Miles fell asleep last night without a diaper -- skipped a nap, passed right out. Forever eager to get this child potty trained so that I can ship him off to the first preschool that'll take him, I figure what the hell. We'll see how this plays out. It's not the first time he's fallen asleep naked, but every time before he's wet the bed.
At around midnight he crawls into bed with Andy. This is early for the nightly journey to the parental bed, so I decide to check his bed. Dry. Very cool.
I check in at about 2AM. Everyone is still dry. When I climb into bed about an hour later, it's all still good. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself and my decision to let the child free-ball it overnight. Actual potty training has to be coming around the bend. Hooray!
Miles wakes up angry at about 5AM. He tends to wake up grumpy, and he's demanding milk and I'm saying no, and he hits his head on the wall while thrashing in rage, all, "Boo boo! Boo boo!" After a minute he stops, takes a deep breath, and just says, "Water."
"Okay, sweetie, how about we get some water and go potty?" It's been gettin' on 12 hours since he's gone to the bathroom -- he's got to need to by now. We trek out to the kitchen, but while I'm getting his water he suddenly looks at his toes and just loses his shit, screaming about water.1
I pick him up and try to console him, and say, "Hey, Momma has to go potty -- let's go potty." While I pee he stands there and screams at me, holding his penis and crying about water. "Honey, you can go potty." He runs to the living room and proceeds to start that those huge, wracking, hard sobs. Still screaming about water. This time he'd managed to pull the middle cushion off the couch and spilled his cup of water. At this point no amount of rocking, cajoling, or comforting is calming him down. "Let's go lay down and have some milk," I say, resigned to my fate as the milk-giver once more.
No dice. I decide to go get a diaper, and he follows me, tripping over himself, and hits me while I'm putting together his diaper. I'm not sure he's taken a breath since he started freaking out. We head out into the hallway. I put the light on in the bathroom and try to say as soothingly as possible, "It's okay to go potty, darling." He slams the door and throws himself against it in some sort of bizarre baby rage that I cannot fathom. I carry him out to the couch to put a diaper on him; Andy actually comes out to help while Miles thrashes and freaks out about his diaper, his breath hitching and choked.
Finally, finally, he calms down while I sit with him on the couch. He freaks out again when I carry him to bed, but chills once he starts to nurse. We all fall back asleep.
Lesson learned: The sensation of having to pee in the morning turns my child into some sort of bizarre baby hulk.
No, I do not like him when he's angry.
1. This is a thing lately, and I hate it. If his food is messy, falls off his fork/spoon/fingers, makes his fingers dirty, dribbles down the front of his shirt, or levels him some imaginary slight -- I like to imagine his macaroni and cheese calls him names -- he absolutely freaks out. Everything is a boo boo, and it's very emotionally taxing. I try to keep it in perspective, though; at least it's emotionally taxing for both of us.
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