It didn’t take me long to figure out that pee and poop are a pretty big part of parenthood … at least early on. Changing diapers is just a part of my day and that’s okay … until it isn’t. At some point, these b-holes are going to have to stop pissing ($0.25) their pants.
My first baby – who now drives, shaves and brings home a paycheck – potty-trained in about a week, right at three years old. Of course, I thought this had everything to do with me and my awesome parenting skillz and nothing to do with my child or his bladder. Like a smug asshole ($0.25), I spent the next ten years telling anyone and everyone the correct way to teach your child to use the toilet and any other parenting nuggets the listener was fortunate enough to learn from me.
Honestly, I’m a little surprised I never got my ass ($0.25) kicked.
Fast forward a dozen years. My smug-asshole ($0.25) days have definitely caught up with me. There’s five of these little urinators now and though I expect the baby to be fully dependent on diapers, the middle three shouldn’t be having as many accidents. Accidents isn’t really the right word because when you stand in front of your mother, grab your crotch, bend over and stick your ass ($0.25) out, squeeze your knees together and squeal “I’m peeing, I’m peeing!” as pee runs down your leg and pools on the kitchen floor no where near the bathroom … that’s not really a fucking ($0.25) accident.
SIDE NOTE: my children who still have accidents are six, five and four years old. I swear, if one more mom tells me her two year old potty-trained himself, I will stab her with my ninja sword. END SIDE NOTE
The incidences range from sometimes to daily and they all still wear pull-ups at night because not one of them can go a whole night without wetting the bed.
What. The fuck ($0.25).
I’m on pee-patrol twenty-four-seven. At this point, the transition from my kids’ Pampers to my own Depends should be seamless. The four-year-old doesn’t just pee in his pants; sometimes he’ll freeze, get a far-off look in his eyes, bury his hand in the crack of his ass ($0.25) and squeezy-cheese his poo right into his Batman underpants. If I don’t catch him and race him to the restroom, he gets to bend over and grab his ankles, prison-style, while I stair at his brown-eye and peel the turd from his balloon knot.
If this sounds very, very wrong it’s because it fucking ($0.25) is.
I’m developing a terrible anxiety about the situation. I wake up in the middle of the night and hurl my body out of bed because I’ve just dreamed that I forgot to remind someone to use the toilet and the thought of stripping children of their pee-soaked pants is a soul-crushing nightmare. Then I’m forced to drink a half a bottle of wine to get back to sleep …
My trash can is full of crusty, pee-soaked shit bags ($0.25) and I do approximately seventeen loads of pissy ($0.25) laundry a day.
Month after month I throw away perfectly good money on the very best, most-absorbent, Cadillac of night-time diapers because my kids pee so much during the night that sometimes I end up washing their linens anyway because their bladders have the capacity of a ShamWow.
This has been going on since I decided to start potty-training my second child four fucking ($0.25) years ago. At this point, a piece of me dies every time one of my kids says “I peed my pants”.
And I’ll be honest … I don’t always handle it well.
The other night, my oldest daughter came to me in the middle of the night and tapped my shoulder.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
The slits in my face peeked open and I became vaguely aware that there was someone in my room. It could have been a burglar there to rob our secret money jar. I didn’t care, as long as he didn’t wake the goddamn ($0.25) kids.
“Mommy, my bed is wet.”
I said nothing. I laid there, hoping and praying it was a dream … or the burglar, fucking ($0.25) with me.
“Maaaaaaaahmy … my bed is wet!” she insisted.
I ripped the sheet across my body and began stomping one heel on the bed while thrashing back and forth and thumping the mattress with both fists.
I stopped. I laid there, motionless.
“If you’re not going to remember to put a pull-up on at bedtime, then this is going to be your problem to clean up!” I whisper-yelled.
“But I did put on a pull-up, mommy. My bed is still wet.”
WHAT THE FIZ-NUCK?
Then my husband – who sleeps like a dead person – woke up, rolled out of bed and took her by the hand back to her room without saying a word.
Boy did I ever feel like a giant bag-of-dicks ($0.25). Because, in that moment, I was.
I laid in bed for just a few seconds trying to find some justification for my awful behavior. While I do think that years of abuse by my kids’ bladders is the root cause of my tantrum, I try very hard to be a good mom in spite of the abuse. I got up and went to my daughter’s room. I apologized to my husband and my baby girl, told my husband to go back to sleep and helped my daughter make her bed and get changed. I tucked her in, gave her a squeeze and moped back to my bed … where I laid, wide-awake, until about fifteen minutes before my alarm went off.
Total owed to the swear jar for this post: $4.00!! Clearly I have a lot of pent-up hostility for this subject.