[Author’s Note: I’m most of the way through a different story that still needs just a bit more work — which is just not happening this week. So, I’m doing this bite-sized stopgap story instead.]
I started potty-training Rhys on the Monday before Labor Day.
It was an independent and spontaneous decision — so when Taylor came home that afternoon, he commented, “Uh, I guess this is happening now?”
His rhetorical question was meant by the enthusiastic squeals of a completely-naked sixteen-month-old.
So, obviously our third-born was a bit young for this endeavor, but several things nevertheless prompted me to pull the trigger.
Firstly, over the previous month, Rhys had become an aggressively shy pooper. He refused to defecate beyond our house — even during our overnight visits to my parents’ place.
In addition, Rhys had started showing a recognition of his own urination. Whenever I noticed him peeing in the bath, I’d say, “Look, you’re peeing!” and tap him lightly on his penis — at which point, he would briefly pause his urination. On the Monday in the question, we repeated this process three times within a span of ten seconds — at which point, I knew that he was capable of learning how to use the potty.
Finally, I considered the weather and our upcoming schedule. It’s always easier to potty train when it’s warm outside — and I wanted to knock it out before I left for my ten-year high school reunion in mid-September.
So, considering all those factors, I decided that August 28th was our perfect start date.
Now, a month later, Rhys is mostly potty-trained. Of course, he still needs serious assistance in undressing, so I usually leave him pants-less for the sake of convenience.
To his credit, though, he’s very good about self-initiating. When he can’t get to the potty on his own, he’ll just shriek, “Pee-pee! Pee-pee!” (His language is still developing, so there’s little variation between his words for “pee-pee” and “poopie”.)
To my utter relief, he’s had only a small handful of poopie accidents — although pee-pee has been a slightly different story.
Not that he *can’t* hold his urine — just that, sometimes… he *won’t*.
Here’s a story about one of those times.
This past week, Australis had one of her characteristic “diva days”. During these episodes, she becomes a beautiful little tyrant — demanding attire worthy of a princess, stipulating the songs we sing and the games we play, and generally impressing me into royal service. Sometimes I resist — but other times, it’s better just to acquiesce.
Such was the day in question. Shortly after I put Rhys down for his nap, Aza requested that we do face-painting — which, to my relief, was a practical impossibility.
“I’m sorry, baby — the face paints are in Rhysi’s closets, so we can’t get them right now. If I go into his room, he’ll wake up, and then we won’t have a chance to do anything!” [Note: Rhys is an extremely light sleeper.]
Aza wilted — until she thought of an alternative. “Tattoos!”
To this, unfortunately, I had no legitimate objections — so I sighed and went to retrieve our tattoo pens.
An hour later, my daughter had a huge, colorful tattoo leg sleeve.
I naively thought this massive creative undertaking would slake Aza’s artistic thirst; instead, it seemed only to whet that appetite. As soon as Rhys woke up, she shouted, “Now we can do face paints!”
So, after I plopped Rhys on the potty, I dutifully retrieved the face paints.
Thankfully, that latter endeavor was significantly less time-intensive than was the first. Using Aza’s selected design, I quickly applied a rainbow-and-sparkly-clouds decal.
Now, at least, I had a reason to stop. “Alright sweetie, we have to go get Bobhi from school.”
“Ok — but first I want my crown!”
A half-hour later, I walked toward Bo’s school wearing Rhys on my back and holding Aza in my arms. (“I want you to carry me,” she had appealed.)
Admittedly, I did receive a few odd looks on behalf of my tatted-up, face-painted, tiara-wearing sparkle princess — but Bo, of course, was instantly enamored.
“I love your tattoo, Aza!” he enthused as we walked back to the car.
“Thanks, Bo,” she replied demurely.
And I thought that was the end of it — until we got home.
“Ok, now it’s my turn to give you face paint,” Aza announced.
“Uh, I don’t really want face paint, Aza,” I demurred.
