That is the title of the book I am working on.
This story needs an explanation of Carson and his monkey walk. Monkey walk is when Carson gets on all fours and flies around the house. Only his arms and legs are straight so his little bottom sticks straight up in the air. Similar to, say, a chimpanzee.
Reason #18 NOT to potty train your child:
Call it role modeling, call it multi-tasking, call it what you will, but on more than one occasion I will use the "big potty" while Carson sits across from me on his "little potty". Never a problem until last night.
Carson had a slight head start and finished his business while I was in the middle of mine (#1 if case you're getting a horrible image, sorry). Only his was #2 and quite reminiscent of soft serve ice cream.
He shouted "All done pooping Mommy!!", flew off his little potty, and shot across the bathroom, MONKEY WALKING!!!!!!!! Buns straight up in the air, cheeking flapping, with no pants or underpants on!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was an indescribable feeling of awe, horror, disgust, can't look away but need to look away!! It felt like a bad dream, as I moved in slow motion trying to pull up my pants and chase this impish, naked monkey across the room.
By the time I caught him he was rolling around on the dog bed, Sorry Jackson!! It was the stuff legends are made of.
Reason #19 (true story):
Picture this. You've already loaded up the car (3 trips in all). The car is running. It's taken 15 minutes but the 2 year old's jacket is finally on.
The sippy cup and snack bag are in tiny hands. The dog is looking forlornly out the window as you depart for the day. You're already 10 minutes later than you should be.
Said 2 year old plays the ha-ha (not so funny) chase me to get me in the car game. You're sweating, frustrated, and trying not to lose it.
You catch and wrestle the wild monster into his car seat, trying not to get mud on your pants as you strain to tighten the buckles.
Then, "Mommy, me have to peepee."
You're torn. Is this for real? Is it a ploy? (see Poop Dupe for further reference)
But you decide a seat full of pee is not a good choice and unbuckle the smiling (or quite possibly smirking) monster. But in a last ditch effort to save time, you carry peepee head over to the edge of the driveway, unzip him, and command, "aim for the azeala".
But alas, suddenly pee-pee head thinks he has to poop so the azeala is safe for another day.
Now you have to turn off the car to unlock the house, disarm the alarm, and carry pee-pee-poo-poo head with his pants around his ankles to the nearest potty.
"No Mommy, your potty" - this is no longer charming. This is borderline insanity. This is what drives parents to drink or post their children on Craig's List.
Pick up potty-picky child, run to the next bathroom. Plop him down and pray that there isn't a line at Starbucks.
Then your praying is interrupted by a loud, reverberating toot.
And as suddenly as the chaos began, it is over. False freaking alarm. No poo, no pee. Just flatulence.
Tell the barista to make it a venti and pop a vanilla Prozac in please!