Sunday, July 8, 2012

Critical Mass

On the weekends, when we're not running amok away from the house, I always put Johnny in underpants and try, try again to get him potty trained.

The boy does. not. care.  He has absolutely no clue how to control his bladder, nor does he care.  He doesn't care if he sits around in sopping wet underwear that is seeping up onto his shirt, and he doesn't mind if he wets all over my furniture.  If he had the motor skills to hold up his middle finger while he peed all over my upholstery, two minutes after I just took him to the potty in the twenty-seventh fruitless trip of the day, I'm confident he would.

In my head, I thought he'd be potty trained on or near his second birthday.  The third one fast approacheth.  I have six months until the second baby is here and DAMNED if I am having two in diapers.  I'm not sure what he has to be promised in order to get this done, but I'm just saying, a Porsche Boxter is not off the table.