I ventured out to mass this morning, my young spawn in tow. We took our customary seat in the back section next to Grandma, approximately 5 feet from the door. Convenient for hasty exits….of which we have had quite a few.
We made it through the first 12.5 minutes of the service when he uttered the words that no mother wants to hear during a church service:
Mommy. I’m starting to pee.
Holy Moses, LET’S MOVE PEOPLE.
I grabbed his hand, running for the bathroom, and am not sure that his feet even touched the ground as we beat a path for the women’s restroom. By the time I entered the stall, I realized I was alone. My son, having tripped over his feet half way through the bathroom, lay sprawled on the cold, hopefully clean church tile floor, as if to say, “Go on, I can’t make it. Save yourself.”
Man down! I repeat MAN DOWN!
I scooped him off the floor, dragged him hurriedly to the toilet, and took what seemed an excruciatingly long time to get his jeans down so he could, yes, in fact, pee in the potty and not wherever he felt like. In public. It has taken us six long months to get this far.
Hallelujah. Can I get an Amen?
OMGoodness…I can so see this playing out! Congrats on him peeing in the potty —AND telling you he needed to go!