More Tales of Pottytraining Efforts.

So How Do You Top Fried Pubes and Brafondling?
Ya can't. Ya just can't.

I appreciate the good folks who offered other possible explanations for the hair in my fries, such as arm hair, chest hair, beard hair, eyebrow hair, ear hair, and hair from other continents (which kinda snarked me the wrong way a little, as I'd never even mentioned the color of the hair because I didn't even wanna go there, but if you're interested, it was very light brown/blonde), and I understand that my story boggles the imagination, and perhaps you don't want to believe it, but BELIEVE IT, y'all. It was a pube, root still attached. If you'd seen it, I promise you, you'd agree.

I thought about asking R to submit samples of his arm hair, chest hair and pubic hair for the purpose of illustrating my point in a photograph. Understandably, he was uncomfortable with that, but I did perform a thorough, scientific comparison of his arm hair (too soft and too light), chest hair (too long), his eyebrow hair (too straight) and his pubes, and let's just say that I still stand firm behind my initial allegation.

So how did today go? Let me set it up a little.

Monday, I called and left a message with the boys' school informing them that we'd need to find out about options for the Non-Potty Trained. Yesterday, they called me to, very politely, let me know that there IS no option for the Non-Potty Trained at his age.

So I told little Tito that if he doesn't go potty potty, he can't go to school with Pie and his other friends. And what did he say?

"I no wanna go school. I stay home wiff you, Mommy.
YOU my friend."

Heart melting. Tears welling.

So I tell R this story and he says that I'm not helping because I want to keep T a baby forever - totally not true, hello, ya think I love changing dipes all day? So R proposes that on his day off (today) we put the boy in panties and just let him figure out that wet pants really suck and that going to the potty prevents wet pants. Yeah, cuz 3 1/2-year-olds are big on LOGIC.

I agree that something needs to be done. We've done all we can think of to help him. So I'm on board. We won't go anywhere, won't do anything but sit around and wait for T to go potty and have a big freakin party when he does. Hell, I'll take him to Chuck E. Cheese, a movie, the candy store, Donut Palace, I'd buy him a pony for cryin out loud - anything he wants if just once he'd pee on the damn potty.

The day started off all right, T sat on the potty for a good thirty minutes, and not one drop came out into the toilet. Clearly he's got some element of bladder control. In all the cumulative time he's sat on the potty, you'd think that he'd eventually have peed in it by accident, but he's never let one stray drop land where it belongs.

So after he sat there for what seemed a sufficient amount of time, R let him get up and we put panties on him with a Pull-Up over it. Moments later, he comes in to tell us he's wet. Too bad, says R. Maybe if you feel what wet pants feel like, you'll remember to pee in the potty instead of your pants.

T walks away like, whatever, and after a few minutes returns to the room. He is preceded by the undeniable stench of poo. Again, R insists that he sit in it for a while.

And R goes back to playing the XboxGame he was playing last night until 3am. The Xbox is in our bedroom. Not sure if I've ever mentioned that before.

Bottom (pun?) line is that by noon we were on pair #4. R played Xbox all day. Oh, and he did leave to go get the oil changed in the car. But I was the one with poop under my fingernails after cleaning up the all of the dirty panties. Great plan, eh? Yeah. Great for YOU.

It's raining, and I'm stuck in the house, bored shitless.

Ha, shitless. Don't I wish.

I offered to take Pie to his aquatherapy session. Usually R takes him, but I was really dying to get out of the house. R said fine. I was secretly wishing that I'd fed Tito a big vat of chili before I left, but obviously it was too late for that, so instead I just hoped for a bit of vengance in the form of poopy pants. Or maybe vomit.

It would serve R right if he had to actually put down the Xbox controller and hose the boy off the moment after I left. I had even thought of some extra errands to run while I was out, just to better my chances of bodily-function-related drama. Oh, how I relish poetic justice!

About ten minutes after P and I arrived at the pool, my cell phone rang.

Tito POOPED.

ON

THE

POTTY.

Remind me not to question R's methods.

So here's what our bathroom looks like now, for our Potty Party:

Courtesy of The Beeb.

But he still hasn't peed on the potty. Weird, huh?

Oh, and P.S. - I have to say that, whatever Brafondling Ray did to it, my bra feels great today. Maybe Ray's like "The Bra Whisperer". Ya think?

Yes, I washed it!