Ever since Ward flew the coop, my youngest son, four, has started to wet his bed. Not started AGAIN, actually started. A champion, ambitious potty trainer, he declared diapers a done deal at two and hasn’t looked back. But now he’s up, wet and hostile in the middle of the night. Yes, yes, I’ve tried it all. I’ve cut back on his liquids in the evening, made him pee multiple times before pjs, before books, after books, and again before bed. I’ve even woken him up in the middle of the night to go. No success (with the latter he ended up dry but in tears as he managed to slam the toilet seat down on himself AND not stop peeing in time, leading to him being drenched…..and then falling over). I know you’re never, ever supposed to go back to diapers once they’re out of them (especially with him, who’s two years out) but I finally cracked and bought Big Boy Nighttime Underwear (i.e. diapers) and offered the choice to use them or not.
Initially he balked. Then he was curious. When I pointed out they had sharks on them, he was hooked. Bedtime rolled around and after some serious diaper play (on his head! outside his pjs! on the dog!) he finally got a pair on where it was supposed to be. And then, without warning, his interest in the diaper, um, grew……if you know what I mean? You don’t? Lets say it “rubbed him the right way.” Wink wink. Blech. A positively gleeful William came running down the hall to exclaim “It’s growing!” Oh, someone just kill me. And then came the demo. Yes, thank you, I see your penis is bigger. That’s just great. Trust me, it’s harder than you think to find the appropriate balance between horror, hysterical laughter and, did I already mention horror? So proud was my child, he raced downstairs to show his older brother. He wanted to show the babysitter. Thank goodness he doesn’t know about Skype or Twitter and isn’t a politician or we could have had a scandal on our hands. Then comes this, out of the mouth of the babe: “Whoever invented diapers was a genius, right Mom?”
Eventually, he became less thrilled with the novelty (which is surprising as I know grown men who have not tired of their special genital trick). He changed back into underwear behind a chair, instructing me repeatedly to not look at him. There was no danger of that, I assured him. Back to, um, normal he comes over to my bedside and issued me a cautionary warning, lest this continue to occur: “Mom,” he said seriously, “you need to stop feeding me vegetables or it will keep getting bigger.” Apparently we’ll need to find a replacement for the Sunday morning farmer’s market for the sake of my kid’s junk. I’m guessing June did not have this problem.