Don't Read This if You're Eating

So I'm attempting to potty train Cameron.

... Again.

Why is it that he seems so ready - taking off his diaper and saying, "Pee-pee, Mommy!" and actually peeing in the toilet every time we sit him down - but then when we actually start, it's like he has no friggin' clue what he's supposed to do. I tried Pull-Ups; he just treats them like diapers. I tried underwear; he has no qualms whatsoever about soiling them and then just chillin'. Like he's not even uncomfortable with that at all. Like, "Yeah, I shat myself ... so?"

Seeing as Colin is already naked 99% of the time anyway, I figured another little bare heinie wouldn't hurt. So I've just been letting Cameron go without a diaper and making sure to get him to the toilet before he pees wherever he happens to be. There have been accidents, of course, but I'm usually vigilant enough to catch him before he leaves a puddle or a pile.

... Usually.

So yesterday evening, we were sitting in the living room. Colin and Cam were playing, and I was holding Coby and getting sucked into the latest issue of Marie Claire. Cameron climbed up beside me in the recliner and was sort of squatted there, watching TV. This was nothing unusual.

It was also nothing unusual when he stood up and I felt something bounce off my thigh. It could have been anything: a dropped pacifier, a Lego, you name it. So I didn't pay much attention - until I heard Colin joyfully announce, "Cameron pooped!"

And there was Cameron. Squeezing absentmindedly on a piece of poo, which was caked all over his fingers and smeared on his chest and stomach, while he watched his show. Little rabbit-turds all over the floor. And the thing that had hit me in the leg when he stood up in the chair? A turd. I saw that now. It was just sitting there, perched precariously on the arm of the recliner.

I was flooded with that really bummed-out feeling that you get when you realize you have an overwhelming mess to clean up. First things first: I took him in for a bath. You don't realize how waxy and water-resistant poo really is until you're trying to remove mass quantities of it from someone's skin. Yuck.

After his bath, armed with a roll of paper towels and carpet cleaner, I went to face the offending turds.

But they were gone.

WTF? Had they suddenly become mobile and hopped away? (Hmm - that would explain the mysterious poop tracks.) Or had the Fecal Cleanup Fairy come to visit? Then it dawned on me: it was our very own Fecal Cleanup Fairy ...

... Andy. Licking his chops and looking expectantly at me like, "Well, you gonna give me some more little nuggets of deliciousness?"

As if his breath wasn't heinous enough in the first place ...