The Dictator has recently become quite adamant about doing things on her own. From picking out and putting on her clothes, to cutting her own food, the Dictator is quick to let me know "Momma!!! I can do it all by myself!"
Recently, the Dictator has decided to start using the public bathroom on her own. Standing stoically outside the door 'making sure she has privacy!' I wait, and hope and pray to whatever deity that is listening that she is wiping her tushie and not touching too much in the stall.
Today at the community pool the Dictator was merrily swimming around when she announced (loudly! The Dictator wants to make SURE you all know where she's going!) that she needed to go potty.
We walked at a quick pace to the bathroom. The Dictator was fast to tell me "You. You Mother. You wait outside. I go in alone." Fine, fine....at least let me help you take your swimsuit off first! She begrudgingly let me remove her swimsuit and I sent her in the stall. Waiting outside my mind started to wander. Bills I need to pay, laundry I need to do, that song I liked that I need to look up, all that random Mom junk filled my mind. Suddenly I was snapped out of it by a little voice screaming "Momma! Oh.My.God! Help me!"
My logical brain knows that whatever has happened behind that door cannot be good. My logical brain tells me to call it a loss and just run away. We can always have another child, right?! We're young. Ish. Unfortunately, my Mom brain overrides all this sound logic and screams "Where's your baby?" Oi! Damn it Mom brain!!!
I open the stall. There is the Dictator. In the toilet. Folded up like a little slice of pizza. The perfect triangle. Arms, most of her head, and ALL of her tushie, IN the toilet. Shit! No, seriously! She must have pooped (please GOD let it have been hers!) right before 'the incident'. The Dictator is swimming in a tiny pool of her own shit. At this point, even the Mom brain wavers. Perhaps NOW is a good time to run. Unfortunately, we lock eyes and her little tear streaked face poking out from the toilet overwhelms me. I reach in and grab her. I want to die.
The Dictators extraction was not easy. She somehow wedged herself in that toilet. I pull from under her shoulders. Nope. That just splashes the evil cocktail of demise around on both of us. I have to go deeper. I grab her waist. Success! The Dictator pops out and launches a piece of poop towards me. I should have dropped her. I didn't. Poop smacks me in the stomach. Cold and wet. At this point, nothing worse can happen. This is the end.
I take the Dictator to the sink. We're going to have a bath. Right now. I set my dripping wet daughter in the sink. I start the water. I reach for the soap. Fuck! There IS no soap! I have shit on my stomach. This is not happening. I pick up the Dictator and explain "We're going in the boys bathroom to get soap."
The Dictator wails "Nooooooo! I'm a girl! I cannot GO in the boys bathroom!" I love how although the child has just been in the toilet. The TOILET! She's more concerned about which bathroom we are using. I grab her and go. Now is NOT the time for gentle parenting. If I'm getting scarred for life from this experience, then she is too!
Luckily, the boys bathroom (which is surprisingly a million times cleaner than the girls') has soap. The Dictator gets a mini bath, I get a mini bath that nearly draws blood with the scrubbing action I performed. We scrub our hands. We head back to the pool.
The Dictator jumps in the water and merrily swims away, laughing like nothing happened. I sit on the step and cry inside. Nothing can prepare you for a 3 year old. Nothing.
