The shit has hit the fan…thankfully not literally

Lately, Alice has begun to recognize when she needs to go #2. Initially, this made me pretty happy and proud (oh, how life has changed upon having a child). I thought it wonderful that she was learning her bodily signals and making those tentative first steps toward potty training. After all, when I consider what the cost of diapering two children would be, having one potty proficient would probably be a “good thing” to quote Martha Stewart. Who knew that this new recognition would prove to be so traumatic for the little one (and me)?

Take for instance last night at the diner. Alice, normally the Cookie Monster of French fries, spent the entire dinner crying because “I made a poopie.” I am not talking about whimpering here. I mean full- fledged shrieking complete with tears running down her face. My assurances of a change did nothing to assuage her upset. Since my dinner ruined by poopie, tears, and trauma, I decided to take her to the car while John settled the bill and packed up the food. No sense being the hated family in the diner. Upon changing her diaper, John discovered only two little poop pebbles. Still the crying continued. You would have thought she passed/was passing shards of glass. I shoveled the rest of my dinner into my gullet while Alice hung onto me screaming about “Poopie!” I figured that perhaps she was constipated—not something that happens often to my fruitaholic daughter. She did not even want fun bath time with Daddy. Apparently, if you are going to scream and be upset in the tub then only Mommy will do (gee, thanks honey).

Soaking in the warm water did nothing to improve her mood and just frazzled mine more. By the time books were read, child was rocked and put into her crib I was done. I went downstairs and said to John, “Go to Carvel. I need a hot fudge, vanilla soft serve sundae.” This is my pregnant glass of wine. While we were eating our ice cream, the monitor picked up some groaning about (you guessed it) POOPIE! Thankfully, she fell back asleep no doubt dreaming of little turds running amuck in some field, jumping over a fence and into a potty.

The next day there was no upset about bowel movements at all—even after she made some. Toddlers…too bad they don’t come with instructions.