Warning: This entry is scatological in content. But, then so is life with a three-year-old.

AJ has been having a rough time with the potty again. He has no problem with the toilet itself or with peeing into it, either standing up or sitting down, as the situation requires. He is particularly enthralled with his ability to generate bubbles therein and will sit and stare into the bowl until they pop, sighing contentedly at this apparently perfect conclusion to his biological requirements. But if anything more serious than a taking a quick leak has to happen, he gets a look of abject panic on his face and begins tearing around the house in a tell-tale bowlegged stance, his arms flapping rapidly like a disgruntled hen.

But that�s not the worst part. What happens next is that he holds it in. For days. The record is four. The result at the end of it is terrifying to behold (not to mention besmell). AJ tends to hide, often immediately after waking up but before coming to get us, and take care of business in his pants. Consequently, we try not to let him be alone when we know the time is coming (and believe me, given the chicken sprints around the house, there is plenty of warning). I am currently on potty-watch duty. Although AJ is asleep, I have the baby monitor on, waiting for signs that he may be squatting on the floor next to his bed.

It�s one of the many moments in parenting when I realize how ridiculous it all can be. Meanwhile, I am attempting to get some writing done and it is not going well, perhaps because one part of my brain is in the toilet.

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