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Potty Training Archives | safariRoo jQuery(document).ready(function($){$('#aside .widget-archive > ul').addClass('fancy');});

And Then, This Happened.

And it isn’t about the time pictured here, when this little guy made himself over.  It’s WAY better than that.

Let me paint a little picture for you.  The little guy (almost 2.5) has recently been shotgun potty trained, which basically means we stopped putting diapers on him (we ran out of our Seventh Generation stash and I carry the guilt of not cloth diapering – so buying bleached cotton diapers here in China is just too much for me to handle).  Sure, there are drops (and the occasional stream) of pee here and there, but all in all, it’s been wildly successful.  As it turns out, however, all good things have their limitations.

Here’s the scene.  We’re enjoying a glass of bubbly and watching the sunset for the mister’s birthday, in the lounge at the Hyatt Kota Kinabalu.  You know the kind of place: quiet, mostly business travelers, no other children, attentive staff.  Tranquil and quiet, that is, until a  little ratbag (who just so happens to be of my blood) announces “poo!” (which actually sounds more like “pee”, just to get the story straight).  To which I’m all, there is NO way what he means is that poo has actually exited his body.  After a quick look, it’s determined that yay!, YES it has, but looks to be contained.  So I snatch the filthy monster up (Dad calls birthday immunity), quickly head for the bathroom (which requires walking through half of the lounge) but before I make it, I feel a warm gushy splash on my leg.  In absolute disbelief, I look down to see a runny mess (say, the consistency of half melted ice cream, chocolate ice cream) deposited ever so kindly onto my dress/leg.  We scurry into the bathroom to discover complete wreckage in the little man’s britches.  COMPLETE WRECKAGE.  So, here I am, trying ever-so-frantically to contain the disaster that is now covering legs, feet, ground, and toilet, when I hear a knock at the bathroom door.  When I open it, there stands the birthday mister, frantic himself.  He NEEDS wipes or paper towels or toilet paper STAT.  And here I thought I had it bad.  He proceeds to swoop in like a ninja and stealthily pick up piles of POO that apparently DIDN’T just fall onto my leg.  OMG.  I can’t stand acronyms, but OMG.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  Fifteen minutes later, we had a good laugh and while I’d like to say that we ALL learned our lesson, well, I’d be lying (but we don’t need to go into the details).

Be warned potty training mamas and daddy’s out there, be warned.  Like most everything else in parenting, just when you think you have it figured out and things are under control… your kid poops on you and the universe says, SIKE.