Because I'll do anything to win a tube of hand lotion, here is a post for the Gotta Go Giveaway.  My hands are dry, so let's hope I win!

Don't Mess In Your Kit

At a restaurant my sweet little boy sidles-up to me and coyly tells me about the poo-poo in his pants that anxiously needs my immediate attention.  Uh, the sixth accident in a month – what’s going on?  He’s not sick; no big changes; no seemingly stressful situations; he’s almost four and has been potty trained for two years!  For some reason, my lovely child has taken to crapping in his pants and appears to be completely pleased to lazily squeeze out a poop in his pants and then cheerily refer the clean-up task to me.

My lips purse and my eyes over-exaggerate mock horror coupled with a “what-to-do” look to my friend who sits with me at the table.  My friend gives me the pitying look that cocks her head to the side and pushes her bottom lip into a frown while her eyes roll toward the ceiling and her head knowingly nods. She says, “Well, the natural consequence would be for him to clean-up his mess.”  Empowered with a plan, I trot my son to the ladies room.

Supportively, I inform my son that he will need to clean himself.  Within a moment he crumbles into helplessness that has him pathetically begging me, “Mommy, I can’t do this. You wipe this off. Pu-leeze.” His blue eyes winsomely tantalize me, and I am ready to capitulate and happily assume my role as butt-wiper, but as I look at my sweet little guy, I know that if he does not learn to take responsibility that some day a woman (or man) will loathe him for his weakness and walk out of their happy home to find love with someone who is a complete adult.  Even if this weakness of irresponsibility does not cause his first divorce, it might get him killed if he finds himself in a guerilla warfare situation and does not have the wherewithal to take responsibility and save his life.

The bathroom situation deteriorates as a hunk of feces sticks to his finger and his wailing becomes heightened. A woman comes into the bathroom to find my half-naked son shrieking as if he has been brutally beaten. In fact, I suspect the woman thought I must have been administering some type of corporal punishment because shortly after she left the bathroom the hostess comes in and asks me if everything is alright.  Normally, I would have been frazzled by her accusing tone and would have bitten off her 24-year old head, but I must be getting more confident in my parenting abilities because I chipperly said, “We’re doing just fine. Thank you.” 

Wiping is a new skill, and the little guy is unable to perfect it, but he does his best, throws his underwear in the trash, gets his pants and shoes on, and washes his fouled hands.  He is mightily sobbing and begins asthmatic coughing. I’m getting the limber tail about continuing this lesson. I want to fix his bad situation for him.  It would take such little effort on my part, but I resolve to continue. Giving my son a sturdy hug and wiping his tears, I say, “This is really hard, but you can do it. When we get home you can get into the bathtub and wash yourself.”  The thought of bathing himself is just too much. I can tell he feels abandoned and betrayed by me.

At home the bath does not go well. He gets in the tub and refuses to take the cloth and try to bath himself. Instead, he cops an attitude and decides to defy the bathing instructions.  He floats on his back in the warm water that covers his ears and blocks out the bad situation. After about ten minutes I leave his sight and hide behind the door so that he can’t see me, but I can monitor him. He is furious that I have left the room and deprived him of an audience to witness his defiance. He throws a sopping bath cloth onto the floor and screams for me to come pick it up.  Reading my book, I register no response.  My ace in the hole is that the water will get cold soon. Then he fills a large plastic boat with water and dumps it onto the floor. It is difficult for me to watch the water running out onto the bathroom floor but I dig in. He dumps another boatload of water on the floor and then another.  I can’t let him flood my house; so, I calmly go into the bathroom and unplug the drain. 

The little guy wants to get out of the empty tub, and he steps onto the unwelcoming bathmat that he saturated with water. Adding insult, his towel is drenched with the water he poured directly onto it. I wrap him in the sopping towel and sympathize about how awful it must feel, but I do not give him a dry towel despite his tyrannical screaming for me to get him a dry towel.  Lying on his bed dries him enough for me to get his pajamas on.  I hold him and give him his favorite blanket named Go-Blankey-Go. 

We rock in silence, and I ask him how he feels and what he is thinking, “I don’t know,” he says. I ask him if he is mad, and “Yes,” comes easily.  I ask him if he’s scared. “Yes.”  We talk more about being scared and decide that taking care of oneself is scary (and isn’t it!)  Finally, we strike a deal. I promise him that any time he uses the potty that I will be there to clean him up, and every night I will give him a warm, soapy bath and dry him with a soft, warm towel. However, when he goes to the potty in his pants he will clean himself.  We both seem happy with that deal.  He goes to bed with a sweet smile on his face, and I eat a box of Girl Scout cookies.

Comments

[The Dol]

Right now you are my Mommy Hero. Lately I feel like the wishy-washy, always annoyed, uncertain Mom with the most annoying kid on the planet.

[april]

Thank you so much for being this kind of parent. I sometimes feel that I am the only mom in the world who (hopefully)teaches through what we call "cause and effect". Your mess~~ your job to clean it up.
I think the quietly watching but not rescuing is the hardest part. I have been rewarded though with a teen and pree teen who are AMAZING~In my humble opinion ;)