Potty Training Red: Part Three

Preschool starts next month and Red HAS to be potty trained in order to attend. I have limited fluids, threatened, bribed, screamed, cried a lot…anything and everything I could think of and Red is still not potty trained. “How can you still be writing about potty training Red?” you ask. Ummm…’cause it’s Red. The kid is stubborn as an ox, sharp as a tack, AND he is funny. No one likes a funny kid. (Or a funny parent, for that matter, but we are talking MY problems here. You kids are welcome to start your own blog, just as soon as you figure out the code for the internet.)

Here is an illustrative example for you. When we were trying to teach Red his colors, he always got them wrong. I started to worry that he was color blind or a little dim. I consulted with my friend Google and learned that if Red had some sort of color blindness, there should be a pattern to Red’s incorrect answers. I began to pay careful attention whenever Red identified colors. He was not mixing up red and green. There was no pattern, other than he utterly and spectacularly got the color wrong. Always. I got suspicious.  I asked him about it and he just smiled at me. From then on he correctly identified colors 100% of the time.

Ha-ha! Funny joke. Get your mom to think you don’t know your colors. Good one, Red. I swear, if the peeing his pants doesn’t get him thrown out of preschool, his sense of humor will.

“No, really! He knows his colors. He just thinks it is funny to pretend that he doesn’t.”

“Sure ma’am, I understand. These nice men are just going to help you into this white coat with the funny arms. We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill on the way to the booby hatch.”

When  I reached the end of my rope with this potty training business, it was not even 10am and I already had a load full of pee-soaked clothing marinating in the washing machine. I was tired, I was hormonal, and I was in no mood for Red’s shenanigans.

“Red, you have to—Red! Listen to me! You have—LOOK AT ME! You have to tell me when you have to pee. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now when you have to pee, what are you going to do?”

“Pee in my pants.”

“Red! That is not what mommy said. Mommy said that you need to tell me when you have to pee, so that we can go on the potty. Now, what did I say?”

“What did you say?”

“Listen to me. If you keep peeing in your pants, I am not going to give you anything to drink and you are going to be very thirsty and get dehydrated. You don’t want to dehydrate, do you? No, you don’t, so you are going to tell Mommy when you have to pee. Okay? I want YOU to tell me what I said, so that I know that you know what I am telling you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me what I said. Go ahead. Tell me.”

“What did you say?”

“Red, I swear to God, if you do not repeat back to me what I just said to you, you are going in time out!”

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Repeat back what I just told you.”

“What did you say?”

“THAT. IS. IT. You are going into time out. NOW!” 

He sat in time out for three minutes while I prepared my “Mother of the Year” application. When he was done serving his time, I got down on his level and looked him in the eye. “Red, you are in time out for not listening to Mommy. Tell me that you are sorry and give me a hug.”

“Sorry, Mommy,” Red said as he wrapped his skinny little arms around my neck.

“I love you, baby. Mommy just really needs you to stop peeing in your pants,” I replied as I scooped him up in my arms. “Ugh. Are you wet? DID YOU PEE YOUR PANTS WHILE YOU WERE IN TIME OUT?!”

“Sorry, Mommy.”

“Did you seriously just pee your pants while sitting on the time out stool with the decorative holes punched into it? The stool that you dragged directly above the air conditioning vent? Seriously?!”

“Sorry, Mommy.”

 I let out a scream of frustration as I made my way to the cleaning supplies. As I was walking across the kitchen floor, I slipped and fell.

“What is…?” <sniff, sniff> “Is this urine? Did you pee over here too?!!!”

“Sorry, Mommy,” Red replied.

Then I noticed another smell. “Red, so help me god, if you crapped in your pants—“

Eldest said, “That was me. I farted.”

“Goodness, child, what did you eat?”

“I don’t know, Mommy, but I don’t feel good,” Eldest told me. And he was walking funny. “I think I pooped my pants.” Oh, Eldest, must you overachieve at everything, even passing wind?

Now, reread that last section, starting with “Then I noticed another smell,” and continuing through, “I think I pooped my pants.” Okay, now do that again three more times. You are now caught up. After the fifth overzealous fart, I slapped a pull-up on his butt too.

“Mommy,” Eldest whined. “It’s <tug> not very <tug, tug> comfortable.”

“Too bad! I only have pull-ups in Red’s size. If you would fart on the toilet like I told you to….”

When Husband arrived home, I waded through screaming, crinkly-pants-clad little children and handed him Baby Girl.

 “Congratulations,” I said. “You are officially the only member of this family without something absorbent in their pants.”

“When did the dog start wearing pants?” he asked. Ha-ha. Good one, husband. Apparently, Red gets his sense of humor from his dad.