I would like to make many mothers and fathers sigh in relief with a little story. The statute of limitations (I think) has run out on this one.
My triplets (plus one) were in preschool and we were attempting potty training. I use the verbiage “attempt” because I will never, ever believe that we “trained” them to use the bathroom in an indoor, flushable commode. My children decided when, if, and WHERE they were going to go. In fact, I believe we were trained to hope for the best and wish and pray it might occur in a favorable environment. After preschool one day, we arrived home and I unloaded the four car seats (yep, four) and the children were able to run around or go inside (remember the vast fencing?). I went inside with the “tree worth” of papers they brought home and noticed one boy lingered behind quite a while. When I saw he was adjusting his bottoms, I asked if he’d gone to the bathroom or something. He said yes and I inquired number one or two? He reluctantly revealed it was two. I said to him calmly and kindly (not really, I actually yelled, “What?! Where?! Omg!”) and proceeded to fetch him a Target bag to go clean up the mess in the yard. He wasn’t very excited about the task and thus, tarried longer than I’d like. So, I pulled him by the hand and led him into the area where the “event” occurred. As we walked outside, he and I noticed our large, rescue dog, Fluffy, smacking his lips after eating the entire evidence. My son’s face had the most joyously shocked expression I’d ever seen. I didn’t know if I should Lysol the dog’s mouth or feed him a lot of doggie biscuits so I did nothing and shut the children inside the house away from the dog. Fluffy was fed. I had four other mouths to I feed.
Potty humor is a learned art. The amount of experience required to achieve proficiency is debatable.