Over Labor Day, I took RHM on a mini-vacation.
That sounds like fun, right? A breeze, even? Let me add another element: potty training.
That's right! I'm potty training RHM and, for the most part, he's doing fantastic, but the week before we left, he started regressing somewhat. I could have just stuck him in a pull up for the duration of our getaway and made my life 110 times easier, but I didn't. I'm determined to make this thing stick. So, I packed up RHM's entire wardrobe of pants and big boy undies and we hit the road.
First stop? The Children's Museum. For this leg of the trip, RHM donned his Mini-Thor persona and heroically peed his pants within five minutes of entering the building.
Wardrobe change #1.
|Mini-Thor conquers the world with his Viking ship.|
Mini-Thor explored and played at 100 miles per hour.
|I shall milk this cow, then I shall go play with bubbles..|
He created masterpieces in the art room, visited Mexico, and played with bubbles. We also adopted a small toddler who appeared to have Down's Syndrome for a good part of our visit. I mean, seriously, where were this kid's parents?!
|Odin's beard! Tamales!|
Whelp. I only brought 4 changes of pants to the museum and the choices were:
1. To trek at least 4 miles to the car to get more out of RHM's suitcase
2. Head off to the next part of our journey.
Despite RHM's screams as I dragged him out of the museum, I chose the latter. Oh, and we finally met up with our adopted toddler's group - a daycare visiting the museum that didn't even know he was gone. How terrifying. Oh well, happy ending there.
RHM got some fresh drawers and we decided to stop at Chickfila before we started the 3 hour drive towards our next leg. Our Chickfila visit was uneventful. And by "uneventful" I mean "complete catastrophe/totally traumatic." RHM and I ate our meal without issue and then he asked if he could play in the playplace. I'm thinking, "Okay, we've got a 3 hour drive ahead of us. If I let him exert all his energy now, MAYBE he'll sleep through most of it." So, I said, "Cool."
RHM played in the playplace for about 20 minutes while I sat behind the glass watching him and making witty remarks to all the other moms hoping their kids pass out after stuffing their faces with chicken and playing until they're pooped.
Now, it's ironic that I used that phrase because at the exact minute in went through my head, a small boy tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "Miss, your son smells like poop." I snap my head up and see RHM's devilish grin and the Beginning of the End trickling down his leg. Oh god. I'm the mother of the child who SHITS HIS PANTS in the Chickfila playplace.
I have never moved as fast as I did in that moment. I scooped RHM up and ran to the bathroom, with him screaming every step of the way because he wasn't done playing. Once in the bathroom, my suspicion was confirmed: diarrhea. Diarrhea everywhere. I ended up just chunking his pants and underwear, cleaned him up, put on a new set of clothes and walk of shamed it through the restaurant to the car. RHM still screaming.
Almost as soon as he was buckled in his seat, RHM passed out. And me? I just started laughing hysterically. There's just one more story to tell his first girlfriend.
To be continued...
The Average Person
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