So the other day, as I mentioned, I went shopping for a dress to wear to my sister’s wedding next month. I took M with me, because what other choice did I have? Besides, he’s pretty good company most of the time. He was very patient with me as I pushed him around Kohl’s in his stroller. We found him a remote control that had counting and music and Elmo to play with while I scanned all around probably three different actual “departments” for dresses.
The thing about Kohl’s is that it’s not really arranged like other department stores. There is a section for “juniors” — which is no longer me. At. All. There’s another area across the aisle for “women,” which I guess is a nice way of saying “plus-sized,” but really, that’s a little confusing because, well, women are women regardless of sizing options. Then there are either “ladies” clothes or “misses” for those falling into the range of “average” measurements. And I also cruised through “petites” just in case a large petite was something stylish enough to fit on my slightly more ample frame.
Anyway, through three or four departments searching for a big sign that didn’t exist to point the way to “dresses,” I managed to pick up two black garments that looked somewhat promising. As M and I rounded the corner into the fitting room, he looked around him and noticed the surroundings inspired a flicker of recollection. “Poppy!” he declared — he still can’t quite pronounce potty complete with T sounds.
Well, I wasn’t sure if it was a fluke just because the dressing room area looked a lot like a public restroom, so I tried on the two dresses and M pointed out my belly button just in case I’d forgotten it was there. A couple more times, though, during the five minutes or so we were in there, he repeated his potty word.
This was not a drill, I thought, so I grabbed the two dresses, and headed out to the restrooms, M squawking “poppy!” all the way.
When I got there, I found the ladies’ room closed for cleaning, and a woman with a young daughter standing outside the men’s room. The woman told me they’d let her use the men’s, but there was a man in there at the moment. Figures. The rare time that M actually tells me he feels like he’s got to go, and there’s nowhere to go.
But. The man came out of the men’s room, I politely inquired if there was anyone else in there, to which he responded with a favorable “no,” and we went on in to do some business.
Of course, the previous day had yielded many a trip to our own household bathroom with nary a drop of boy urine hitting the toilet bowl, so it shouldn’t have surprised me when he just couldn’t go. He was distracted with the echo of his voice, with the unfamiliar seat, with whatever else… so, fine. I put his diaper back on, and I told him it would be okay if he peed in there. I didn’t want to spend more time than absolutely necessary in the men’s room, not that I was indecent or the restroom itself unseemly (it was one of the nicer men’s rooms I’ve seen), just that I didn’t want to hold anyone up for the amount of time it might have taken to actually get the deed done there.
What surprised me most of all, though, was the fact that after we got home, I went to change the diaper and found it still to be bone dry. When we went to the bathroom then, boy did he ever go.
I just felt the need to share this adventure in potty training. After all, it ended well. And additionally, I found a dress. I just have to go back on Friday with my coupon so I can really get a bargain. But at least M won’t have to put up with the same amount of shopping and confusion next time. Provided they don’t move things around on me, which is just another one of those things that would totally happen.