The Art of Outdoor Potty Training

Sawyer announced that he had to pee four times while we were out in the city today. Three of the times, we were in stores close enough to places I knew had public restrooms that were clean enough to use with a toddler, ones within 30 seconds of wherever we were standing, because our response time is limited and only gauged by the level of urgency he chooses to awkwardly display on his face.

The last time, though, we weren’t near any restaurants. We were in the middle of a grassy park near the duck pond, and there was no way I was going to be able to run with him to the nearest brewery in time.  Look at how lovely today’s setting was.


Now that you know where we were, I’d like to unveil today’s lesson in responsible parenting.


The entire time I snapped away, the Mr. hissed, “STOP TAKING PICTURES OF HIM”, but not because he knew I ws going to post them all over the internet and doesn’t think it’s appropriate to put bare assed photos of our children out for public consumption.  He carried on with, “You are going to give him stage fright.”

First of all, no child of mine is even capable of stage fright under any circumstance.  Second, I witnessed that child poke our Frenchie, Bull, in the eye with his anteater penis the other day and laugh and laugh, slapping his knee and then doing what I’m assuming is the toddler attempt at that weird helicopter penis thing I’ve seen his father do more times than I’d like to discuss.

There is no way in hell I’m taking the blame if that child can’t piss on a tree in public.



The Mr’s store fails of late

I ask the Mr. to go to the store tonight after work for baby wipes and “whatever you want to make for dinner.” Comes back 30 minutes later (store is 1 min drive away) with enough ingredients to make an army mushroom stroganoff (unsure when we swapped meat for mushrooms but I digress since I don’t cook), two bottles of wine, including one red bottle that I’ve never asked for in my life and I feel like WHY DON’T YOU KNOW ME, maltauschen for the kids, ice cream bars for him, and another carton of milk to add to the two in the fridge.
Not a fucking baby wipe to be found.
“Where are the wipes?,” I asked, knowing full well where those fucking wipes are. They’re sitting on the German shelf, waiting to be sold to me when I get in the car and go get them.

“DAMMNIT! Ugh. I was there and I just didn’t know what to get and I wandered in circles and I forgot what I was doing and I didn’t know what I wanted and then I just bought one of everything and came home.”

One of everything I learned tonight translates into lots of nonsensical things (leeks, mushrooms, ice cream bars) on the counter, and more than lots of questions in my head about how one lives 4 decades and can’t go to the store and back and get the one thing needed to wipe the asses of children who have been shitting like Great Danes lately.

This is two days after a similarly interesting exchange occurred Wednesday morning that went something like,
“Do you know where THE deodorant is?” THE stems from a fundamental issue we have at home that we apparently prefer the same melon scented deodorant which shouldn’t reduce us to sharing but I don’t want to discuss that right now.
“I know there’s one in my purse. Why?” (there is also one upstairs next to the tooth brushes and one in the bin holding new toiletries for when we run out)
“Oh, good, because I didn’t know where it was and I’m on day three without wearing any.” Note to self, if purse deodorant is used, it shall go directly in the trash. I stare blankly and then give dead eyes because I just don’t know where to start.  I decide with something rational.
“Huh. There are two stores within 1 minute of either of our offices on base that sell brand new deodorants that you could try purchasing, like a grown adult, probably before day three, though.” I hope this doesn’t become as big of an issue as brushing teeth is for my three year old. Oddly similar, though.
“I see you’re back to being an asshole today.”