Second only to blog entries about poop, this is a blog entry about toddlers and private parts, with a bathroom twist. Click away now if you prefer not to read this sort of thing.
Are you going away?
Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I picked the girls up from the sitter’s today after having lunch with Sean. Our forty minutes at the Bistro saw me consume approximately 48 ounces of impossibly delicious ice water and lemon. I thought fleetingly about popping into the ladies room before leaving, but decided I’d rather wait and be on time for pick-up.
Silly me. Silly, pregnant, over-watered me. No sooner had we walked out of the joint, then I felt the searing pain of a thousand daggers near my bladder. It was as if it had been 8 hours, rather than one, since I’d last used the facilities. I did that tell-tale, ginger stutter step as I tried to get to the car as fast as possible without jostling my midsection too much.
The drive to the sitter’s is a blur of fervent please don’t pee, please, just please don’t pee, just hold it in, hold it in Amanda, you can do it muttering. I dashed into get the girls, the sitter wanting to chat and the girls wanting to show off and cavort with their note that talked about “peeing on the potty.”
“Wow, honey, that’s great. Mama needs to do just that. Let’s get home.”
So I shepherded them out to the car.
“Mama, have ya gotta pee?”
“Yes, sweetie, I do. Really bad.”
“Really bad? Huh? Ya havta pee really bad?”
“Yes, honey, it hurts. Let’s get home so we can get mama on the potty.”
“Mama, ya gotta drive faster. Ya havta go pee really bad in case it hurts your vagina.”
“Uh pee. Uh pee. Potty. Paw-teee!” Avery kicked and squawked exuberantly.
“Ok. Let’s get home.”
“Mama, will you get home and pee so your vagina doesn’t get hurt and then call daddy so his peanuts are safe?”