This is a disgusting post. Read it at your own risk and don't even try to say I didn't warn you.
Poop. That's what we're talking about today on my blog because, well, it's a major focal point of our lives right now. I apologize. It's just that when you have a three-year-old and an almost six-month-old (no, I did not just write that because it is impossible!) you're knee deep in poo and you can't even pretend that you aren't.
The Rock Star basically potty trained himself right around the time we brought Matthew home. I'd tried and tried, from the time he turned two, with relatively no luck. When Matthew we found out we were getting Matthew and Garrett would no longer be the baby, he started using the potty and never looked back. Except, that is, with poop.
I tried everything. I tried bribing him with handfuls of jellybeans. I tried buying him the book The Potty Train and changing it to The Poop Train when we read it. I tried gently coaxing him. I tried sternly explaining to him that big boys put their poop in the potty and only babies use diapers. Still, he begged me for a Pull-Up. I tried refusing to give him a Pull-Up. He relieved his colon in his underwear. That is extreme fun. At one point, he started pooping in the backyard which was inappropriate and disgusting--although, the dog didn't think so.
G: Mommy. I pooped.
G: In the yard.
Me: WHERE IN THE YARD?
G: Right--hey...it was here a minute ago.
Me: Right there?
G: Yeah. I left it here.
Me: Did the dog eat it?
(Enter Beck, licking his chops)
Garrett lived in his Pull-Ups, even though he only needed one once a day. On his birthday I put him in underwear. I said he was big now and he could tell me when he needed a Pull-Up. Every time he said he needed one I encouraged him to poop on the potty. I'll give you three jellybeans. No. I'll buy you a Happy Meal. No. I'll buy you a house on a private beach in Malibu. Which part of my NO! are you not understanding, mother? I handed him a Pull-Up. We did that for several days and then a package arrived in the mail from my mom. It was full of little presents and he was allowed to open one every time he pooped on the toilet.
For about a week the bag of presents hung in the bathroom, staring at The Rock Star. He wasn't interested. Until one day when, for some reason, he climbed up on the toilet and gave it a present. I still don't know what finally convinced him that it would be a good idea. I think those little presents were whispering sweet nothings into his ears. In return for his deposit, he chose a gift out of the bag from my parents.
And the rest was history. Wonderful, fabulous, non Pull-Up wearing history.
He's opened packages of Fruit Snacks. He's opened new toothbrushes. He's found Tic Tacs and Cheetos and a small tambourine. Diapers are done. Mostly. I'll have some on our road trip, just in case. Speaking of which, I am not looking forward to our first road trip in underwear. Our first trip where we stop every five seconds so Garrett can go potty.
But yeah, we've only got one person in this house who needs diapers. My oldest most certainly goes "Poop on the toyet."
Thanks, Mom. I couldn't have done it without you. Well, I mean, I hope I could have, eventually, I hope I wouldn't have been bribing my teenage son with jellybeans and beach houses in Malibu.