Sir Poop-A-Lot

Warning: The following entry contains two swear words and a few references to flying poop.  Proceed at the risk of being really grossed out and/or offended.

Behind my house is a small, man-made pond.  Usually I really enjoy this fact.  I throw open my windows and look out at the rippling water, the spindly-legged birds stepping carefully along the bank, the occasional osprey dive-bombing from the sky and carrying off a flapping fish.  The view is peaceful and serene, with houses just beyond the water, their backyards immaculate and aesthetically pleasing.

The only time the pond behind my house is kind of an inconvenience is when I'm yelling at my children.  Because I know how sound carries across water.  And I know those people living in the houses with the pristine backyards probably think I'm a crazy bitch who hates her kids.

Especially after yesterday.

The morning started out pleasant enough.  My kids and I sat around our kitchen table, watching Blues Clues and eating pancakes together.  Rollie was actually eating.  Like, voluntarily.  Probably because the pancakes were laced with M&M's.  But still, it was nice.  And I wondered if perhaps this moment at the breakfast table was a prelude to a lovely day for the three of us.  Silly me.

A little while later, Rollie announced that he had to quote, Poop A Lot.  And now that he's finally done with this regression bullshit and going on the potty again, I am quick to accommodate any requests to use said potty, in any manner he wishes.  Which lately means that I put a towel down in front of his toy box, place the potty on the towel and arrange about fifty Matchbox cars on top of the toy box, where Rollie proceeds to completely disrobe a la George Costanza and play Smash 'Em as he goes about his business.  Fine.  A little strange, but fine.

The only problem with this arrangement is that sometimes Rollie has a little too much fun going to the bathroom.  Sometimes Rollie just doesn't want the fun to end.  Which is why 20 minutes later, when I was trying to hustle him along so we could actually start our day, I was met with some resistance.

Me: Rollie (knock knock).  You done?
Rollie: Not yet.
Me: Come on, Rol, you've been going long enough.  I think you're done.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (now opening the door and being met with the obvious signs that he is indeed done): Rollie, we really need to get rolling here.  Our friends are waiting for us.
Rollie (still sitting buck-naked like a little toad on his plastic toilet, Matchbox car in each hand): In a couple minutes, Momma.
Me: Rollie, you're done.  Believe me, you are.
Rollie: Almost.
Me (trying not to gag as I come closer): Not 'almost.'  You've been sitting here for twenty minutes, buddy.  Come on, we need to start our day.
Rollie doesn't respond, but begins flailing as I lift him from the seat.
Me: Cut it out, Rollie.  Look, you went a lot.  Good job.  Now let's go flush it and wash our hands.
Rollie: Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!

Ignoring his pleas, I lifted the very full potty and proceeded to carry it across his room and down the hall, Rollie hollering in protest all the way, chasing me and pawing at me and being just a total shit.

Me: Rollie, knock it off.  Come on, you can't sit on the potty all day.  Do you want to go--

Then it happened.  In his anger that I'd robbed him of more toilet-time, Rollie lunged after me and yanked my arm.  And the potty went flying.  I watched it in slow motion as it sailed through the air and hit the carpeted floor.  The lid sprang open, releasing the contents everywhere.  The walls, Elsa's door, the floor.  Everywhere.

That's when I started to scream.

I'm pretty sure the neighbors across the pond heard me.  I really don't see how they couldn't have.  I hear them when they're on their patio, and surely that's when they're speaking in normal, conversational tones...80 decibels, tops.  My windows were open, and even if theirs weren't, surely they heard some ungodly sounds echoing across the still waters that morning.  If anything, they definitely know my son's name is Rollie.  And that I was So Angry at him.  And that he Got Poop Everywhere.

When things like this happen, I like to think that maybe me being on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet for fifteen minutes kept us from getting in a horrific car accident, or running over a dog or having to wait too long in the McDonald's drive through.  Or maybe I could have been the 1000th customer at Target, and instead of winning a shopping spree, I wade through balloons and confetti at the checkout line and wonder why the person in front of me is shrieking with joy.

At least I got the poop out of my carpet.  That is what I'm taking away from this experience.  That, and no more potty-time Smash 'Em.  Ever.