Sorry... It's Another Poop Post.

We thought we were making headway with potty training. We ditched the Pull-Ups altogether, opting for cotton briefs. He complained until he discovered the "abracadabra hole" in the front of his underwear. Now he thinks that peeing standing up is the best thing ever.

Pooping, unfortunately, remains the issue. For a few wonderful days he was telling us when he felt the need to go. Scott and I hurriedly changed him out of his underwear into specially purchased "poop" (i.e. cheap) diapers. Robby would go and stand in the bathroom and go in his special diaper. We would then change him back into his underwear. Obviously not ideal, but it was progress and we were hopeful.

During the past few days Robby has reverted as he apparently decided that he will never poop again. He is demonstrating the classic withholding signs, and the acid rash is developing. Logic doesn't work at this age, and I've learned that bribery doesn't either. I've upped his Miralax.

Unfortunately, I have discovered that Robby must be toilet trained in order to attend preschool this fall. That is not going to happen. Time to implement Plan B, as soon as I figure out what that is!

Frustrated with my life being controlled by the bowels of a preschooler (who isn't allowed to go to preschool) I informed the family that I was taking a break from cooking. Scott, sensing that I was at my wits end, simply asked where I wanted to go for dinner. Without hesitation, Robby interjected and started chanting that he wanted to go to Chick Fil-A.

We packed up and headed out for dinner. I grabbed some extra poop diapers, just in case. I am nothing if not the eternal optimist. In case you're curious, the extra diapers were unnecessary. My little boy is stubborn with the world's strongest sphincter muscle.

Although poop, or the lack of it, has been ruling our daily conversations, I try to avoid the topic in public. Standing in line at Chick-Fil-A I informed Robby that we were not going to talk about going to the potty. We then proceeded to engage in a 5 minute conversation about why discussing the potty in public is inappropriate. To be completely honest, I was struggling to remain patient.

All of a sudden Robby became animated, tugging frantically at my shorts. Aggravated, I bent down so that he could whisper in my ear. In what must be the highest decibel whisper ever Robby informed me that "the old man with the big bum just tooted and it smelled." Everybody in the vicinity turned and began to snicker. The "accused" summarily dismissed the accusation by blaming my parenting for rearing such a "rude child." Robby then answered the man, telling him that "stinky toots are okay but that you need to say excuse me." He then asked the man if he was "trying to keep the poopy in too."

I was at a loss for how to handle this situation gracefully. I simply told Robby that we were not going to discuss potty issues in the restaurant, and apologized to the farter. The man walked away, and Robby and I ordered our food to go.

Before his phobia I took Robby's poop production for granted. I am now spending countless hours discussing the benefits of going to the bathroom, in desperate moments offering bribes and promises. My mothering reserves have been drained.

I feel like looking for a support group. I can see it now. "Hello. My name is Peggy and my son is afraid of poop."