I've decided after a week and a half of pure, unabated, maddening torture that potty training is probably the 36th ring of hell, falling right in between contracting the swine flu and having major dental work done. Actually I must say, George is doing quite well with the peeing. He lets me know when he has to go, and we usually make it to the loo in time. That makes me happy, very happy. He is being bribed with m&m's. I'm pretty sure the kid would jump off a cliff or clean my entire house for 3 colorful candy bits. I'm down with m&m's, but I'd need a much bigger prize - like 3 bags of m&m's, or probably a facial and a new outfit, for a feat such as using the toilet appropriately. But, I'm happy he doesn't need a big motivation, and I'm not going to question it. I was quite proud that he picked up peeing so easily. I was giddy even - until the Poopapalooza came to town.
The boy will not poop on the toilet. It's pushing me over the edge. I'm not even kidding. I don't know how to fix this. I have tried bribery on a very large scale - a toy, any toy in the whole world, a trip to Chuck E. Cheese ( I know - that's desperation), a super special home-made marshmallow ice cream chocolate mountain. Nothing has worked. In fact, when I even bring up the prospect of sitting on the toilet and trying to poop - even when I catch him in the act, it sends him into a tailspin of fury. He tries to take me down. It's verbal assault. He goes off in such a tangent of rage and fury, for so long, that I can feel my nerves start to unravel. It turns me into a dishrag. I look for hiding places big enough to envelope me in peace and quiet. Just this morning I caught him trying to drop some kids off in the safety net of his underwear. I promptly and excitedly asked him to come to the bathroom. I got him there okay, but once he discovered, once it hit him like a sledgehammer on the pinky, he flailed and screamed. He went off in a diatribe about how he needed to get to school, because his friends miss him. Hmmmmm..... it's getting worse I thought to myself, as he has never stepped foot into a classroom. He hasn't attended school for one second of his life. The stress of pooping on the toilet has caused the boy to dive off the deep end, and he's got me by the neck. As a side note, I miss my friends, too. Their names are Silence and Sanity.
His big boy underwear have been the receptacle of choice for his pooping escapades. Which is a mess, but manageable. Everyone tells me to let him roam around naked, and he will be potty trained in a few days. I tried it. I thought we had success when he yelled from his bathroom in quite a joyous voice that he pooped. I was ecstatic until I arrived in his bathroom only to find a monster turd on the floor. I have found many a turd right beside of the toilet since then. Lately, however he has been foraging in secret for a peaceful private pooping locale. I have stumbled across turds in the hallway, every bedroom in the house, and in the kitchen. Being the germaphobe that I am, I have to scour these areas. I have a system now. It starts with a sigh, a shaking of the noggin, and a retrieval of antibacterial supplies. During the cleaning process, George proudly stands over his work of art and smiles, as I lecture about the importance of notifying me of his urgent poop needs and the location where the act should take place.
My favorite discovery so far is the "poop perch". I say "perch", because, apparently George climbed up into his windowsill and pooped. Poop was smeared all over the windowsill and window. The sight surpassed my wildest nightmares about the possibilities in this life. I'm sure the neighbors enjoyed the show. I cannot imagine what that looked like from the outside. As soon as I spied it I yelled for my husband. I didn't want to have a break down. I was not going to clean that one up. We had already gone through 5 pairs of pants and underwear during the day. My already too frazzled self just couldn't handle it. I was at my limit. Normally I would clean a mess like that myself for fear that my husband wouldn't irradicate every single microscopic mutant killer poop bug, because he isn't aware enough of all the horrific diseases one can contract from germs. I didn't care. I gave up. I waved my white flag.
I probably could handle George's potty training mishaps, but throw in a crawling baby who puts everything in her mouth, and an obese, embarrassingly lazy, and weasily dachshund who is hopelessly poop crazed, and I'm really at my limit. My fear is that baby Evie will find a stray turd and take to tasting. I'm less worried, but still concerned that Bruiser the poop eating dog will find a delicious tidbit layed by George. Either scenario may cause me to free fall into craziness after a vomiting fit. My husband would surely come home to find me rocking myself and humming under the table.
Bruiser has been adding to the madness lately with his own shenanigans. He dove into Evie's room with the speed and velocity of a torpedo spraying turds like a machine gun in the middle of a battle. One second we were playing with fluffy bunny and the next second we were being unexpectedly pelted by dog turds. I've never seen anything like it, and lucky for us it hasn't happened since. Bruiser didn't want to drag his swollen belly through the snow to relieve himself, so instead he assaulted us with his excrement. The next day he feasted on some animal waste of an unknown origin outside. If that isn't enough to make someone gag, choke, and faint, his next show was a sell out performance. Brace yourself now, for the most vile and unimaginable tale ever. If you're in any way inclined to gagging easily, please skip this part, because I am scarred for life after what I saw and almost stepped in. He came inside after his all you can eat buffet and upchucked on the carpet. I thought there were toys on the ground when I was loafing my weary self through the hallway that evening. I bent down to pick up the "toys" and the odor nearly knocked me over. I have appropriately named the creation "Poop Vomit", and if I ever have to see and/or clean up such a mess again I am going to officially be pushed over the edge. You can send the crazy wagon on over to my house to pick me up. Consider this my consent. As if you'll need it at that point.
I'm hoping that the Poopapalooza packs up and leaves town soon. I've had more excitement than I can take. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever have imagined such a festival! If you see the banners and billboards for the Poopapalooza, and it's headed to your town next - leave. Pack up your belongings, lock your windows and doors, and leave town. And if anyone has good advice for my situation with George, I'm all ears.