Owen and I have our moments. The three-year-old sure figured out the potty thing rather quickly and I couldn’t be more proud of him. It’s just that silly old underwear which still requires help. “I gotta go, I gotta go! You gotta come help me with my underwear and then give me some privacy.”
Sometimes he gets his privacy.
Most of the time, his 8 months pregnant mom takes a turn peeing right after him. May as well, I’m here and all. “Can I pee on your pee? We’ll save water and flush it all down together!” He likes my clever ideas.
Yesterday, as I was peeing on his pee, he sweetly put his chubby little dimpled hand on my belly and asked, “How is he going to get out? He’s BLOCKED!”
I explained how I would PUSH the baby out and pointed to that location. He laughed and asked, “What if he falls out?”
“Nope, the Dr. will be there and mommy will be laying down in a hospital bed. He’ll come out fast, he’ll be crying and he’ll want to eat straight away. Do you remember what babies eat?”
“Right, and do you remember where the milk comes from?”
“Mommies boobs! I wanna see, I wanna see.” He quickly starts poking and pulling at my shirt and digging his fat little fingers in under my bra.
“What are you doing?” Trying to control my laughter.
“I wanna see your hot dogs.”