Poopageddon

We've had a bit of pooping regression in these parts, lately.

Since we started potty training, The Bud has never been truly on board with a daily toilet constitutional. Peeing is no problem, but since we took his precious diapers away, he's preferred a more stealthy approach to #2. It's not uncommon to find him ready to skulk behind a cabinet, or secreted behind a closed door to do his business, according to his preference. Which is in his pants.

And that's if we're able to anticipate him at all. More likely, he comes out of hiding after the dirty deed is already done to inform one of us that he needs his bottom cleaned.

Dread of having to rinse out dirty underwear every day has turned The Artist and me into a two-man, crack pooping face detection team. We've become adept at reading his social cues, facial expressions, and even the tone of the silence in the house, either of us ready to jump at a moment's notice to get him to the pot on time. I'd say we're working with about a 90% success rate. It's not a perfect system, but I call it progress. We've been tripping along, hoping for that magic day other parents in the trenches talk about: the day when their unwilling charges decide that pooping in the potty is all of a sudden ok, and start doing it. Without a fight. No muss, no fuss.

Sadly, The Bud's not there, yet. Maybe nowhere near. He's changed it up a bit, though. NOW, he holds it for as long as he can--up to 5 days (yes, I count)--then gives in to the pot when the pressure becomes too great. He's driving us nuts. Five days is waaay too long to go without...well, without. So, of course, when he finally goes, it's so gigantic that, let me just say, there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And stopping up of toilets, and fruitless plunging, and swearing daddies.

It's ugly ya'll.

Last night was bath night and The Artist was in charge. After a few minutes of splashing, I heard a desperate cry for help from the bathroom. I ran in to find that The Bud had skittered out of the tub to stand, naked and wet, next to his father. They were both staring in horror into the tub of water. I looked in the bathtub to find about a thousand makeshift tub toys floating in brown water. Yep. There was doody in the tub.

Apparently, The Artist hadn't checked for dingleberries, of which there were many, before depositing the kid in the water. How many, you ask? Let's call it a prohibitive number.*shrug* Could've happened to anybody, right? I have no idea. All I know is, I feel like we're stuck in a neverending loop of a sitcom episode called, 'You Can Lead a Toddler to the Pot, But You Can't Make Him Go.'

It didn't take long to realize that if the tub (and the boy) was going to get cleaned any time before 5 o'clock the next morning, Mama was going to have to step in. I put aside my disgust and innate germaphobia and did everything except set a blowtorch to the porcelain, the bath toys, (and the boy), and eventually it all did end, in a blur of scrub brushes and non-chlorine bleach. I've blocked out the details.

Blech.

A moment I do remember, though, was after I saw what I was up against, I left the bathroom, headed for the basement and the big gun cleaning supplies. The Artist, fearful that I'd left him alone to deal with the filth, called out to see where I was. My instinct was to call back to him, "I am running away to a place where nobody can find me and nobody poops in tubs!"

I didn't say that, of course. I was too worried that I actually meant it.