High School Bathrooms and Black Dresses

So, our band concert was today. My husband and I brought the girls with us, and they basically just played with whatever kids weren't performing until he or I were available to watch them.

To the concert, I wore a nice, conservative knee length black dress which didn't give me any real wiggle room based on the constricting material of which it was made. I also wore 2 inch black heels (in other words, a disaster waiting to happen). 

After the concert, I realized I brought nothing to change in to for the take-down. So, I shucked the heels and pearls, pulled my hair back with a rubber band, and started tearing things down in my dress as well as I could.

We're waiting on pizza to arrive, and Story comes running in the band room yelling about how she has to poop NOW!!!! I took off after her to the bathroom. She got there first, and shut the door behind her. I waited patiently by the sinks until she was ready for me to help her "clean up."

"Mommy! I done!!" she yelled a minute later. I walked to her stall, and pulled on the handle. It didn't move. I pulled on it, pushed on it, and shook it, but it was locked and not giving.

"Story!" I yelled as I tried to jimmie the thing with my thumbnail. "Get off the potty and open the door!"

"No."

"Yes!" I yelled, frustrated at my now shredded thumbnail.

"I can't, Mommy." So, I looked under the door to the stall where there was definitely not enough room to me to crawl through.

"Story! I can't fit through here! You need to get off the potty and open the handle for me!" She sat quietly and smiled.

"You can fit."

"No, I can't!" I yelled even louder out of frustration. I didn't know what to do...should I try to fit? Or tell her good luck with the wiping? Fortunately, that last thought sent a shudder through me, and I decided that I had to get in there. Even if she did make it off the potty, the chances of her smearing poop all over the bathroom were large.

So, I gauged the amount of room I'd have under the stall door. I tried to crawl under it, but of course, I was too big. Finally, it looked like my only option was an army crawl...

Yes, that's right. An army crawl. On my stomach, in a tight black dress, on the floor of a high school bathroom. I took a deep breath, and pushed myself forward with my hands, trying best I could to think of ice cream and Christmas, and not the millions of particles of...of...stuff I was smushing up against me. At least it was only on one side of me, or so I thought.

I made it through, but then realized that I couldn't get up. My dress was acting like a plastic tube around me, keeping me from the necessary motion I needed to get vertical again. So, I ended up rolling onto my back, and contaminated BOTH sides of myself. But, on my back, I could propel myself into a squatting, then standing position.

My black dress was....gray. I brushed it off, and then wiped Story. She covered her ears, and I pushed the button for flushing. Interestingly enough, everything went down the toilet with the exception of a giant piece of poop. I pushed the button again. It didn't budge. Again. Nothing. Really? I thought. Am I really dealing with this after I just army crawled through a cesspool????

But, I was pretty sure that I couldn't get much dirtier...so I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pushed it in to the hole, and reflushed....and it went down. 

Story ran out of the bathroom, and I tried to disinfect as much of myself as possible...and then I got the heck out of that bathroom before I got any nastier.

Show-off

It took forever for Story to understand that she had to poop in the potty as well as pee. So, we made a BIG deal anytime she accidentally did it. We paraded it around the house; everyone who was there took a look and gave her a high five.

Three months later, she still feels the need to have a party every time she poops. She usually does it in the little training potty she has, and brings the removable bucket out to show us. She doesn't realize that her bowel movements are the smelliest I have ever seen. When I know she's about to go, I light candles everywhere.

Last night, I was in the bathroom with her when she pooped. She got up and showed me the good thing she'd done. "Good job, baby!" I said, holding out my fist for her to "pound it."

"Inna show Ivy." Okaaaayyy.

"Ivy! Come in here!" I yelled. She responded with something I couldn't hear from the living room. "IVY!!" I yelled louder. "Story wants you!"

"What?" She yelled.

"Story wants you!"

"Where?"

"In the bathroom!"

"Huh? I'm in the living room!"

"I know, Ivy!" I yelled louder. "Story wants you to come in the bathroom."

"Mommy! Where are you?"

"In the bathroom!"

"Why?"

"Story wants you!"

"Why?"

At this point I was so frustrated that I shouted, "Story wants you to come and see her poop!"

