The Mayor of Poopville

My sash?

My sash?

Might as well be my new title. It’s not normal to pick up poo off the bathroom floor every day…or maybe it is if you’re me and you have two babies.

I was so smug when I first started potty-training my daughter a few months ago. One day she decided she had to go and she was going to do it on the toilet. Super easy…but I should’ve known it was too good to be true. She really set me up for defeat. Her first time going #2 ended with her exclaiming that she “Went poop in the potty” and when she came to get me to show me, sure enough there it was in all its humongous glory. I wasn’t even trying to potty-train and it was happening. That was my little genius!

Now, pooping her pants is a daily occurrence. I try so hard not to get frustrated and upset with her because I’m aware that she’s only two years old and she’s still learning, but you would think that after squeezing one out in her undies caused an unfavorable response the day before (hell, even ten minutes before!) that she wouldn’t do it again. Wrong! I catch her worried deer-in-the-headlights duty face and know that I’ll be retrieving her stinky grenades once they fall from her pants as I hurriedly take them off of her in the hopes that she’ll finish her business in the appropriate place. That’s never the case though and I’m left with a doo-doo speckled floor and a baby trying to crawl right through it.

It’s a complete nightmare and beyond upsetting. I have to lock the little one out in the hallway while I clean up the bigger one and the floor which results in the little one screaming bloody murder because she’s all alone and the other one starts in with her ridiculous line of questioning. “You happy? You’re so proud of me? You’re not happy? You mad? You happy?” On endless repeat until she’s cleaned up and off the potty or until I slam my face against the door jamb–whichever comes first.

If it’s unclear, this is one of my personal levels of hell.

When I try to vent to the hubby, he doesn’t get it. How could he though when he’s never had to clean up as much doo doo as I’ve had to? And will continue to, there is another baby after all. (Kill me now!)

As far as Poopville goes, the hubby just passes through town every now and then, having to deal with it every once in awhile. He couldn’t even point it out on a map. Guess I’ll have to own my title and work on throwing a parade in my honor. I can see it now. The float will be covered in toilet-paper roses. I’ll sit on my throne waving my toilet brush scepter wearing a tiara made from empty toilet-paper rolls while a symphony of flushing guides me through town.

Maybe I should just be happy that I’m the Mayor of something, although I’d rather it were Skinnytown or FilthyRichTown. I’ll have to settle for Poopville for a little while longer. Who am I kidding–at the rate we’re going–a lot longer.

3 thoughts on “The Mayor of Poopville

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