Andrew's House on Poo(h) Corner, indeed!

(Incidentally, for anyone keeping track of that sort of thing, this is the 100th post for our blog! So happy centennial post, I guess).

We had a funny little incident with Andrew tonight that we thought some of our readers might enjoy. (Warning, this is not for the squeamish.) We've been slowly working towards potty-training Andrew for a couple of months now (or so it seems). Today, after his nap, I decided to give Andrew a little test and we put him in some big-boy underpants (Elmo, to be precise), and he was as thrilled as could be--in fact, he refused to put his pants back on, so the first sight that greeted his dad when he came home from work was Andrew running around in his little underpants with his chunky bare legs exposed. (It's official: Andrew has inherited a pretty spectacular pair of thunder thighs.) Anyway, that actually went pretty well--no accidents through dinner, etc. It was after dinner that the trouble began. The tag on the underpants was bothering Andrew (he kept scratching at it), so my mom offered to take them upstairs and unpick the tag. She had the foresight to take him to the potty first, but then Andrew followed her upstairs, bare bum and unmentionables and all exposed for the world. My mom, thinking, naturally enough, that he'd just gone potty and should be fine for a few minutes of exposure, let him follow her. A few minutes later, she came rushing down the stairs, carrying Andrew in her arms, and deposited him on the potty again. Apparently, while she was working at her sewing machine, Andrew went over to play with the little toy kitchen that's upstairs, and, not so incidentally, to take care of some "business." Her first clue that something was wrong was when Andrew came over to her and announced that he had "someping" on his foot. "Someping" turned out to be two nice little piles of poop that Andrew had left on the carpet.

Anyway, we got him cleaned up, got the carpet cleaned up, and put him back in a diaper. And decided that we will never again let him go roaming bare-bummed through the house. Too dangerous. After we got him into his pajamas, my mom was trying to explain to Andrew that the proper place for poop is in the toilet. So, she asked him where all the grown-ups go poop. Dan, who overheard this conversation, was profoundly grateful that Andrew's answer to "where does grandpa go poop?" was "know" (short for "don't know"). Somethings apparently are just too much information about your inlaws.