A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Home from Vacation . . .

3 08 2009

Potty training has been my biggest parenting nightmare to date. Zack is neither submissive nor meek, and he was still young enough when I started potty training him that I hadn’t yet fully learned to work around his personality type. (Ask his teacher from last year–I’m still figuring that one out.) Add to him two siblings in rapid succession, and potty training seemed my full-time occupation for awhile. After years (that is not a joke) of wet and/or stinky pants, we finally hit a pretty good stride about 3 years ago, and potty issues while travelling pretty much cleared up a year after that.

I seriously don’t know what was going on this trip.

“I gotta go to the bathroom!” was uttered more during this trip than any other, frequently followed by, “I can’t hold it!” I should have counted how many times we stopped at the side of the road, just so I could share it all with you.

Generally, we were able to pull off at an exit, affording the chillins a bit of privacy while they did their thing. And while we’re on the subject, why are boys able to go so easily in the wild? Another object lesson on the unfairness of life. It took several stops before I got the girls to miss hitting their shoes. Anyway, at one particularly frantic stop (“I really can’t hold it!”), a sibling decided to hop out since we were stopped anyway, and proceeded to say, “I guess I’ll go, too.” When nothing happened, I started to hoist her up (we found a modified chair-sit with me holding under the armpits worked best under the circumstances) and she said, “Wait! I’ve got to go [number two].”


So the deed was done, tp was found, and we were (finally) back on the road, when just around the next bend we saw the big blue sign letting us know a rest area was two miles away.


But that isn’t all. Oh, no, our strange potty adventures don’t end there.

One daughter (who wishes to remain anonymous) had been whining about using the toilet for miles. We were about to stop for dinner (as soon as we made it to a sizable town), when Stan suddenly said, “I’m toast.”

He was right.

He got pulled over (13 miles beyond seems to be the magic number for us) and had already handed over the ol’ lice and reg, explaining that our “daughter needs to pee” (vernacular has not been changed). While the officer ran the numbers, daughter glibly jumped out of her car seat, opened the door, and said, “C’mon, Mom.” (No prompting necessary. I’m telling you, we’d done this way too many times already.)

The kids hadn’t even noticed the policeman, and my daughter already had her pants down by the time I got out of the car, as well as her arms held up for me to help her sit. There were cars–oh, so many cars–racing by. She went. She got it all over her shoe, and we had to use an extra pair of socks hanging around in the van to wipe them off, since we finished off the tp earlier. Back in the car. Buckle up.

Officer returned. “If she had to go that bad, you wouldn’t have made it to the next exit, anyway,” he said.

Stan gets off.

He is SO lucky.