Tuesday, March 22, 2011

G Wow Forced to Clean Own Bum

Not that I am keeping track or calculating the cost of pull-ups used daily, but we are entering month #3 of potty training G. I’ve heard parents say what a nightmare it is to get their kids to poo in the appropriate spot, but it’s kind of like labor—you don’t realize what that REALLY means until you are there. 

What it REALLY means is that I have been spending an insane amount of money on pants that get cold and hold a much smaller amount than a diaper, supposedly to create an uncomfortable feeling and encourage the kid to use the toilet instead of themselves. Here is where the post-potty training parent delusionally reports to me that they did not use pull-ups, it’s just not effective, and I should put him in regular underwear. Riiiiiight.
It sounds wayyyy more practical to have them pee themselves, their clothes, the floor and furniture so I can wash all of them. Then have them go to the potty training toilet, go there; then I can wash that too and everything trickled on between point A and point B. 

I’ve tried just about every bribe there is. Yesterday there was the incentive of “Cars” macaroni and cheese if he didn’t wet his pull-up all day. It wasn’t like I was going to withhold food, I would just give him something entirely lacking in preservatives and artificial food coloring…like chicken and broccoli. The fear of having to eat something that did not originate in a vibrantly colored box instilled enough fear in him to have 100% success.
I will give him "Cars" mac n cheese every day if that is what it will take. But oh-no. This morning the familiar scent of stink filled the living room. In denial even though I can identify the stink maker as if I am part blood hound, I smell butt of Thing #3, nope; Smell butt of Thing #2; Nope. For the love of coffee you have got to be kidding me!

Now the real fun begins. I kindly inform Greyson he will need to change his own poopy pants from now on because I am simply done with all that. All is fine and dandy until I advise him that he will also need to wipe himself.

Niagra, you ain’t got nothing on this waterfall of tears that is taking place inside my bathroom. I’m pretty sure there isn’t this much drama on Jersey Shore!

Which makes me think that maybe I should approach the Snookster’s mom to for some advice. Maybe she’ll toss in a bump it for me too.  

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