Lil Diva again.
“You did it! Good job! You pooped into the potty!”
“Icky!” She bends down to remove her deposit from the container.
“Nonono. Mommy will clean it.”
I try to prevent her from sitting down or leaning on walls as I open the bathroom door to find my son standing on the toilet seat, searching the open cupboards above. I quickly empty Lil Diva’s potty as I see a smear above his butt.
“Sit down, sweetie. I have to help you wipe.”
The Tackler does the first obedient thing all day and plops down onto the toilet. I quickly snatch a disposable wipe to clean Lil Diva while he waits. I wrap her in a diaper in case there’s more and turn back to my son.
Somehow excrement appears in places it should not be and I give him the full wipe down.
The Tackler discovers he doesn’t need his step stool to reach the sink and the three of us lather up and wash our hands – I stifle a sniffle over how my Tackler has grown in just the last year.
The scene leaves me with a twisted sense of déjà vu – The Tackler took almost nine months to turn from a “hider” to one who would use the potty for #2. Six months after I declared him trained, my Lil Diva has successfully done a #2 about five or six times (in the last month). I’m certain more would have occurred, if I’d dropped everything every time she said “potty”. She has yet to truly pee inside of her little potty – the opposite of my son.
For now, I go with the flow, taking her when she insists (after checking to make sure it hasn’t already occurred, which is the case about 95% of the time), and enjoy having one child who isn’t content to live in diapers until college.
I’d just wish they weren’t quite so synchronized.