Potty Training Means...

...that you might be on the highway, chatting on your cell phone to your friend, ignoring your three-year-old, who is pretending to talk to Iron Man on his "ipod," when all of a sudden --

"I gotta POO!"

Click. "Wh-what? WHAT? Poo? Really? Now?!"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, um, can you hold it until we get home, or should I um, pull over or something?"

"Pull over or something."

Uh. Huh. Get off the highway at the next exit. Think fast. There are no restaurants easily available nearby. There is a city park that we take hikes in sometimes. Drive to the park, which has random cars driving in and out of the parking lot. How am I gonna do this? Take him out of the car and put him on the side with a teeny bit of privacy. I should clarify that I could see no public washroom anywhere.

Oh dear, people are going to think I'm molesting him or something. I must look creepy too. Who goes to a forested area mid-winter with no dog? Rapists? Drug dealers? Married men having illicit sex with hookers or gay men?

Oh man, the thought of dogs reminded me -- I can't just let him poop on the snow. I rummage through the car and sacrifice and H&M bag full of 4 fabulous spring finds (and one super cheap and cute clutch from Old Navy.) Toss the new lovelies into another bag carrying childhood mementos that my mom is forcing me to clear out of her home.

Pull down Nate's pants and undies. Place the H&M bag in a diaperish fashion between his legs. "You'll have to poo standing up," I say. "What are we doing here?" he has the nerve to ask. Great question son. "POO already!" He makes some scrunchy faces and grunty sounds. I look him in the eye.

"You don't have to poo anymore, do you?"

"Uh, no."

Great. We drive home in silence.

Potty training means hours later I find myself holding a bowl of chopped up fruit in one hand, the potty in the other, calling after my son with my own pants around my ankles.

How did I end up here again? I wanted this, right?