Partners in Crime

I've spent the entire week wondering what the heck to write about and then bam. Today. Everything happened at once, and I gleefully and sadly had something to write about.

Partners in crime...it's already begun.

Some of this stuff you just can’t make up.

This morning, smelling something awry, Cohen finally informs me he has pooped in his diaper. No biggie. It happens every day. The fun part is that he insists on sitting on the potty like a big boy every time AFTER he poops. The concept of pooping on the potty is lost on him. I quickly clean him up and set him on the potty to let him admire himself and play with his wee wee. Nothing productive ever happens with boys on potties, right?

Minutes later, he jumps off the toilet and begins running in circles around me. I had been attempting to have a phone conversation while getting dressed while he sat, so I have try to throw pants on quick and yell at him to get a diaper back on, all while trying to explain why I'm yelling to the person on the other end of the phone. Multi-tasking at its best. 

Instead of listening, shocker, I glance in the mirror to see where he’s gone and in horror, realize my rotten, naked two year old is sitting on my bed, grinning at me like the Cheshire cat. Meanwhile, Bryn is sitting on the floor in front of him clapping and cheering.

“Do Do Mommy.” (Which in Cohen-speak means: Look at me, Mommy).” 

“Cohen!” My panic is rising. “Did you just pee on my bed?”

A look of delight crosses his face right before he concentrates really hard and I yank him off my bed to find this:

Yes. My child forced himself to pee on my bed when I asked him if he had peed, leaving behind a wonderful reminder for me.

I re-dress him, rip off my newly changed sheets to throw back in the wash and return to find the two trouble-makers busy in the bathroom again:

 

Not suspicious at all, right?

She's so proud of her new talent.

Yes. Apparently the bathroom is a new hangout place.  And Bryn has discovered she can reach the toilet paper. I knew it was going to happen. I have a picture of Cohen doing the exact same thing a year ago. But today? When I’m already ticked at having to wipe poop off my bed?

It gets even better. If you see in the background, her partner in crime is shoving the toilet paper, which I later found out was nearly an entire roll, into the toilet and flushing it.

As the water is rushing to the top of the bowl, I’m grabbing two pairs of hands off the rim and yelling at them to take cover because it’s coming over. By some miracle, a large sucking sound, quite possibly the force from me sucking the air out of the room, sucks the large, really, impossibly large roll of toilet paper, down and out our incredibly terrible plumbing.

I know those of you with kids out there are laughing hysterically because you’ve all had days like mine. And those without kids are laughing hysterically because its ridiculous the things that happen each day at my house, but secretly you’re praying your children are more sane than mine.

It was just one of those days, when just an hour later Cohen is laying on the floor of the YMCA refusing to walk or stand because he has to hold my hand. Bryn is precariously leaning forward nearly tumbling out of my one arm holding her in a death grip to my side to watch him, and Emery is running in circles around us singing the songs from Frozen as loud as she can, when someone, innocently, yet stupidly, asks, "Got your hands full, don't ya?" 

I could of punched the sweet man in the face. Or myself in the face. Or left my squealing toddler with him for the rest of the morning. 

Instead, I wrestle both squirming children into my arms, give Emery a look that tells her this is one of those you-listen-to-mommy-days-or-else-something-terrible-will-happen-to-your-ponies days, smile at the man, and say, "Yep. This is just one of those days."