Sunday, January 30, 2005
Captain Underpants
Max announced this morning that he wanted to wear underpants. Underpants are better than diapers, he told me solemnly, because underpants are soft and diapers are scratchy. I confess that I have been plying this idea on Max's maleable young mind for a few days, and it finally took hold.
Max had quite a day in his underpants. He went six for six in the solid waste department, and I was darn proud of him. He was plenty proud, too. Add to that the M&M's that he scored for using the potty, and he was thinking that there was nothing but upside when it came to this toilet business.
There was just one problem. Max couldn't get a handle on fluid dynamics. Every 15 minutes or so, I'd ask Max if he had the urge, and shortly after saying "no," he'd emerge with wet trousers. By 1:00, when Lee came home from work, we'd been through five changes of underpants. There were no more clean slacks for Max to wear, so I was doing laundry as well.
The only thing we'd done all morning was potty stuff. The house was a mess. The bills were unpaid. Nothing fun or creative or stimulating had happened in our house all morning. And I was frazzled and exhausted. In one morning, I morphed from Happy Homemaker to Desperate Housewife.
Lee offered me a reprieve. "Why don't you just decide that after so many wet underpants in one day, it's back to diapers until tomorrow?" "Great! I'm going to choose five changes of underpants. I'll get the diaper." So back into diapers Max went.
For about 15 minutes.
The next time I walked into Max's room, he was running around bare-bottomed, a discarded diaper lying by his bed. "Max, why did you take off your diaper?" "I don't like diapers. They're scratchy!"
Well, he got that much figured out. It was a loooong afternoon.
Evidently, the whole business was not just tiring for me. At 6:15, on the way to dinner, Max fell asleep in the car. Lee carried him into Ninfa's, where he slept face down on the booth beside Lee. After Lee, Reed and I had finished eating, Max regained a groggy consciousness. He leaned heavily against Lee while he ate a few tortillas, dozing between bites.
"He looks so cute," I said.
"You can say that because you're on the other side of the table from him," Lee replied.
Laughing, I anwered, "I can say that because I'm on the other side of the table and I've had a margarita."
Max had quite a day in his underpants. He went six for six in the solid waste department, and I was darn proud of him. He was plenty proud, too. Add to that the M&M's that he scored for using the potty, and he was thinking that there was nothing but upside when it came to this toilet business.
There was just one problem. Max couldn't get a handle on fluid dynamics. Every 15 minutes or so, I'd ask Max if he had the urge, and shortly after saying "no," he'd emerge with wet trousers. By 1:00, when Lee came home from work, we'd been through five changes of underpants. There were no more clean slacks for Max to wear, so I was doing laundry as well.
The only thing we'd done all morning was potty stuff. The house was a mess. The bills were unpaid. Nothing fun or creative or stimulating had happened in our house all morning. And I was frazzled and exhausted. In one morning, I morphed from Happy Homemaker to Desperate Housewife.
Lee offered me a reprieve. "Why don't you just decide that after so many wet underpants in one day, it's back to diapers until tomorrow?" "Great! I'm going to choose five changes of underpants. I'll get the diaper." So back into diapers Max went.
For about 15 minutes.
The next time I walked into Max's room, he was running around bare-bottomed, a discarded diaper lying by his bed. "Max, why did you take off your diaper?" "I don't like diapers. They're scratchy!"
Well, he got that much figured out. It was a loooong afternoon.
Evidently, the whole business was not just tiring for me. At 6:15, on the way to dinner, Max fell asleep in the car. Lee carried him into Ninfa's, where he slept face down on the booth beside Lee. After Lee, Reed and I had finished eating, Max regained a groggy consciousness. He leaned heavily against Lee while he ate a few tortillas, dozing between bites.
"He looks so cute," I said.
"You can say that because you're on the other side of the table from him," Lee replied.
Laughing, I anwered, "I can say that because I'm on the other side of the table and I've had a margarita."
2 Comments:
Congratulations to Captain Underpants for successful solid waste management! I'm sure that his understanding of fluid dynamics will follow shortly.
And do you watch Desparate Housewives? Paul does, and I occasionally catch a bit. Somehow, I don't see you in any of them.
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