Windy Twilley

Yarn keeps me from opening fire.


Adventures in Underpants

I can only write about this now, after I've determined that the light at the end of the tunnel is not, in fact, a train. Tyler is almost potty-trained. Here's what he thinks:

He mastered the pee-pee at an early age, but #2 eluded him. We wept. We cajoled. We promised him chocolate, toys, lap dances, cocaine - anything to get him to poo in the toilet like a normal human being.

And then, on a Wednesday just over a week ago.....
Windy: Tyler, will you please, please, please go poo-poo?
Tyler: Okay (splash)
Windy: Are you done?
Tyler: No. (splash, splash) Okay. Done.

He got down and.... there they were, golden shining nuggets of joy, floating in the water. "Ooooo... poop," Tyler mused.

I wanted to sing. I wanted to dance. I've never been so happy to see turds in my whole life. He'd done it like it was no big deal. Like he hadn't spent the last two years of his life waddling around pooping on himself. Like a PROFESSIONAL.

Now he'll do it on command, but only if I'm in the bathroom with him. This makes me, at the very least, some sort of diety.


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