Last night Lu pooped in her pants at Central Market. And of course, we’re at that overconfident stage of potty-training where we have no back-up anything, so after weighing the risks of strapping an unsealed cloth bag of crap (her shorts, attached to her body) into my car, I decided to go into the bathroom and deal with it.
That decision, aside from being a horror scene (oh, patrons of the Central Market ladies’ room at 7:10 last night, you saintly women), led to a really interesting discussion:
“Mom, do you have more panties for me?”
“No, babe, but it’s O—.”
“Do you have a pull-up for me?”
“No, but we’re going to put your shorts back on and go ho—”
“NOOOO, I need panties!!”
It doesn’t feel good to convince your three-year-old that it is, in certain situations, okay…to go without panties. But our other option — that she argued strenuously for — was marching her bare-assed through Central Market.
I won. As we left, she grabbed the crotch of her shorts and complained, “Mom, my shorts are touching my butt.”
Must wear panties! I may not be the best mother in the world, but I am at least better than Lynne Spears and Kathy Hilton.