Shit shit shit shit shit.

OK, I'm not usually so scatalogically inclined, but I need to vent. Let me explain. It's another day with big boy undies. Or it was. First, Chas peed all over a book, soaking it with urine and rendering it unfit for continued reading. OK, I can deal.

Then, Eddie comes in and announces that he has pee down his legs. I clean up the puddle in the playroom, then turn to Eddie. I spy a tiny poop ball rolling out of his soaked underpants. Cool. He's just starting to poop. Seizing the opporunity, I whisk him to the potty chair to finish up his poop. He sits there happily for a minute, then asks to watch some TV while he works on his project. Fine. We both sit there. Chas joins us. I finally decide he's happy so I go start mopping the kitchen floor, checking on him every few minutes. On my third check in, both boys have moved to my bed. The result is skid marks aplenty all over my sheets. I wouldn't have minded this the other day -- honestly. But we just changed the sheets night before last. Of course, there's also poop on the comforter, which is in the washing machine now.

So I take him in to wipe the remaining crap off his cute little ass and that's when I see it. The giant turd that had rolled out of his undies and under the corner of the changing table pad. So all of this was for nothing -- he had already finished his pooping when I put him on the potty chair and initiated this unfortunate chain of events.

But the worst part is that unless I want to inflict untold amounts of psychological damage and slow his potty training to something less than the crawl its at now, I can't complain much. I can't express anything remotely resembling disgust despite the fact that someone has shat himself, then rubbed his shitty ass all over my bed. Of course, in 20 years, the world will be full of young adults who unashamedly soil themselves and freely rub their feces all over other people's beds, floors and furniture. Then the experts will be telling parents that they must express disgust so their children will learn to be ashamed of such unpleasant and anti-social behavior. Until then, I will save my venting for this. Presumably when they are able to read it, the knowledge that their mother was disgusted, nay, horrified to have their excrement spread all over her bed will not be too surprising to them.

Meanwhile, I am reminded that I was in fact potty trained at six months of age. (More accurately, my mother was potty trained.) But back then all involved had more incentive to accomplish this: cloth diapers fastened by pins. My brother actually pinned a diaper to my tender little flesh, which explains perhaps why I was so keen on learning to use the pot. But I'm not ready to try that on Eddie and Chas. Yet.