The Hanging Diaper

During the summer months, Son #2 and I worked on potty training.  I introduced his big boy underwear to him and we admired them together.  He tried them on and practiced using the toilet.  By the end of the summer, he had grasped the concept but still missed on occasion.  Then, school began again.

All of a sudden, Son #2 began to fight using the potty.  He missed numerous times throughout the day.  My husband and I were thoroughly exasperated.  We wondered why our baby suddenly refused to use the toilet.  With heavy hearts, we reverted back to putting Son #2 in diapers. 

Son #2 was thrilled with the prospect of pottying in his diaper.  He cooed and smiled knowing full well that he had won a pretty significant battle.  No longer would he have to rush to the restroom when he felt the urge to pee.  All he had to do was let it all loose as he casually played with his toys. 

For two months, Son #2 pooped and peed in a diaper.  He toddled around the house satisfied that he could lazily evacuate his waste.  One day, Son #2 looked down at his diaper to examine the tabs.  He discovered that they attached and detached themselves from the main part of the diaper.  For a moment, he amused himself undoing and redoing the diaper.  Then with a sense of finality, Son #2 stripped off his diaper and tossed it onto the floor. 

Son #2 ran up and down the hallway to show off his nudity.  My husband and I analyzed the situation and concluded that he was beginning to reconsider his potty training protest.  However, he was not ready to resume potty training yet so we continued to place him in diapers. 

One day, Son #2 mischievously undid one side of his diaper.  I eyed him with exasperation but said nothing.  Son #2 waddled about the living room with the hanging diaper clinging desperately to his leg.  He paused at my recliner and gazed into my eyes.  I smiled warmly at him and he grunted.  Then, his face turned red as he grasped the chair tensely.  It was then that I realized he was pooping.

Just my luck.

Quickly, I reached down to reattach his diaper.  Sadly, I was too late.  With one hand, I held the bottom of the precarious diaper and its feculent cargo.  With the other hand, I carefully removed the soiled diaper from my little rascal.

Many poems have been written about a mother's hands.  Mothers' hands lift their children, wipe tears away, comfort when there is need, and soothe away childhood fears.  Too bad the poets haven't written about a mother's hands catching stinky parcels from little rears.