All about the poo

This is a warning: If you have a weak stomach, are currently eating, or don't like to read about poop, stop reading now.

If you don't fall into any of those categories, game on. I've stories about poop.

I haven't posted for a long time about my Adventures in Potty-Training, because frankly, like many aspects of my life in the last six months (such as drying my hair, working out, and watching TV), it had taken a back seat to all that moving back home has entailed. But with their third birthday in July and a preschool potty-training deadline of Sept. 2 looming like the End of Days over me, I decided about a month ago that enough was enough. On went the underpants, for better or for worse. The first few days were pretty awful, and then a miracle happened. Literally. Over the course of a couple of weeks, Jake pretty much trained himself fully. Praise the Lord.

Ben, on the other hand... oh little Ben. Ben is pretty much pee-trained (never thought I'd use that term). Poop.... let's just say he'd happily walk around for hours with a huge wad of poo in his underwear and not care to tell anyone, letting the smell speak for itself. He doesn't lie about it, he's not really upset about it, and he honestly doesn't give a crap. Again, literally.

Now, if you've ever experienced the difference between changing a poo diaper versus soiled underpants, you know that you'd rather change 10 diapers versus taking on the underpants situation. It's horrid and messy and ridiculous and time-consuming. Every time it happens I try to convince Ben how much easier to be for him to just use the potty. He just smirks. What does he care?

So when I found myself in this situation in the doctor's office last week, I was horrified. Thank God Hilton was there to stay with Jake in the room while I escorted an unconcerned Ben to the bathroom. When I pulled down his pants, I nearly died. It was the poo of all poos. It couldn't have been one of those flip-and-dump poos. No, friends. It was mostly diarrhea, and it was everywhere. Wipe, dump, flush. Wipe, dump, flush. I had to lay the child on the public restroom floor. We even desecrated the inside of the potty bowl, requiring -- what else -- cleaning. After scrubbing out his underwear in the sink, I gave up, threw them in the trash, put a new pair on him and dragged Ben (still smiling) back to the room, where the room still stank.

But the adventures continue.

Last night, on one of my rare evenings alone doing bathtime anymore, Ben took a dump in his underpants right before bathtime. Whatever, no worries. It was also huge, but it wasn't messy, so I flipped it into the potty, flushed and turned around to do something else. As I busied myself, I could hear random chattering in the background. I tend to block out a lot of the chattering during my day because it is constant and if I listen closely to every single bit of it, I will truly lose my mind. But every once in a while something will stand out like voices through radio static, and my blood will run cold.

"Mommy, potty not working. Potty not flushing."

Excuse me?

Nope. Potty definitely not working. Potty stopped up with giant poo. I have to tell you, I was surprised, because just a few days beforehand while I was on the phone, Jake filled up the very same potty with half a roll of toilet paper, and it took it like a champ with no complaints. But now, all was not well with Mr. Potty. I had to search the house for a plunger (in the garage? Seriously?). Then came Learning to Use a Plunger 101, because I'll admit I'd never used one before.

"Mommy, what you doing? What you doing, Mommy?" Over and over and over.

Finally, it would flush. But let me tell you, that poo was not giving up. No sirree, it stuck to the bottom of the bowl like a glued-on poo-cake that was simply not going anywhere in a hurry. Clearly, I was going to have to wedge it out with something. Like the handle of the plunger.

I won't go any further there, because to do so would be wrong. However, I will say that after disinfecting the plunger and running the wretched thing down the hall to the garage, I returned to a bathroom that had been thoroughly soaked -- walls, floor, bathmat -- with water from the bathtub where two little terrors sat.

The end.