My Boy Likes to Potty All the Time...

...potty all the time, potty all the ti-iiiiiiime.

Ok, well, not all the time, but I'm in a giddy cloud of potty-related giddiness. I'm taking whatever I can get these days. Last week, Tate trotted by me, went into the bathroom and locked the door. I could hear him take his pants off, undo his diaper, and then make noises like he was either climbing up on the toilet, already up on the toilet and trying to make magic happen, or trying to pull the toilet out of the wall. I was hoping for options 1 or 2. So I knocked on the door and we had this exchange:

Me: "You ok in there, Tate?"

Tate: "Mom! I need privacy! I'm going potty!"

Me: "You got it, buddy. I have no desire to interfere with your potty adventures."

Tate: "Mom. Go. Away."

He didn't actually do anything, but I was psyched that he actually went in there of his own accord. He did it a few more times over the next few days, and I found that with each time, he felt the need to shed more clothes until he got to the point where he just climbed on the throne buck-ass naked. Again, no problem. Whatever it takes. If he needs to channel George Costanza to get the magic done, more power to him.

He may need a little more guidance in some respects though. He handed me a DVD while we were in the car yesterday and told me it had pee on it. Apparently his aim was a little off. I do not know why there was a DVD on the floor next to the toilet, but again, people...I just let him do whatever the toilet gods call him to do in there. I'm but a mere mortal. And since I'm so lowly, it fell to me to be the one to actually clean the pee off the DVD so he could watch it. Thank you, Lord of the Commode, thank you. Nothing like wiping off dried pee to really make me feel like I have a true calling in this world. I'm the Dried Whizz Wiper-Offer.

Anyway, we were in the car because we took a trip to go visit my grandma and uncle. It's about a four-hour drive. It's pretty much like you'd think it would be, knowing me and my spawn. Since Eric drove on the way there and it fell to me to be the Constantly Turning Around and Handing Goldfish Crackers, DVD Cases, Cups of Water, and Various Toys, Books and Other Objects Designed to Shut Kids the Hell Up bitch, I decided that Eric should have a turn being the CTAaHGCDCCoWaVTBaOODtSKtHU bitch. So I drove home. It was fine except for the torrential downpour that followed us wherever we went, and when we had this exchange as I was pulling out of a parking lot after we stopped for lunch and making a left-hand turn onto the street.

Me: "'Doo, doo do....here I am, calmly about to turn left as soon as this other dude turns out of the road. Man, I am a wonderful driver."

Eric "DUDE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING???????"

Me: "WWWWWWWHHHHHHHAAAAAAAT????? What, what WHAT??"

Eric: "Oh, I was talking to that other guy. I wasn't talking to you."

Me: "Don't SAY things while I drive! You know I HATE that!"

Seriously. What a douche. We almost drove into a street sign. I HATE when Eric talks while I drive.

And Nora woke up this morning with the personality and basic likability of one of Satan's minions on crack. Then I looked into her mouth and saw four molars the size of my head poking through her gums. Honestly, you could have parked a Hummer on these things. I'd be pissed the hell off, too. I kept putting Orajel on there and she would keep grabbing my finger and trying to get me to put more on it. Still addicted to the stuff, I see. She needs an O-hit every now and then, just to take the edge of...you know how it is. She can stop any time she wants, really.

I also choose to believe that the Gigantic Molars from Hell are the reason she insisted on persistently flinging things all over the car as we drove. I thought we'd end up with a cracked window or deep, gushing head wound on one of us unsuspecting, pathetic parents before we got home. That girl's got an arm. And four new teeth.