"Mom, I Have to Pee"

So Ollie insisted that he had to pee.  Outside. 

Okay, fine.  We’ve tried this before.  He’s great about pooing on the toilet and telling me when he needs to go, but we need to work on peeing in the toilet every time.  So if he has to pee, and he wants to do it outside, and it may mean that I don’t have to stress about potentially special ordering size 7 Pampers and going broke because of it, I’m all for it.

Besides, I get a price break at daycare if he’s potty trained by 30 months.  He’s got 5 months, or I’m kicking him out.

So I told him to remove his diaper, and as he yanks it off (yes, yanks… he doesn’t take the time to just pull the straps off….) I open the door.  He runs outside and (in his socks) takes off across the deck, down the stairs, and into the grass.  There he freezes, staring down at himself.  I step onto the deck and start making cooing noises at Emmie, trying to keep her out of the sun and happy.  Ollie comes running back towards me, and says “Ohhhhhhhhh…… ickyyyyyyy…..” and stops dead on the steps to the deck.

He pulls his hand from behind him.  His giant, bear paw hand, which was now covered in poop.

Begin bawling.

At first I freaked.  I look into the yard and there’s a pile where he was standing that he somehow (miraculously) managed to not step in.  He stood on the second step, bawling, holding his hand out to me, and then I hear an unmistakable sound as more poop hits the step.

Mom-mode commenced, and I immediately deposited my not-so-happy daughter on my living room floor and grabbed hand sanitizer and baby wipes.  Poor Ollie just continued to cry.  I don’t think he realized at all that he had to poo when he told me he had to pee (he’s pretty good about letting me know poop is imminent), and I think it freaked him out.  I wiped him up, telling him it was okay. 

Then my husband came across the yard, surely because he was convinced I was probably punishing our son for some crazy thing he did.  He stops dead, stares at the steps, and says “Ummmmm….. there’s poop on the stairs.”

That’s when I lost it.  I started laughing so hard, I’m sure our neighbors heard.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  There was a trail of poop, left by my two year old all the way up our stairs, in our yard, and all over his hand.  He felt horrible, was crying, and here I am, craptastic mom that I am, laughing my butt off. 

I cleaned him up, wiped the poop off the stairs with baby wipes, and took him inside and put him on the toilet.  He doesn’t seem too tramatized, thank goodness.  I hope he knows mom still loves him, even if I was laughing at him, not with him.

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