Yesterday I was living the phrase “roll up your sleeves and get dirty.” Literally, I spent part of the afternoon with poop rolled up in my sleeve.
After a great week on the potty train (ending with a solid, dramatic flourish on Friday night…), I was on my own with Laurel all weekend and either my timing was completely off by 5 minutes all day, or Laurel was regressing or resisting. Yesterday was no better, and in the afternoon, during a much-needed visit with my pal Paige and her sons we had two accidents in quick succession right after a potty stop.
It’s completely awkward to try to clean poop off a kid who is not reclined on a changing mat, and as I was trying to negotiate this process I ended up with poop on my sleeve. And even though Paige would have happily given me a new shirt, it seemed high time for me to lighten up and start rolling with it. I had been fretting and judging myself all weekend with each passing accident, and as supportive as I tried to be, I’m sure Laurel could sense my stress. So up went the sleeve. And out when any further expectations on the should’s of this whole process.