Hello, Kettle?

It's potty training, week 10,346.  At least it feels that way.  The joyful high that we were experiencing a few weeks back has worn off again, and we are dealing with wet pants way more often than I'd like.  And, once, poo in brand new Woody underwear.  I think that both Adam and I were sufficiently traumatized by that experience enough that we won't be dealing with that again.  Please.... oh please.... not that again.

I want Adam to be potty trained, but we are still potty training, and as long as I keep up with the work- the reminders, the encouragement, the praise- Adam goes right along with it.  But if I start to ease up and assume that he'll go when he needs to go, he eases up, too.  I have tried to explain to him that it is JUST NOT OKAY to wet your pants.  Wet clothes are gross and stinky.

Today at dinner we were talking about what to do at Disney World if you get separated from Mom and Dad.  I was using a full cup of lemonade and a sippy cup to illustrate how we could never find each other if Mom (represented by the the lemonade) and the kid (the sippy cup) both kept moving all over the park.  It would be much better if the kid would stay put and wait for Mom to come find you.  Somehow, in my excitement over the demonstration, the two cups collided and the lemonade spilled all over the table, the floor, and straight into my lap.  I just laughed- Mommy wet her pants!

I should have used this opportunity to teach Adam how to promptly change out of wet clothes and back into dry ones.  But then I started cleaning up the dinner dishes, Emma needed a diaper change, the bathrooms still needed be to scrubbed before bedtime, and somehow changing my clothes just didn't happen. 

I spent the evening in wet pants, and I didn't really care.  They were dry before I had time to change them.

Touche, little pot.  Touche.