“OH, THAT IS A GREAT IDEA!” Borealis bellowed. “AND I CAN DO FACE PAINT FOR RHYSI! I WILL MAKE HIM A SKELETON!”
What could go wrong? Well, many things — but few of them permanent. Thus, I got two small bowls of water and two paper towels, and I defeatedly dropped onto the floor to become Aza’s latest art project. She immediately got to work.
Bo, however, was not so lucky. Rhys was initially interested in the foreign feeling of face paint — but not for long.
“RHYSI! COME BACK!” Bo ordered.
My younger son ignored his older brother and instead sprinted away.
Borealis, undeterred, chased after him — paintbrush still in hand.
“Ahhhhh!” Rhys shrieked — but his distress did little to dissuade Bo, who grabbed the baby’s shoulder, forced him to sit, and resumed painting his face.
“Mommy! Don’t turn your face!” Australis admonished.
I snapped back to attention. “Sorry, Aza! But Bo, you need to be gentle with your brother!”
Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could glimpse my sons’ continued wrestling match.
“Hang on a second, Aza,” I said, then turned around to grab Rhys. He immediately cuddled into my embrace — until I said, “Ok, Bo, I’ll hold him for you.”
“OK!” bellowed Bo.
“AHHHH!” bellowed Rhys.
“Just hurry!” I snapped.
Bo jumped into action — reloading his brush with white paint and quickly finishing Rhys’s base coat.
Aza, of course, continued abstractly painting at her normal, leisurely pace.
And Rhys? Well, he did his best possession impression — violently bucking and squealing with fury.
“Come on, Bo!” I snapped again.
“JUST SWITCHING COLORS!”
I gripped both sides of Rhys’s head as Bo started to apply black paint. I tried to hold in helpless laughter as, on my own face, every color of our paint palette blended together in a garish fever dream — my daughter as equanimous as ever.
Rhys, though, was nearing his limit. He writhed violently in my grasp as Bo’s movements became increasingly frenetic.
“Bo! Hurry!”
“I’M TRYING!”
But, at that moment, my baby finally hit his limit. Rhys gave another angry squawk, and then…
He projectile-rage-peed on Borealis.
The result? Total pandemonium.
“HE PEED ON ME! AND I’M NOT DONE YET!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
“Mommy! Stop laughing! I’m still painting!”
“Rhysi, stop — Bo, wait! Aza, seriously — Orientalis —oh my gosh, AH!”
Thankfully, a rag lay just within my reach. I used it to absorb most of Rhys’s rage pee — or, at least, the stuff that hadn’t immediately soaked into Bo’s clothing. All the while, Aza placidly continued her own artistic endeavor — and I struggled to get Rhys back into my lap.
“But I still need to do the rest of the black!” Borealis sobbed.
I rolled my eyes. “Babe, I’m trying to help you out here. I need you to be tough, ok?”
Bo sucked in a breath and forced down his tears. “Ok. I just have to finish the parts around his mouth. Ugh, it’s too hard!”
“Just do lines radiating out — like how you draw the sun!”
Borealis, thankfully, understood this instruction. He finished Rhys’s face paint in a manner of seconds.
I immediately whipped out my phone camera — before Rhys could destroy Bo’s hard work.
But, ever my child, Borealis was visibly disappointed. “It turned out so bad. I wanted it to look better than that.”
I gave my oldest son a squeeze. “It’s ok, buddy. He was moving around a lot — and besides, these things take practice. This was your first time ever doing face paints! And, I think you did a good job.”
Bo’s posture regained some of its buoyancy. “Yeah — I will try again tomorrow!”
I glanced over at Rhys, who was now examining himself in our mirror. “Uh… maybe we should wait until Rhys is a tiny bit older.”
Borealis thought for a few seconds, then announced, “You’re right. I will just do face paint for Daddy instead.”
Taylor did indeed receive tiger face paint that night — after he laughed uncontrollably at *my* face paint.
And, in the meantime, I was coerced into one final creative project for the day.
