I do actually have a good excuse. Usually excuses are just smoke and mirrors, right? The dog ate my homework. There was traffic on 501. I’m too sick (*cough, cough*) to make it into the office today. I missed my train. My alarm didn’t go off.
But, not this time. Call 911 and tell those trucks to turn around because there ain’t no smoke here. Not today. I’m playing the Lyme card this time. I’m holding it high and claiming legit e-x-c-u. . . . . . . I can’t even speak the word, because the word excuse, by its very nature, is a fabrication, or a poorly constructed exaggeration of the truth.
Mental picture time:
Lyme diseased, bed ridden me, running with Finley to the potty chair, one hand frantically grasping for her hand, the other awkwardly driving the walker, which, let’s face it, at this point, is more hindrance than help. Careening wildly through the house. Pulling her pants down, whilst at the same time attempting not to run over a toe. Holding her nightgown up with my teeth, as I struggle to wrangle this squirmy little bugger, which by this time has peed all over both of us, onto a potty chair. Watching as I do, the bowl to our sad little potty chair spinning in circles as it rolls out of the now toppled chair, splattering what little pee that actually made it into said bowl, across the floor, Not a scenario that works for me. You?
So it was left up to him.
As I mentioned, we did have a sad little potty seat, the cheapest one from Walmart. Does that thing instill any confidence? Does it in anyway invite you? “Come, rest your weary buns, pee in me.” I guess in this case, money does matter. My sister Mindy invested in the “singing” potty chair, a miniaturized version of the real thing - and then some. It’s bright colors and sparkly silver handle just draw you in, and say to you, “hello, come to me with those tiny buns, relax and let the pee come forth.” And to top it all off, a little sensor in the middle that actually sings when potty hits it. Of course she wants to use it - I want to use it.
Now the pièce de résistance, as all you mothers out there are acutely aware of, is the pooping. She had never had a potty accident. I think she is too much of a perfectionist like her mother to ever let that happen. But the poop still eluded us.
I haven’t blogged about poop in quite some time, so I thought it a perfect time to bring it back. Besides, since I have gotten all my pooping issues under control, at least for this round of antibiotics, my choices are very slim. Charles’ pooping issues or those of one of my girls. I am beyond sure that you prefer the latter to the former. Or I guess I could tell you about my cats’. Now they have issues! *Sigh*, once again Trix are for kids - sorry about the rabbit trail. Hmmm, I just realized that an actual rabbit trail is made of poop. *Chuckle*
Back to the poop. The poop was not happening. Singing potty or no singing potty chair, it’s disco ball effect was all but lost on her when it came to the poop. She would squeeze those buns shut with a resounding slam and sit on the floor until the urge passed. No poop was getting past those clad-iron gates. And this is how we continued for several days. She would sneak a poop in every once in awhile. When we put her diaper on for the night, and before we could get her into bed, she would do her business.
So in the end, it all came down to me. It did. All she needed was a little motivation in the form of a purple band-aid covered in multi-colored hearts and stars. (My idea - by the way.) Her boo-boo needed covered with a certain special band-aid and we wanted poop. Perfect collision of needs, and voila! Stinky success!