The circumstantial evidence was powerful

We’ve been trying Timmy with the potty again. Tried for a while earlier, decided it wasn’t taking … well, in honesty, I got tired of wiping up puddles. Puddles because, for all his eager willingness, it wasn’t taking.

And now, it’s time, I think. Because, goodness, has it been SIX MONTHS already? My, how time flies.

I know he’s ready, because if he’s bare from bellybutton down, he stays dry. 100%. Okay, with no clothes there he can’t very well get wet, so Timmy stays dry, and even better, my hardwood stays dry! No puddles. No idea about the solids yet; he tends to have those at home. But as far as the puddles? The boy knows what’s going on.

As long as he is bare. Which is a problem.

It is a problem in public, obviously. I won’t be taking him to the park, on the bus, to a museum, with his little butt butt-naked.

It’s a problem at home, though, too, because Timmy will NOT leave the boys alone. Yes, he’s two. All two-year-old boys play with themselves when it’s available. I’ve seen enough two-year-old boys to have full awareness of the joy they take in that thing.

But no one loves it like Timmy loves it. As long as there’s no diaper, his entire day is one long love-fest. It’s rolled and stretched and folded and twisted (doesn’t that hurt??) All.Day.Long.

There is no distracting him. It’s disconcerting, it’s distracting, and, given that the only time he lets go of the damned thing is to touch another child’s face or play with (communal) toys, it borders on downright disgusting.

I am tempted to bark at him, as an aunt once did to a now-grown cousin, “If you don’t stop playing with that thing, it’ll Fall.Right.OFF!”

Oh, I am tempted. But I won’t. Even though, last I heard, the cousin was perfect normal. Entirely unscarred … except, perhaps, by repeated retellings of that oh-so-funny family tale.

So what I tried today was to take the diaper off, and leave him in his shorts. In his shorts with solemn warning. “You have nothing on under there. If you pee, you will be VERY wet. You need to pee in the potty, just like you did yesterday.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Yeah. Well, we’ll see.

“And Timmy? Stay off the couch. Today, you will play on the floor. No couch, okay?”

“Okay.”

And in fact, he does just fine! One pee, two pees. The boy seems to be getting it. Three pees. Yes!

And then, “Mary, I’m all wet.”

And he is. He’s soaked. How could a small boy possibly produce so much pee? A wide stripe down the front, a puddle on the floor — and wet footprints all over the living room floor. Ugh. And a wet spot on the COUCH. Double ugh. With some exasperation I instruct the boy to remove the wet shorts and go sit on the potty.

Closing the stable door after the horse has gone, I know, but we’re trying to create a connection. Pee = potty; potty = pee. I thought we had made it pretty successfully, all morning, but just LOOK at this floor.

The size of this puddle is astounding. I swab diligently with one handful of paper towels after another. Which causes eco-friendly me, with her neat basket of re-usable cloths (aka rags) under the kitchen sink, some pangs of conscience, but this is a LOT of pee. A LOT. It’s not just this one puddle, either, enormous as it is … good heavens, there’s another!

The sound of copious peeing — in the potty — reaches my ears even as I reach for another paper towel and wipe up another puddle.

Waaaiiiit a minute.

Soaking pants. Wet footprints all over the living room. Enormous puddle in living room, a second, smaller one beside it … I scan the house… ANOTHER one in the hall…

And the boy is peeing in the potty?

I take a careful sniff of the saturated towels in my hand. Nothing.

The trail of droplets leads me to the dining room, where my husband’s water bottle lies on its side on the floor. My husband’s 500 mL bottle. His empty bottle.

Who knew two cups of water could go so very far?

And Timmy? Guess I owe the boy an apology …