Three Strikes

Lil’ Superman came for a visit. You think I exaggerate when I reference him as a superhero but he has an outfit that clearly says otherwise (I mean he even has a cape to match!).

My boys adore when their cousin visits and there are ebbs and flows of peace and frenzy. Someone usually ends up being hurt whether it be their pride or some type of physical complaint (i.e.- he shoved me, he hit me, he pushed me – you get the idea).

In mid-play Lil’ Superman abruptly stops and shimmies quickly behind the couch. I suspect he is pooping and that he, like T.Puzzle, prefers privacy when doing the deed. I ask him if he needs to use the bathroom. The odor coming from him gives me my answer even before I cross the room. No big deal, I’ll change him and then get T.Puzzle in a clean pull-up, too.

What is it about clean drawers that make a kid poop? Is there some sort of secret, magnetic lining in a fresh pull-up that draws the poop out? Should they instead be called pull-outs? In less than five minutes after the new pull-up is on him, T.Puzzle aromatically fills it and I’m off changing diaper number two (bad pun intended).

After the cleaning of the hineys, I am about to round-up the little men to head to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Before we head out I ask Full Speed to go potty for me. I figure at least one, fully potty-trained boy in the bunch is nothing to sneeze at. I counted my blessings (see, I do that too).

He gets indignant for some strange reason. “I don’t have to go. I already went at school.” He’s acting like I am criminally insane for suggesting that he use the bathroom.

I say, “I’m sure at some point during your day you did in fact use the facilities at school, however, I would like you to ‘try’ to go before we all get in the car.”

“No, I don’t have to,” he replies curtly.

I had to resort to the counting. “One! Two!…..,” I start. Before I come anywhere near three he darts to the bathroom in a huffy little puff. He’s afraid when Mommy hits three. Everyone is (just ask Mad Dog).

Then after a couple minutes I hear, “MOOOOOOOM! I’m done pooping (hence he needs help with the cleaning of the behind)!”

I walk in the bathroom completely baffled. I look at him and say, “Are you the same kid who just announced to me that he did not need to go potty while he actually needed to and badly at that?”

He gets kind of sheepish. “Yeah,” he admits. A slow smile begins to curl the corners of his mouth. We both look at each other and burst into laughter.

One, two, three poops I’m out.