Let the Games Begin!

I came in from feeding cows last weekend and, as casually as a UC Davis campus cop pepper-spraying a crowd, Regina informed me: "It's begun."

I knew exactly what she meant.  It really could only mean one thing:  Potty Training.  The thing about starting is that there's no turning back.  It's a big commitment.  Your brain pushes out all thoughts except for pee and poo and you turn into a parenting parrot, chirping, "Want to go pee-pee?"  "Polly want a poo-poo?"  It's not that we are in love with changing diapers, but to be honest, we're used to them.  I don't gag anymore and sometimes changing a diaper can be cathartic.  Plus, it's a hell of a lot cleaner than teaching a boy to crap on a toilet.

So now Grady's trucking around in his sister's old pink pull-ups and wondering why we incessantly ask if he has to go poopy.  We started off with a grand-slam.  Day 1, 1st Toilet Sitting -- Grady pooped!  I acted excited and even gave him a few M&M's ("A Candy For A Dandy"), but I'd been burned too many times by Dylan when she was potty-training to really celebrate.  Sure enough, Day 1, 2nd Toilet Sitting -- Grady peed on the floor before I could get him seated, splashed around his piss puddle with his hands, sat on the toilet and did nothing, then, when I took him off, peed more on his clothes.  Sigh.

Potty-Training is Exhausting! 

Regina and I are learning that potty-training in cold weather is no picnic.  First, there's no peeing outside, which is what all country kids do.  Dylan had a pee (and sometimes poo) tree designated for said purpose.  You can spot it, it's the one with the vibrant green leaves and dead grass around its base.  We could send Grady out in the rain and tell him to use the pee-tree, but the gale-force winds would probably topple him.  Inside, when Grady stands tall, his weinus is still 6" lower than the rim of the toilet, so everything has to be done seated.  And when little boys are seated, their little junk doesn't "dangle" down.  When I sit in front of the little man and encourage him to push like we're in lamaze class, I feel like I'm staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.  If that thing goes off, I'll take a direct pee shot to the chest.

I made the mistake today of catching Grady mid-poo, taking off his pull-up, and putting him on the toilet.  No, no, no.  Bad idea.  His legs, butt, the toilet seat, and a 3' radius around the toilet were smeared in his doody.  All I could yell was, "Help!" as Regina ran in with a pack of wipes and a hazmat suit.

There's no turning back and we look forward to the day of skid-marked chonies rather than poop-filled diapers.  With a little patience, and a whole lot of 409, we'll make it through this alive.