The pee is in the pot.
That's right. We are potty-trained. And I say "we" in all seriousness. I have accomplished much.
Before, this is what he thought big boy briefs were for. Please ignore the construction cords and dust in the background. Please, for me. It can be your belated Christmas gift to me. Ignorance, blindness.
Below is a conversation in my home last evening.
Max is no longer in purple. His favorite color is now red. Which is my color. What we give up for our children. Thus, I shall be green, He's Too Good To Me is blue, and Max is in red.
"Tange me, I poo-pooed."
"No."
Funny look on Max.
"Tange me, I poo-pooed."
"No. You should not have poo-pooed in your pull-up. You should have used the potty like a big boy. I'm not going to ever change you again. You will have to wear your poop in your pants."
Funny look on Max. Serious thinking. To his daddy he says . . .
"Tange me, I poo-pooed."
"No."
"No, son. I'll only change you if you put big boy briefs on and never tee-tee or poo-poo in your pants again."
Max smiles, takes off running, yelling . . .
"I go ge' big boy biefs. I big boy now."
His daddy changed him, put Thomas the Train briefs on him, took him to the potty, and . . .
Viola!
Twenty-four hours later. No accidents. No wet or dirty pull-ups. I feel richer already. I feel vindicated. I feel . . .
ok, maybe a little irritated. I should have threatened to make him walk around with dried poop on his buns six months ago.
Who knew?
Little stinker.
