Dare I say it: Tyler is potty trained. Oh, yes. Yes, he is. (And a full six months before his brother was, on our first trek down the Avenue of Three-Year-Old Boys.)
It was not without heartache to his mother, of course. We thought we had mastered this a month ago. We counted the stickers, mastered days of dryness, sang, danced, and chocolated ourselves into each bathroom stall, and we finally celebrated mightily with a grand trip to Chuck E Cheese. (Because what says milestone better than bad pizza?)
And the next day, when Tyler used the potty, he said, "And where is my m&m?"
"Oh, you don't need one anymore. Because you're a big boy now, and you wear big kid underwear, and we went to Chuck E Cheese, and you don't need an m&m. That's just while you're learning. You know how now."
And he looked at me, like, "Oh, really? You think I do? Wanna bet?"
And we regressed entirely. The boy decided that if it wasn't a party, if there would be no singing, dancing, cheering, and celebrating, then he wasn't interested.
Well, he wins. Out came the m&m's. Because really, it's a small price to pay for a diaper-free home. And who can't benefit from a handful of extrinsic motivation, I ask you?
All of that to say: he is a master at it now. He knows the signs, he can anticipate the warnings, and he is a total pro.
So much so that on a recent lunch date with my mom, he stopped mid-meal and said, "Mommy! My poop is coming out right now!"
And if you have potty trained, you know that there is a brief window in which you will accept such graphic representations of bodily functions, even at the dinner table, if it means that we avoid the looming threat.
So, I scooped him up, we ran to the bathroom, and we made it just in time. Whew. Good work, kiddo.
And as he ran back to our table at Qdoba, on a grand display before the world, he shouted, "Grandma! I POOPED ON THE POTTY!"
And as I followed behind him, three women patted me on the back. Two of them applauded him.
Because apparently, they've done this journey, too.