Let’s be honest, nobody likes having to get out of their nice cozy bed and place their hot-crossed buns on a freezing cold ring of porcelain when they’re half asleep. I hated it as a kid, and I hate it as an adult. Unfortunately, my kids, nor I, can get through an entire night without having to visit the facilities. Every night when I drag my kids out of bed and usher them down to the toilet, I always remember a little poem my mom used to recite to me. She’d say, “When I was just a wee, wee tot, my mom would take me from my warm, warm cot, and put me on that cold, cold pot, and make me wee-wee if I had to or not.”
Now, to be clear, it is no more entertaining to be on the other end of the spectrum having to drag the wee, wee tot from that warm, warm cot. In fact, I despise having to do this dreaded task every friggin’ night. After schlepping the dog outside and dealing with his nonsense all evening, the last thing I want to do is to lug two lead-footed bodies all the way down the hall and back. I just want to crawl my overly exhausted ass into my own warm, warm cot.
I usually start with my daughter first. She will typically pop right out of bed for me, but she often ends up stopping in her tracks before we even get to the door of her room. I then take both her hands in mine and guide her down the hallway while I walk backwards and pray that I don’t trip over anything and break my neck. Since she keeps her eyes closed throughout this entire process, it is my duty to guide her every move. She does her thing, we wobble back down the hall, and I tuck her back into bed with a kiss. It’s then time to move on to her next door neighbor, my little drunken sailor.
My son definitely isn’t doing any popping out of his comfy night time set-up. His entire body stiffens when I try to awaken him from his slumber. I have to physically move his stick straight legs off the side of his bed so that they can meet the floor. And it takes me a couple of tugs to finally pull him up to a vertical position because the kid is seriously dead weight. Just like with his sister, I clasp both of his hands in mine and try to maneuver him down the hall as he bounces off the walls. On more than one occasion, I’ve found myself wondering if this seemingly intoxicated stupor is the result of him hitting up the wine bottle in the fridge before bedtime. When we finally reach our destination, I lead him over to the can and point that little peeper of his in the correct downward-facing direction. (I learned this vital step from a first-hand experience where he did a little redecorating in the middle of the night with his very own piss paint.) And it never fails that each and every night he ends the show with a big old bang of a fart right in my face. Yep, that’s the thanks I get for my efforts at keeping their beds dry.
I look so forward to that glorious moment in time when my kids’ bladders are wise enough to speak up for themselves and start alerting their little brains that it’s time to take a whizz without Mama in the night. Only being responsible for my own bodily waste sounds almost too good to be true. Until then, I suppose that night after night, I’ll continue to shuttle everyone back and forth to go wee-wee whether they have to or not.