Colt is fascinated by the fact that I don’t stand up to pee.
Those of you who don’t have kids are probably thinking, “EW. Why are you letting your son watch you go to the bathroom?”
First of all, to potty train your child, you have to SHOW him how to do it, so there’s that…
But even when the training is over, I can’t just lock myself in the bathroom and let my kid run free?!!!!
Do you know how long it would take him to burn down the house?
Like 3.5 seconds.
So I have to leave the door open, prying my head around the corner to watch him WHILE trying to keep my pee in the pot. It’s practically an olympic sport.
When Todd is home, sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom – for 5 minutes of peace.
But 10…9…8…BANG BANG BANG!!!! “Mommmmmmmmmmmmmy!!!!!”
Wait for it….
A tiny little hand curls up underneath the door. Like the paw of a kitten reaching, clawing, scratching…
“Alright already!!!!!” I say. Opening the door with one hand, pulling up my pants with the other.
Colt has asked me on numerous occasions, “Mommy, why don’t you stand up to go pee pee, like me?”
“Because I don’t have a wee wee, Colt. So I have to sit down.”
“Well, how do you go pee pee, if you don’t have a wee wee?”
My go-to answer is usually “I just do.” And then I tell him how special he is because HE HAS a wee wee. (Because I just don’t want to get into the whole anatomy thing, ya know? I cringe with the pediatrician says “penis” in front of me for God’s sake.)
I prefer something more G-rated like “wee wee” or “pee pee” or “Henry.”
Todd’s NaNa calls it “Werny.” Which I also kind of like.
One day Colt announced that he’d figured out how I do it.
“With your booty, Mom. You go pee pee with your booty.”
He’d figured out The Great Mystery.
I could see that he was pleased with himself, but he was still bothered…
The next day my dad came over to watch Colt.
“Pop,” Colt said. “Did you know that Mommy goes pee pee with her booty?”
I can only imagine the look on my father’s face. An award-winning plant breeder. A leader in higher education. A Professor Emeritus of genetics.
Confronted with the Birds and the Bees on a most primitive level, by a 3-year-old.
“And I’ve been thinking,” Colt continued with great certainty.
“That we should really get Mommy a wee wee for Christmas.”
The adorable thing about this story is that he was, and still is, so deeply concerned that I am MISSING this important part.
How have I lived ALL THESE YEARS without this magnificant thing?
And to be honest, sometimes I do wish I had a werny.
I’d certainly get paid a little more. I’d probably still have abs. No man would ask me to refill his sweet tea…
And so maybe I’ll issue a Christmas prayer on behalf of the both of us…
Dear God/Santa (when you get right down to it, aren’t they really the same guy?),
Grant me the serenity to accept my body as it is. Be it without a werny.
And help my precious little tyke accept me as I am too, Lord. And distract him from these impure thoughts with a cartoon or superhero (just please not with the mutant turtles, Lord, as we are really sick of them…)
And should my son bring forth his penile request during chapel time at preschool this week, Lord, please help me find the words to say to Miss Sharon when she calls me for a parent/teacher conference.
Help me not to laugh at her, Lord.