Oh, the Places You’ll Poo

We spent 30 minutes in a Braum’s bathroom last week.

30 minutes of an 8 hour road trip spent in a fast food bathroom stall.

I thought lugging a kid (or two) and a diaper bag into a bathroom stall for my own potty break was intense.

I just had no idea.

Potty training is no joke.

And while the conversations my boy and I have while spending ample time in public bathrooms are a slow and painful death by embarrassment, I know they’ll be funny one day.

Maybe you remember these conversations. Or maybe you’re in the thick of them. Or maybe they will make you swear off having children.

Regardless, I want to remember this time and these sweet-yet-uncomfortable moments with my 3 year old.

It won’t be long before his little hands can wipe his own butt and won’t even need me and my burning thighs squatting on the floor next to him.

They usually go something like this, in a voice slightly less obvious than Janice Litman on a megaphone:

Him: *shuddering* I don’t have to go.
Me: You are literally shivering. That’s your body’s way of telling you to go potty.
Him: But I don’t want to.
Me: But you have to.
Him: Can you go for me?
Me: Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way.
Him: Can we count?
Me: Sure. 1….2….3….go.
Him: No. I want to count to 5.
Me: Ok. 1…2…3…4…5…go.
Him: How about 10.
Me: No. Please stop touching your privates.
Him: Who’s that next to us?
Me: Someone else going potty.
Him: Is it Pops?
Me: No.
Him: But she’s wearing his shoes.
Me: No she’s not. Please stop touching your privates.
Him: But Pops has those shoes.
Me: … *whispers* yes, he does.
Him: WHY ARE YOU WHISPERING? Did she just toot?
Me: Yes.
Him: Hahahahhaha. Does her tummy hurt?
Me: How about we talk about something else. Please stop touching your privates.
Him: Want to talk about jokes?
Me: Sure.
Him: What did the poo poo say to the pee poo ba ba doo doo poo. Hahahahahhahahahhaha.
Me: Let’s focus on going potty.
Him: So I can push poo poo out of my bottom like this? *loud grunt*
Me: Yes.
Him: Do you push poo poo out of your bottom?
Me: Yes.
Him: Can you make this noise? *loud grunt*
Me: I will later.
Him: Does she push poo poo out of her bottom? *points to lady wearing Pops’ shoes*
Me: Yes.
Him: Someone came in the other side, mom. See her feet? I think she has to go potty, too.
Me: I bet she does.
Him: Is pee pee coming out of her penis?
Me: Um, sort of.
Him: What’s her name? Ask her what her name is.
Me: How about we worry about what’s happening in our own bathroom.
Him: BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO. I’m scccaaarrrreeeedddd.
Me: Please stop touching your privates.
Him: Remember when I went pee pee all over the wall at home? That was funny.
Me: I do remember that, yes.
Him: It looked like a tree. Like a pee pee tree.
Me: Yes it did.
Him: I could pee on this wall, too.
Me: Please don’t. And please stop touching your privates.
Him: That lady didn’t wash her hands.
Me: You’re right.
Him: *bursts into Daniel Tiger song* …flush and wash and be on your way! She flushed and didn’t wash and now she’s on her way.
Me: You’re right.
Him: She needs to wash her hands.
Me: Yep. Please stop touching your privates.

And on and on and on until the perfect sequence of bribery and/or punishment finally convinces him to go.

I’d like to publicly apologize to women across America for anything you may have overheard in the bathroom.

Especially you, lady with IBS.

(And you, lady with man shoes. I can only help with so much filtering and those work boots aren’t doing anyone any favors, ma’am.)

So next time you see me and a 3 year old enter a public restroom, follow us in with some popcorn. Not only will you enjoy the show, we will likely be in there long enough to need nourishment. Thanks in advance.