Cardinal Rule

Last night, I settled into the corner of the sofa to nurse Baby Girl, while the boys played trains at my feet.  It had been a long day on my own, with the Mister out of town.  I happily noted that the timing was perfect to be able to feed Baby Girl and put her down for bed, before leisurely moving on to bathing the boys, getting them into pajamas, serving their protein shakes, brushing their teeth, supervising last bathroomings, reading stories, saying prayers, and, at long last, turning out the lights.  I even dared to lean my head back and close my eyes for a second of rest.  

Thereby violating the cardinal rule of potty training: DON'T LET THEM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT.

Buddy Boy seized the opportunity to wee-wee on the bouncy seat.  I snapped to and, cradling my nursling with one arm, hauled him to the potty with the other.  He gave a muscle-pulling effort and was caught by surprise with his success, such that he was suddenly spraying the floor.  I squealed, which just served to further surprise him, such that he was suddenly spraying the floor in a fully rotating, semi-circle fashion.  Included in that arc were my feet, my pants, the laundry cabinet, the shower curtain, and the bathroom stool.  Still nursing Baby Girl, I swabbed a hand towel around with my foot to mop up the worst of it, left the towel at the base of the toilet, and mentally added to my post-bedtime to-do list:

disinfect the bathroom.

Just then, Little Guy came running in with an urgent need, so Buddy Boy and I washed hands and, after Buddy Boy gave the requisite tremendous yank to the toilet paper, sending the roll spinning and its contents unfurling in a heap on the floor, left Little Guy in peace.  I returned to the sofa, determined to restore a bit of calm to Baby Girl's feeding.  Buddy Boy returned to his trains.  Little Guy finished up in the bathroom and came out wiping his freshly washed hands and face with a hand towel.  The hand towel.  I, again, squealed.  He was horrified.  Back to the bathroom we went, Baby Girl still trying her best to get her supper, Little Guy setting to the re-washing of his hands and face, and me throwing that nasty hand towel into the washing machine at last.

By that time, I really did have to put Baby Girl down, so I could thoroughly wash my hands.  She seized the opportunity to spit up all over the sofa.  I ran to get burp cloths to sop up the mess.

Thereby violating the cardinal rule of potty training: DON'T LET THEM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT.

Uh-huh.  Buddy Boy really outdid himself.

And so it went, me putting out small fires and them setting larger ones, until I finally called a truce, tossed them into their beds without baths or brushed teeth, read them the shortest story in their collection, said the bare minimum in prayers, and flipped that light switch with a long sigh of relief.

I spent the rest of the evening munching on chips and salsa, editing these pictures of my girlie, and wrapping my hair in those no-heat curls that are all the rage in the blogosphere.

 After disinfecting the bathroom, that is.