It's all about balance, I'm finding. More:
If Monday and Tuesday were about dodging urine, then Wednesday and today are about the other sort of waste-making. I'm beginning to understand how parents become obsessed with bodily fluids, how conversation is reduced to Honey, do you smell that? and just who will change the diaper this time.
To whit: Jimmy is officially petrified of going #2. So much so that he will keep it inside as long as he can, and recently, Sean had to give him an enema. Wednesday was all about tantrum throwing, this time precariously balanced on the big boy potty, absolutely refusing in a wailing tone to push it out--because it gave him a boo-boo.
Get-out! he yelled, his chubby legs swinging. Get-out, poopie! Get-out now!
It did, eventually, though it took two rounds of Sean facing off with his three-year-old son, wheedling and cajoling, promising Chuck E. Cheese's and toy trucks and wrestling matches upstairs. And I tell you, that poopie was just about the size of our dear Jimmy himself, and I have never heard such pride as he squealed and ran, bare-bottomed, completely oblivious to his nudity, announcing to everyone, I made poop-ie in the pot-ty! Indeed, we were all very proud.
Unfortunately, the pride hath turned; when Jimmy woke from his nap today, we discovered he had also made poopie in his Spiderman underwear. Not quite the applause-worthy event that Wednesday night was.
I'm about halfway through my New Jersey "nannying" adventure, and I'm surviving. There are moments when I swear I am too selfish, to ensconced in being who I am, that I think I cannot possibly have children of my own, and then there are these endearing moments, when Jimmy looks at you in just that way, says, I love you, Aunt Molly, or Jack presses his sweaty face against your shoulder and you sigh and think, Yes, this is how it should be.