The Smell is Coming From INSIDE the House

Poppy’s potty training adventure is not going smoothly (she actually peed her pants right when I started writing this).  Since we waited until William was practically 16 to potty train him, I’m not used to this extended, protracted, poop-filled process.  William pretty much woke up one day, said “I don’t wear diapers anymore” and stayed true to his word.

This one? This one will act completely offended when you ask her if she has to go potty, while a pool of urine slowly collects at her feet.

This one? This one will act completely offended when you ask her if she has to go potty, while a pool of urine slowly collects at her feet.

Just last week, I caught Poppy mid-crap on the rug.  I grabbed her, ran to the bathroom, cleaned her up and sat her on the potty.  Then I turned to cleaning up her clothing.  While I was distracted by an overly strong faucet that caused a veritable feces fountain to spray all over the vanity area, she ran away.  

When I found her?  There was clear evidence that she had finished the job somewhere in the flat.  But not anywhere I can find.  And every time I asked her where she pooped she says “My pants!” or “Here, on the rug!”  Both applicable to the first situation, sure, but not so helpful for round 2 (or round #2, I should say!  Ha! Puns).

I also made the mistake of telling her teachers about it (hoping they would say, “oh, well let’s put this experiment on hold for a bit and just carry on with the nappies,” since they’re the assholes who started this whole thing).  Now, they ask me every day at pick-up if I’ve found it.  And every day I have to admit that no, no I haven’t.  I’m hoping they think we live in a huge mansion, and that it’s simply hidden somewhere away in the present wrapping room.  But on Monday I’m probably just going to tell them that I’m assuming the dog ate it and hope that ends it.

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