Code 12

Since that last post about potty training was becoming longer than Dances With Wolves, I decided to make this story into its own post.  There is only so much poop that one reader can handle.

So if you don't want to waste your time reading the previous entry, please allow me to bring you up to speed: Drew has potty-trained. Hallelujah! 

But this is a conditional potty training.  Drew will not use a public restroom.

But unfortunately, when you're less than 3-years-old, you only have a 30-second window between saying, "I need to go potty" and actually going potty.  Public restrooms are a necessary evil. 

But no matter how much I mummify that toilet seat with tissue paper, Drew gets stage fright every single time.  

Last night, we were at the ballpark for Bailey's softball game.  And since a toddler has the attention span of a gnat, Brian and I took turns watching Bailey pitch or watching Drew play in the dirt.  

In-between strike two and three, I heard Brian shout from behind the bleachers: "Amanda, we have a Code 12!"

Code 12?  What in the world is he talking about?  

So I gave him that look that only wives can give their husbands that silently says, "What in the world are you talking about?"

Brian said, "You know.... we have a ONE and a TWO."   And then I noticed that Drew was walking like he had ridden a horse from here to California.  

Ohhhhhhhh.  Right.  "The truth? You can't handle the truth!"  

Oops. That's a Code Red. Sorry, I get those two confused every time.   

Even though the Code 12 happened on Brian's watch, he felt that I was the best person for the job.  So I took Drew into the ladies restroom with my Coach Kit in tow. 

What's a Coach Kit?  It's simply a Coach purse filled with paper towels, wet wipes, hand sanitizer, underwear, pull-ups, socks and a change of clothes.  Oh, and some lipgloss. 

BUTT between you and me, that Superman is no superhero in my book.  If he had any special powers at all, he could have prevented the Code 12 from taking up residence over one-third of my son's body.  Drew's poo is apparently more powerful than kryptonite. 

As I was thinking to myself that I need to add a pressure washer to the Coach Kit, a little girl and her mother entered the restroom.  And I heard this sweet, little, six-year-old voice say, "Gross, Mama!  It stinks in here!"

I'm sorry, sweetie.  See, this is dude poop and something that you should not be exposed to until after you're married.  But unfortunately, this was too big a job for the men's restroom.  In a perfect world, it would have stayed on their side of the swinging doors, but we don't live in a perfect world honey, and it's best if you learn that now. 

We left the restroom with Drew wearing mismatched clothes, making his Lutropublicaphobia known to everyone around him.  (That's the fear of public restrooms, by the way.  I looked it up.)  But now, he was happy and clean as a whistle!

Just in time to start playing in the dirt again.

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