Recently our church was ‘interviewing’ a potential pastor, and he and his wife attended a church-wide picnic. Trying to get to know her and make her feel welcome, I spent some time chatting with her while the boys were otherwise occupied with their friends in the pool.
At one point, Tadpole sat down next to me and munched on some food, interrupting me occasionally to ask a random question, as small children do. In my continual efforts to teach good manners, I gently reminded him a few times not to interrupt but to wait patiently for Mommy to finish talking.
After a few of these interjections and responses, Tadpole started saying, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy,” in a quiet but persistent voice. Determined to set a good example to the potential pastor’s wife, I sweetly turned once again to him and said “Just a moment.” He waited somewhat impatiently by my side, but quieted, and I continued on with my chat.
Just as my mind secretly drifted away from our discussion on cold Chicago winters to how proud I was that my son was obediently waiting to interject again, I heard a long, low whine and felt warmth on my feet. I looked down to see that he had accidentally peed all over my flip-flopped foot, and it had splashed onto the pastor’s wife’s feet.
Well, he hadn’t told me he had to go potty! The kid has been potty-trained with a near perfect record for over two years, so it never dawned on me that he might be interrupting for the purpose of informing me that he had to go!
Fast forward to later that afternoon when we stopped by the beautiful “our-house-was-featured-in-Southern-Living-magazine” home of some super sweet, friendly, southern grandparent-aged neighbors of ours. They had met my charming husband and showed him their gorgeous home when he attended his first HOA meeting as a new member of the neighborhood. After striking up a conversation about remodeling and gardening, they suggested he bring me by sometime to look at their house.
We pulled into their driveway as the baby was desperate to feed and Tigger had fallen asleep only two minutes prior. After sitting for a few minutes in the car, we decided it might look rather odd, so Hubby headed into the house with Tadpole and Cubby with the plan that he would explain my absence and I would follow in about 10 minutes.
As if that bizarre entry wasn’t dramatic enough when meeting someone for the first time, we had to make it even more interesting. I woke up a sleepy (thus fussy) Tigger and together with the baby we strolled up the impeccably manicured walkway to the welcoming doorstep. As I rang the doorbell, Tigger started doing the potty dance and screaming, “I have to pee! I have to pee!”
Not wanting any embarrassing repeats of earlier, I eagerly pushed the ornate doorbell a half dozen times in a row and knocked (in case it wasn’t working, of course) knowing that everyone was probably outside in the designer backyard. I had faith in my well-potty-trained son that he could make it another minute until we were let into the house and could rush through all the formalities and down the hall to the nearest potty, so I remained calm and encouraged him that a visit to the potty was only a few short moments away.
And then, at the exact same moment that my lovely and proper neighbor curiously opened her door, my precious two-year-old dropped his eyes to his shoes and we all watched the effects of two juice boxes and two hours in the pool drain out from under his shorts.
“Uh… Nice to meet you,” I stammered.
You can't imagine my recovery from that one. Embarrassing. But, I take comfort in the fact that every mom has been there at some point…