Potty Trained ?

Three years old, will be starting a two day preschool next week and almost potty trained! We of course would like this phase of his and our lives to be packed away and never to be brought back out. This potty training is for the birds!  But, I digress!

I never knew that having a grandson would be such an enjoyable ride, sometimes I do not have control of the steering wheel and we just twist and turn down any path, rut, or opening that is before or beside us and we go wide open screaming with our eyes squinting behind spread fingers, butt cheeks clinched tight and hearts in our throats. Other times, it’s a slow meandering walk along a quiet forest trail. The birds tweeting, bugs bugging, toads croaking; music of nature. There you go, it is what it turns out to be!

One beautiful morning we walked out of the house with a purpose and a bag for survival. Change of clothes for a three year old, juice packs, cracker snacks, water bottles and man food, if needed. An hour later I spun the car around the trailhead parking area and pointed it for a fast exit, just in case the bogeymen chased us out of the woods. We geared up and followed adventure into the yet to be discovered. Man child leads the way and carefully follows the clear path, I tag along, allowing him freedom to grow and be independent. The path is stony with roots and sticks scattered about, so we be circumspect as we place our feet. One time he slips on a rolling stone [ no moss on it ] and almost lands with a thump, but catches himself and all is right in his world. We stop for a snack, enjoy it and continue down the trail until rain begins to fall. The consensus of two is to get back to the car before we really get soaked – smart move! Rain falls! Leaves drip! We get wet! Ok, no harm done.

We’re at the car giving high fives, successful hike. Hatch back is open as I change my shoes and put gear away. “If you have to go pee pee, do it now before we start driving.” He says, “Ok.” “Just pee in the weeds by the trees.” “Ok.” I see him pull down his shorts and underwear and begin the process. Oh! my soul, the MacDonald’s golden arches don’t have any thing on that golden stream! “What are you doin’?” I stammer as he turns and directs the arch on the car, I’m under the hatchback window and watch and listen to what amounts to a chorus of rain on a hot tin roof! The Gateway Arch in St. Louis is small compared to this fountain of youth.

What I’m thinking out loud is – How can a peewee wee wee hold so much pee pee?

 

 

 

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