Posts Tagged ‘pull-up’

I’d love to tell you we’re all normal.  About as much as I’d like to be eating a brownie right now.  But sometimes the evidence is just the opposite.

This is my son with his classy forehead-bandaid, the one that stuck to his face for three days.  And the one no one knew why it was there in the first place.  Those are his homemade froggy pants, the ones I sewed a year ago.  Ain’t nothin’ they don’t go with.

Some time ago when the weather was, say, warmer, this was our son in our plastic pool.  Which may make one ask the hypothetical… What fun is laying in a plastic pool with water when you can  lay in a plastic pool without water?

And this is our son with his burrito at Los Pinos.  The joy runs deep.

Very deep.

Um…possibly a little too deep.

This is also our son in what may have been the best hiding spot in broad daylight.

And here he is again having  just swallowed a penny.  And now suddenly sure he shouldn’t have.

This is the condition of our butter most days. Fresh with chomp marks.

And this is the butter chomper.  Sorry as they come.

And since I must tell you what I want you to believe, here it is:  I think that underwear’s clean.

The truth, though…  I really don’t know.

And words probably can’t touch this picture. Whatever my children are doing with their bottoms has compelled the dog to do something with his.

Moving, isnt’ it?

And to change the subject entirely… this is the only way to eat ice cream.  Like you’re already in heaven.

Which I can imagine is the best place to be.

Followed not-so-closely by sitting in a brown chair with a pull-up on your head.

We be the Munsons. 

And, sigh…that be our ‘normal.’


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When the Potty Train Derails

As the potty training has progressed–albeit like a snail out for a stroll–we’ve gotten careless.  About the wipes.  And the fact that they ought to–under no circumstance–be removed from the van.  Which they were, uh…some time ago.  Or we ran out.  One of those.

Only tonight, twenty-five miles from home, there wasn’t time to discuss the non-wipes.  There wasn’t much to do but say, “it’s okay, bud.  If it’ll make your tummy feel better, you can poop in that pull-up.  Which he did.

And by which time the saddest scavenger hunt began.

Here’re the pertinent things I found.  Three paper towel halves, clinging to the end of the roll.  One water bottle.  A torn out sheet from a magazine with a coupon on the bottom for Opti Free.  An empty Target bag.  A size 4 diaper.

That we’d done something similar at the library on Monday, helped.  I mean it didn’t help Monday out.   Or change the fact that I was lookin’ at a nasty in the parking lot here without wet wipe.  It helped, though, that I knew no dry paper towel was going to solve the problem.

Only even with them wet, the paper towel halves weren’t enough. So with my son still bent in half, I grabbed the magazine sheet off the floor of the front seat and finished wiping him with my coupon.  Until he shrieked that his bottom hurt.  And well…it was ‘clean’ enough.  By default.

The target bag let me exit the parking lot with dignity.  And the diaper…well, it was more like finding the winning ticket after the raffle’s all over.  Maybe less depressing.

My little boy, though, the one with a mostly clean hiny and no more tummy ache skipped back into the park to count the leaves with his sister.  

We were back on the potty train.

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