He smelled like strawberries. Like Saunder’s Farm on a hot summery day back when they actually were a pick-your-own strawberry farm. Back when we took our white plastic tubs and peachbaskets (you know, those wooden deep oval baskets with a handle), weighed them, and filled them with strawberries. Back when Mom had to pester me into eating while we picked, we were ‘supposed to’ but I didn’t like not knowing what was ON the berries. Worse, I fretted about what might be lurking IN them to surprise me mid-bite. I still prefer to eat my strawberries sliced in two.

Anyway. Cameron came running up the steps to me smelling all strawberry-y and summery while I hung up laundry on the line in the back yard.

“Poooing mommy mommy. Pooing!”

We might as well have been miles from the potty.

“Do you want to go poo on your potty? It’s all the way upstairs, we’ll have to run,” I asked, hopeful. The answer was an enthusiastic “YEAH!”

So what else could I do? I dropped the laundry, scooped him up, and ignored the two dozen clothespins that were clipped to my shirt (easier that way than reaching into the bag all the time). We dashed down the back stairs, through the gate, around to the front, up and into the house, got his pants and pull-ups off … and plunked him on the potty.

Just in the nick of time.

He’s got it. He knew he had to go poo. He knew he was supposed to tell me. He knew where it was supposed to go!

He did the cutest little bare-tushed dance as he enjoyed his hard-earned Smarties. The Canadian version – any American readers, think M&Ms.

He got it … except that after nap, while playing in the back yard, he got that distant look … and grunted. And denied that he was pooing. Refused another dash upstairs. And went in his pants. Thankfully I’d put him in pull-ups, not big-boy undies like I’d considered.

Tomorrow I’ll remember. Take the potty down to the back yard with us!


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