Editor's Note: This story was written two years ago, but I wanted to share it with you :)
Lately I have been confronted with an onslaught of bathroom faux pas.
It’s like the boys have forgotten their don’t-soil-your-pants etiquette.
So no matter where I am, I can’t seem to get a bathroom break. Pun intended.
Case in point, my husband the boys and I decided to stop at Dairy Queen one evening after our little family had gone swimming.
It was a hot day so we decided to get a cool treat.
I waited in the truck with the kids while my husband went inside. The drive thru line ended at about the No Frills parking lot, so he thought going
in would be “faster.”
“Where’s Daddy going?” my oldest, Max, asked.
“Inside to get the ice cream,” I said while looking at my pool hair. Next time I would have to take a brush along with me, I thought, as I looked like Meg Ryan’s ugly little sister.
While I was fretting about my hair, Danny, 3, began shifting in his seat.
“I have to go potty,” he whined.
“Just hold it,” I said, “Daddy will be out soon.”
He continued to wiggle.
“Can’t I just go outside?” He asked.
“No. Just hold it,” I looked at all the cars and businesses around, because I seriously considered it for about five seconds.
He was quiet.
Then he said, “MOMMY I HAVE TO GO!”
“Danny, just wait a little bit longer …”
I was cut off mid-sentence by the odor.
I turned around and Danny had wet his pants all over the car seat.
“I sorry mommy,” he said, feeling true remorse.
So, I guess I know not to wait when Danny says he has to go, right?
Well, yes, I learned with Danny but apparently not with Max.
Again, we had just finished swimming. Always swimming!
Only this time it was after the boy’s swimming lessons.
My husband was on a trip, so I was going it alone with the two youngsters.
We all three went into the girl’s locker room to change, which is difficult enough with two boys, because the little girls kind of freak out.
“Boys in here!” They yell and point.
I try to ignore it.
I don’t really need to help Max get dressed but he forgets that he can dress himself and was running around the locker room in his underwear.
I was busy trying to get Danny out of his wet trunks and putting clothes on him.
“Mom,” Max yelled from the other side of the locker room, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Now there are like four stalls in the locker room.
“Just go,” I said, struggling to remove Danny sopping wet trunks while he was dancing around.
“Mom, I have to go,” Max yelled again.
“Go,” I said.
He must have taken me literally, because I looked over and there was Max, urinating all over floor, thankfully not on the carpeted area.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” I was frantic, yet grateful that no one else happened to be in the locker room at the time.
“I couldn’t make it, mom,” Max said, while at steady stream was falling to the floor.
I forgot about getting Danny dressed and ran over to Max.
“Stop!” I said, but it was too late. The damage had been done.
I angrily went over to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed about 50 of them.
And the boys still hadn’t dressed themselves.
I told Max in the car on the way NEVER to do that again. He was truly remorseful.
You’d think that would be enough, first Danny then Max, both in public.
Nope. One busy morning, I brought the boys to vacation Bible school. I woke up late that day anyway and the whole day thus far had been rush, rush, rush.
The boys are lucky they actually had shoes on that day.
Picture us, running to the car, the picture is about what you would expect except that I didn’t have curlers in my hair.
It was about 7:40 a.m., I had to have the children at the church by 7:30. Oh well, I thought, 10 minutes isn’t going to hurt anyone, I’ll drop them off and still make it to work on time.
Now, mornings are always bad for me, as I am not by nature, a morning person. Plus, I have the added bonus of the newspaper deadline being 10 a.m., so the whole morning is an exercise in stress.
I dropped the boys off and I was on my way. It was about 7:50 a.m. by the time I arrived at work.
I sat down, turned the computer on and the phone rang.
“Stephanie,” said Judy from church, “Danny has wet his pants and we don’t have a change of clothes for him.”
“Oh …” I said, not really comprehending what she was saying because I hadn’t had my coffee yet.
“Oh!” I said, the water slowly sinking into the concrete, “I’ll be right there.”
I decided in my infinite wisdom to go home and get a change of clothes for Danny. Instead of picking him up at the church, which was on my home, I was too worried about ruining another car seat, I guess.
So, I hurried and grabbed Danny a pair of underwear and shorts. I got to the church. I spied Danny in the cafeteria. He was soaked from – I kid you not – head to toe.
The kid needed a new shirt, socks, underwear, you name it.
I swooped down and picked him up. I put him in his underwear and he rode home like that, good thing it’s summertime.
He, of course, felt remorseful.
“That’s OK,” I said smiling but inside I was screaming.
The screaming was far from over.
My husband was gone again, he been pretty lucky to have gone for all of the above, this next incident was no exception.
It was nearly midnight and I was just thinking about going to bed because I’m an idiot who likes to stay up and read and listen to the radio.
I got into bed and felt my eyelids getting heavy, and then I heard a muffled cry.
I listened for a minute; because sometimes Danny will wake up, cry for about a second and go back to sleep.
It hearkens back to his babyhood, I guess.
But that wasn’t the case.
I went to the boy’s room and Max was getting into Danny bunk minus his underwear.
“Max, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he slurred.
Danny was whimpering and standing up.
It was then that it hit me; they had both wet their beds at the same time.
And not just a tiny spot on the sheet, either. We’re talking blankets and everything else.
I grabbed the two boys and moved them into my room, I removed all the wet underwear, and I wiped the tiny bodies off. I put new clean dry underwear on them.
Then I put them on the floor and told them to wait.
Then I got to work changing sheets and blankets and pillows. On a bunk bed, no less, in the middle of the night.
The boys were both crying in my room, just a constant wail. I had to work quickly.
I was up to my elbows in – well, I won’t say it.
Finally I was finished, they were all tucked in and I got to bed around 1 a.m.
So much for potty training.
And the boys were too tired to be remorseful.