St. Lawrence, Exploding Toilets, and Sanity

Because sometimes a day with two kids under the age of three has just been uncannily perfect . . .

JT: makes a funny face in the corner

Me:  Need to go potty, buddy?

JT: No.
. . .

Mommy, I go poppy!  As he runs to the bathroom with me chasing him, madly wishing like a 2nd place Olympian to reach the finish line in time despite all odds and laws of physics.

Me: Oh no!  You already went in your undies! Remembering that the potty training books say not to react to accidents too negatively so the kid doesn't get traumatized for life.
It's ok, buddy.  Good job trying to get here in time.  Next time, let's go to the potty when Mommy says to, ok?

I change him out of two layers soiled clothing as he hops around trying to see "it."  Then, I wipe the kid [notice, post-accident he temporarily becomes "the kid" instead of "buddy."]  I scrub his pants out, deposit the items in the wash 5 feet away, and whirl around to the sound of a slamming bathroom door.  A scared little face topped by unruly blonde hair sends me sprinting back into the closet-sized ground zero.  He did the unspeakable thing . . . he flushed a clogged toilet TWICE.  Foul water pools all over the bathroom floor.  I'm pretty sure I make a noise like a small animal being strangled and disemboweled simultaneously.  Mustering all of my remaining patience, I stoop down and look the kid square in the eyes.

Did you flush the potty TWO times?  Remember, Daddy said, 'Never flush the potty more than once.'"

He nods, somewhat comprehending that this has to do with him and not just a faulty toilet.  In the background his ignored baby sister starts letting us know she wants company in decibels that sound analysts say can only be endured for 20 seconds at a time.

Ok, go play with your toys while Mommy cleans this up.

He skips away, glad that whatever he did didn't end up in a timeout.  I grab the entire rag box and attack the flood with a vengeance.  Enter a wave of self-pity:
  "Why did this happen today?  I was just getting ready to make brownies for the feast day and the kids have been SO good . . . the feast day . . . St. Lawrence . . . who was burned alive on a grill for following his vocation and still kept a sense of humor.  Shut up, Kelly.

In the Bible, at moments like these people are always told to "gird up their loins" and push on in faith and acceptance.  In my best attempt to be holy, I grab up the sopping rags in the spirit of 1 Peter 1:13 ["Therefore gird up your minds, be sober, set your hope fully upon the grace that is coming to you..."].  I finish the soaking, the sterilizing, the purification of hands to temporarily plug my daughter's mouth with a pasi, the breathing of fumes from a cocktail of disinfectants, the catapulting everything into the wash, and the vigorous soaping of my hands up to the elbows . . . all with a smile at the bit of humor I was able to see in the situation.

JT: Mommy!  I clean up too!  As he rounds the corner scrubbing himself with a wipe and mumbling about "magic shoes."  Still not sure what the shoe part is all about . . .

Me: Thanks, buddy.  My heart is affectionate again, and he is no longer "the kid."  I wind quickly through the toys that have seemingly sprouted out of the floor while I cleaned around the corner; it's time to rescue baby girl.  Poor thing.

As I pick her up, my hand hits something moist . . . Apparently, big brother used more than one wipe and shoved this one down into his sister's chair.  I'm glad his sharing lessons are working so well, maybe.

I may not be called to give my life over to an executioner with a grill.  But motherhood has its own very little (and sometimes not so little) martyrdoms of self.  

How grateful I am for God's grace in these moments . . . and for chocolate . . . I think it's time to bake those brownies for St. Lawrence.