Blankety-Blank Baby Wipes!

Little Man (i.e. the midget triplet) is slamming back the seat of the guest potty hollering, “I go pee-pee!  I go pee-pee!”  I’m so excited that he has finally taken the initiative to get his tiny hiney to the toilet when the need hit that my heart is bursting with pride like he just won the 2nd grade spelling-bee. (which he will; just give him time.)  I run to his aid as fast as I can to help him drop trousers before his will power wavers and he tanks yet another high dollar pull-up.  I grab the sides of his 2T camo pants and jerk them to his ankles while he does a cute little antsy jig.  Next I grab the pull-up and, lost in the momentous excitement, I slam it to his ankles against my better judgement.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear…but a pull-up full of poop now down his legs smeared!

Grabbing him by his ankles, bound together by his dropped pants, and balancing his torso in the other hand, I haul him to the changing table like some sort of fresh slab at a meat market.  The same changing table that I am hoping will become a toy shelf or shoe storage instead of a butt cleaning station before he starts high school!

(for more on this subject click on the naked tush)

“I go pee-pee!”  He still yells completely baffled as to why I didn’t let him finish the deed and am now grumbling like a troll and shooting flames out of my nostrils. 

“You pooped!  It’s everywhere!  YUCK!  You’re nasty!  Poop goes in the potty!  Why didn’t you tell mommy!?,” I scold creating new wrinkles between my blazing eyes. 

For those of you appalled by my belittling tactics I say, you’re full of crap (and your kid’s pants probably still are too.)  I get the whole positive reinforcement thing. I’ve got stashes of M&Ms, Hershey kisses, $100 bills, and shots of patron!  But when he’s not in the mood for a chocolate surprise it doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to be up to my elbows in piles of poop that rival his daddy’s.  Threats of wrath and retaliation worked for the twins in those final stages of potty training, where sheer laziness was keeping them out of “big boy underwear”  for good.  And it will work for Captain Poopy Pants too!  I don’t want to give the wrong impression that I actually like playing in poo and that pottying is just an extracurricular activity.

So, like a tuna fresh off the boat, and smelling similar, I hurl him onto the table careful to keep his legs and his nether regions from touching the lovely, just washed, terry cloth cover.  This I achieve by pulling his legs up over his head by his ankled pants.  The toes of his Nike’s now resting on his forehead.  (thank God he’s still made out of rubber.)

With one hand gripping the pants to hold him in position while that elbow pins down his arms to keep his hands from slithering through the brown ooze on his legs, I reach for the box of wipes.  You know those plastic boxes with the pop tops that allow you to pull one wipe at a time through a slit with ease requiring only one hand?  Well, they only work when you aren’t balancing a poop covered 30lb flailing kid with one arm. 

I grab the edge of a wipe peeking up through the barbed slit and yank.  A 2 inch strip tears off .  I groan.  My second attempt leaves me with a sliver the size of a stick of gum.  The next pull brings a lovely marquise diamond bit.  By now his hands have wriggled free and he is grappling for the wretched box, “I nee wipe.  I clean hiny-bo!”  Of course he can’t reach that far and has now palm slapped a turd clinging to his chubby thigh.

I rip the lid off the box of wipes and attempt to separate a wipe from the stack.  A 4 ft rope of wipes arcs upwards toward the ceiling with the jerk of my arm.  Now I’m screaming and weaving a rope of obscenities that he’ll be sure to repeat at his Mother’s Day Out class at church tomorrow. 

Just as I’m about to retreat to the corner of the room twitching and completing my dive into insanity, Little Man’s soiled hand comes to the rescue.  He grabs the first of the wipe rope separating it from the bunch.  “Good!  Now wash your hands.  That’s it!  Now grab another wipe for Mommy. OK, hand it to Mommy! Good. WAIT!  NO NO!  Don’t wash your hair! Not your face! Yes, there you go just your hands.”

We finally subdued the foul evil within his pants and little man actually held the “pee-pee” through the whole fiasco and made it to the potty after all.  (and then the tub)  And yes, I gave him his treat for peeing in the potty.  But the moral of the story is…

Always……no wait…Never…no, that’s not it…..