Yes, two things that should not go together. But you don’t live my glamorous life.
Flora had her first soccer game on Saturday. And although the red team (to be named the Penguins, I believe) was outscored by the white team (the Dolphins) something like 48 to 6, it looked to me like everyone was having fun and that’s all that counts in my opinion.
In the meantime, Kate was pretty good. She didn’t try to escape from the field, like she did at last Wednesday’s practice, and — shockingly — she did not try to get in the game.
However, there is one aspect of having Kate at soccer that is going to be muy, muy unpleasant.
In a bid to get her potty trained, I have gone the hard-core route. When Kate is at home with me — or even not at-home but nonetheless with me (or her father) — she is in underpants. I carry one or two extra outfits with me now, and a few plastic bags for the, er, fallout.
Her resistance to pooping has ended (for the most part — thank you Miralax), but she is still not asking to go to the potty when she has to go. (This goes for pee, too.)
We’ve had some accidents, as you can imagine.
However, one place she simply LOVES to go potty is when we are at soccer with Flora. Oh, the magic of the port-o-potty. Its siren call lures Kate in two, three, four times for the magical experience of pooping in a stinky, hot box with blue water and more germs than I care to contemplate.
And I stand, door propped open at my back, begging her to “really finish pooping all the way this time” [because I swear I’m going to hurl my Starbucks’ pastry right here beside the port-o-potty if I have to spend anymore time in this box with you and that sucker cost me $5, so don’t make me do it].
We have been, over the course of one game and one practice, in the port-o-potty up to seven times.
And, to add insult to injury, on Saturday, instead of going to the port-o-potty ONE MORE TIME, Kate decided to poop in her pants because she couldn’t be bothered to interrupt her hard-won time on the playground.
I mean, really, people.
I threw those underpants out, by the way.
7 thoughts on “Soccer and Poop”
Fallout indeed. I commend you for not hurling that costly pastry. Not sure I could have said the same … Is it the bright blue color that intrigues her?? Note to Port-a-John company: go with something altogether unappealing, like, say beige or, well, baby-poop brown.
I just think it’s that early fascination that potty-trainees have to go to the bathroom wherever they are. You know, how you walk into a restaurant, and the kids are like, “Hey, do they have a potty here? Let’s check it out!” It’s a whole new world for them.
Kids LOVE public bathrooms. The more they gross YOU out, the more they want to go in them. I have always said that parenting means seeing inside every public bathroom in the history of ever.
I know! I think she’s fascinated by the idea of a bathroom outside. Awesome for me!
bathroom witch is public
[…] only say this once: Potty-training a toddler and first trimester nausea do not mix. Especially when a Port-o-Potty is sometimes involved. But, hey, we are diaper-free until late November! […]
[…] night was a loss-of-privileges night. The not listening coupled with the poopy pants (and, yeah, that port-o-potty didn’t go anywhere) meant she didn’t get a TV show. (Flora did while I was bathing […]