"What?"

"STORY WANTS YOU TO COME AND SEE HER POOOOOOOP!!!!!" I am sure the entire neighborhood heard me, plus the nearest 20 golfers.

Ivy appeared in the doorway. "Oh." She looked in the potty. "Nice poop, Story."

"Gimma five," Story said. They exchanged fives and I reached down to empty the bin in the toilet. "Noooo, Mommy! Inna show Daddy."

For her to show Daddy, I'd have to keep the stinkiness in the little potty for three hours until dark. (You might think Daddy's a vampire and needs to wait until full dark to wake up, but that's actually when the golf course closes). I was pretty sure I couldn't do that. The smell would permeate the entire house and then move to the outside, killing plants all along the 14th green.

"Okay, baby, go to the living room. We'll show him." She and Ivy happily danced to the living room where the Nick Jr. channel was blasting.

I grabbed the bin and flushed it quick, sprayed the entire bathroom and hallway with febreeze, and then ran before she realized what I have done. I went to the kitchen and said, "Anyone want some pop?" as a further means of distraction.

Story and the search for the perfect potty

I've noticed that the "Ivy" posts are tending to outweigh the "Story" posts, so I thought I'd even it out.

Story has always been....well, there's no better way to say it: constipated. She's been taking medicine forever for it, but it doesn't do her any good.

Potty training was a bear. Once we got peeing down, she was so unpredictable on the number two that she stained almost every pair of panties she has.

Now, she seems to get it. But, she'll hold it in until it absolutely refuses to stay in her body another second. And she'll try to go several times in a day before she actually produces a result.

Tonight was a little different. She asked me 12 times to take her to the bathroom in the first 15 minutes we were home. I would take her, she'd sit on the "big girl potty" for 10 seconds, then scoot off.

Then she said, "Mommy, I go to potty," for the 13th time. I took her to her bathroom, but she wouldn't go in. "No, Mommy!" She grabbed my hand with her chubby, sticky one and dragged me through the house to my bathroom. I pulled down her pants, she gathered up the tutu around her, and sat down. Six seconds later, she slid off the toilet, pulled up the panties, and fixed the tutu.

Five minutes later she grabbed her butt with one hand, my arm with the other, and led me to our guest bathroom. Panties down, tutu in hand....nothing. She slid off.

We ended up making a round to all three bathrooms before she finally went...in my bathroom.

I cleaned the toilet in there Sunday, but now you can't tell.....

Story's potty saga

Last night, Story pooped in the potty. Tonight before dinner she did it again, and came to get me both times. It was a good thing.

After her bath tonight, she apparently pooped again, but she didn't come and get me. Ivy did. She said, "Mommy, Story's poop looks weird." (This in the uber-loud sing-song voice).

I ran to the bathroom and saw Story standing in the hallway totally clothed (in the tutu, too). I gingerly looked in the tiny potty and saw......diarrhea. I am not prepared to deal with potty training diarrhea....

Then, I remembered what I just saw. "Story, did you wipe yourself?" I asked. She looked at me like I was stupid, and said , "No." Ivy added (in the very loud tattle tale voice), "Mooooommy, Story didn't wipe herself!"

So, I dragged her back in the bathroom, pulled the pants down hoping for the best, and got prepared for the worst with the wipes at my side. I neglected to notice the open jello cup in her hand.

When I yanked the panties down, the jello fell out of her hands, and in a slow motion tumble, fell on the bathroom floor where tiny pieces of red gelatin exploded from their plastic cup onto white tile, white sink cabinet, and Mommy.

Yuck. Poop and jello.

I cleaned everything, and in a moment of absence of the mind, I threw the wipes into the toilet where Ivy had just dumped the diarrhea.....and in case, you don't know, wipes cannot be flushed. So, in a move I am embarrassed to be recounting on the internet, I reached in and pulled the wipes out of the toilet, and tossed them into the trash can. As I was scalding my hands (which is becoming a daily occurrence), Ivy started yelling, "Mommy!!! WHY is there jello in the toilet?!?!?!?!" You know, a question that cannot possibly be answered in my state of mind.