Remember the boys? McDonalds hands out little Ronald McDonald figurines for their toddler toy, and Punkin loves them. One day at my parents' house, he was trying to hold his two boys and a stick (which he pronounced 'dick' ) in one hand. Now that we are done being juvenile . . . . He has never been one to care much about-- or even notice really -- the toy in his Happy Meal when we are actually at the restaurant. So I always take it out at the table and play with it myself. Because I'm a mature adult. I seriously should have known better with this one; he has a removable hat. You can take it off. And put it back on. Off. And back on. And off. And on. Off. On. "Hat, hat. Hee hee!! Hat, hat, hat, hat, hee hee." I actually had to remind him to keep eating his (second) cheeseburger. Definitely a first.
Eating out by ourselves is always interesting. Managing the runaway kid and carrying a tray and getting drinks is slightly complicated (and amusing, no doubt). But yesterday was the first time that someone behind the counter asked if I wanted help. I was so stunned I said no. I must add, though, that having taken three kids to McDonalds once when I was babysitting, one is a piece of cake in comparison.
Now being a mom requires detective skills. I find that these detective skills are especially fine-tuned around kids with developmental delay and disabilities. Also, I find that the more I am around children, the more my tolerance for situations involving bodily fluids grows. Now this is at least the third time I have written about poop appearing in a place other than a diaper or the toilet. I just can't help myself. The detective in me is fascinated.
That being said, I came home from having respite Friday night to find poop next to the toilet. It was child-sized, so I didn't really consider the respite worker a suspect even though the child seat was neatly tucked away. And I knew it wasn't mine. Now, the respite worker had told me that Punkin had a really hard time falling asleep and repeatedly removed his diaper. So I figured he tried to go potty on his own (HOLY COW) and missed. I was, or am, pretty proud. I just cleaned it up and went to bed wishing my sweet little guy could have made the worker understand his needs.
2am. He's crying, yanking on his diaper, and saying things I don't understand. Something about poop or potty. "Do you want to sit on the potty?"
"Do you want a new diaper?"
He removes the diaper he's wearing and runs away from me, still crying.
"Let's get a new diaper. Come here. Okay."
"Yes. WHAAA!!!" He smacks me with a Huggies.
I eventually calm him down and return him to bed. In the morning, the same thing happens. In fact, except for the two times he sat on the potty at my mom's house, he flipped out every time I had him sit on the potty at all.
So this new information begs the question, "What happened in that bathroom??