“Oh yes, he’s potty trained!”
The moment those words escaped my lips, I was addicted. “Diapers? Oh no, we won’t be needing those! He’s potty trained!” “He’ll let you know if he needs to potty. He’s potty trained, you know!”
Fast forward to yesterday. I took both boys to the store by myself, just a quick trip to grab a few essentials to get through the week. With Spencer (13 months) riding in the cart seat, I had Miles (2.5) walking by my side. We moseyed through the pharmacy area, opting not to stand in line to wait for my prescription (“We’ll come back later.”), selected a few storage totes for finishing my seasonal clothes change nightmare, and chose a new candle for the living room (Shimmering Cherry Blossom, in case you are curious). Then we headed to the grocery section, where all hell broke loose.
We picked up yogurt and milk, then rounded the corner for the cheese. Miles was acting a little silly, jumping around and saying something I couldn’t understand. It sounded like “Up, mama, UP!” I had asked him if he needed to go potty as we came around the corner. He said no. He clearly meant yes.
As I reached for a package of cheddar cheese, Miles suddenly stopped jumping and a puddle began to form at his feet. Oh no. It’s happening.
Mortified, I apologized to the store worker who was restocking nearby. I pushed our cart and began the Walk Of Shame to the front of the store with a clueless Miles following closely behind. I left my cart next to one of the Express lanes and took the boys to the bathroom. Not that it mattered. I think it was more about escape than relief. Surely I have some extra clothes for him in the car, right? All good mothers would have a spare set of clothing with them at all times! We had (of course) used the spare set of underwear and clothes on Friday and the diaper bag was conveniently at home. It was just supposed to be a quick trip!
Back inside the store. We zipped to the back, grabbed a pair of shorts and package of little boy undies, and returned to the register where I had abandoned my cart. I quietly paid for my purchase and we left the store once again. I should point out that Miles, while seemingly oblivious to the spectacle we were creating, was soaked from the waist down. I sent silent daggers in the direction of the in-store bank employee who put 2 and 2 together and started laughing as we passed. Your day will come, guy. Watch yourself.
Out to the car, quick wardrobe change in the back of the Jeep, and then with determination we went back into the store to finish shopping. We made it out that time with our list completed and everyone’s shorts remained dry, but I can’t say my pride was restored. As we passed by the scene of the (pee) crime, I noticed this:
Yep. I’m “That Mom” whose kid peed on the floor.
So we’re in full-blown potty training regression here. I think I can directly trace it back to my husband’s decision to put Miles in Pull-Ups at night instead of his cloth training pants. We went from dry all day and dry all night to soaked Pull-Ups every morning and accidents next to cheese displays. HELP.ME.