As with most things in parenting, potty training did not begin on schedule or as I expected. Yesterday after his nap, Tommy awoke and wet his diaper. He wanted to take it off immediately, and put on his new Spiderman underwear. I took this as a good sign.
We spent the rest of the evening throwing a Potty Party every time Tommy went on his potty; you will never know just how cute your husband can be until he puts all his enthusiasm into a Potty ChaCha.
Then, today. I knew the Potty Boot Camp would be difficult, and my assumption to that end was correct. So far, we've gone through at least a half dozen pair of underoos and sweatpants. We've had poop and pee incidents on carpet, wood, and beds. We've put stickers on charts and counted out reward M&Ms. Tommy has yet to announce on his own when the pee is coming, but a beeper on the kitchen microwave sounds out a Potty Time alert every 30 minutes.
Perhaps the most frustrating part of this is how hard it is to quickly get Tommy to the bathroom, and yet keep Lucy out. Lucy enthusiastically trots behind us, ready to sneak her hand into the potty or onto the plunger...whatever the grossest available accessory. This afternoon, we took our only venture into the outer world to get the mail, and returned just in time for a potty attempt. Tommy stood waiting for my help next to the toilet, and in just the moment it took me to sweep Lucy out of the way, urine soaked him from the waist down. "I pooooooooooped again," he cried, confused.
I started up the washing machine and cursed John for not having his cell phone turned on, again.
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