Puddles on the Floor

It’s all about pee and poop at 11D tonight. For those with a weak stomach, please move on and read a more genteel blog for the evening.

Ian turned three last weekend. A major milestone in a boy’s life. That means the end of two hour nap in the middle of the afternoon, which has pros and cons for his parents. No more driving tours of the hills of New Jersey to put the little man to sleep. No more hour long crankiness after the nap as Mr. Ian gets his head together. But also no more two hours of silence. Pros and cons.

And it’s also time to finally potty train the kid. He’s been ready for months. He started using the little white potty during Naked Time back in September. For non-parents, an explanation. No, we’re not some peace and love hippies. Naked Time is the hour before bath when the diaper is removed and the tushy gets a bit fresh air.

He’s been ready for a while, but we held him back because he can’t talk. How would he tell us that he had to go when we were out? We finally learned the sign for potty, a shaking fist, so we’re cool.

All weekend, Ian’s tushy peaked out from the bottom of his blue sweater. Kinda like Donald Sutherland in Animal House. He mostly got the idea. He runs to the bathroom when he has to go, puts a stool up the big potty, and aims like a pro into the water. All set to write his name in the snow.

Poop is the harder part. He’s afraid to sit on the grown-up potty. I caught him standing on the stool with his butt aimed at the potty trying to get it in that way. But, dear, there’s no trajectory to poop. You have to sit. Gravity, dear, is a powerful thing.

Underwear is also confusing him. After a successful day of free tushy, we put his special Disney underwear, but that just lead to a large yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. We need a few more days with the potty training.

And then there’s Jefferson the Incontinent Cat.

When I married Steve, many things came along with him. His war simulation games, some World War II memorabilia, the ripped Mr. Softee T-shirt, and Jefferson.

Jefferson is 15. He’s been with Steve since his college days. Too old for frisky games or cuddles, Jefferson and I tolerate each other. But I just can’t deal with cleaning up more bodily fluids. All that cat does is puke up hairball. The entire basement is his de facto vomitorium. Now, we’re having more serious problems.

A few weeks ago, Jefferson started peeing in non-designated areas. On the kids books that had been left in a heap in their corner. On a pile of newspapers on the diningroom rug. I freaked. Then we noticed that the pee had blood in it. After racking up $800 at a pet hospital, we found that the cat had a thyroid condition. The good vets thoughtfully offered to operate on his thyroids, since cats usually have a life expectancy of 16. Well, no.

We adjusted his diet, and he seems to be feeling much better. However, we can’t get the cat to stop peeing in those non-designated areas. The rug from the kids’ room has been removed because it reeks to high heaven.

I’m tempted to lock the cat in the attic along with Steve’s other pre-marriage possessions.

Between free tushies and Jefferson the Incontinent, we’re blowing through rolls of Bounty towels. Is this what adulthood is about?