I was watching out the glass front door when I turned to see my youngest shying from my gaze. I thought he was trying to play with me, so I sneaked every-so-slowly towards him, peeking around the corner at him, as he shied away from me further. I realized this wasn’t hide and seek, he was trying to poop without prying eyes. “Hey! Are you trying to poop?”
“NO!” He snarled at me, shying away again, wanting privacy.
“Oh YES YOU ARE! C’mere, let’s try to go on the POTTY! C’mon dad!”
I called to my husband to help me. My husband lept up, excited, already filled with potty-training mojo with our older toddler. Baby Dude, however, emphatically was NOT excited. “Noo!” he yelled, half-whining, half-pouting.
“C’mon, it’ll be okay! Here…”
I unsnapped his diaper and plopped him on his sister’s Dora potty seat insert. He’s not the biggest fan of heights (read: scared to DEATH of ’em), so, in true, Baby Dude type fashion, he hated this with the fire of a thousand suns that I’ve propped him UP to get him to do business.
“Cmon baby. Poop! G’head, push! Grrr!”
I motioned bearing down and pushing, squinting my eyes, making fists. Baby Dude did not care, even if I did look ridiculous. He didn’t want to sit on his sister’s potty seat, he didn’t want to be high, he didn’t want to poop on the potty. For that matter, I’m pretty sure he didn’t even want to poop anymore, either.
Once we gave up and gave into his demands to put him back down, despite smelling that he obviously had to go, he didn’t go. For the rest of the night.
That’s right, folks, I am the anti-potty trainer. I scare the poop back into children. Go me!
Fail.
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