For the most part, I think my husband and I do parenting pretty well. We have a decent balance between laid back (mostly him) and stressed out (mostly me). Sometimes, I think we start to get cocky. Looking at our sweet, smart incredibly funny and articulate three year old, we want to take all the credit and pat ourselves on the back for a job well done. And then something like this happens...
Our son has figured out that he can get out of bed all he wants as long as he says he's "going potty". Well, 20 potty trips a night, and my husband and I are getting frazzled. How do we discipline him for getting out of bed without having adverse effects on his potty training? We are still working on a solution.
Today's naptime started out with more of the same. Promises to stay in bed, followed by the pitter patter of little feet and a slamming door. After at least 5 trips upstairs, my husband was tired of it, I was tired of it, and I think we were both thinking the same thing: just let him do his thing up there, and soon enough, he would get bored and tired and take his nap.
We willfully ignored the thumps and bumps emanating from the upstairs hallway. I could hear his little voice chattering away under his breath. I knew he was fine. After a bit, he asked my husband to come up and help him get on the potty again. At that point, it got suspiciously quiet up there. In retrospect, we should have known.
When our little devil finally came down the stairs and stood on the landing, he wasn't crying, screaming or fussing. He looked solemnly down at us until my husband said "What's all over your hands?" Oh yes, it was blood. All over both hands, his face and his pants, which were also pretty wet. My husband took him into the bathroom to wash up, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from. The tip of one of his fingers was completely gashed open.
Once the finger was bandaged, he came over to see me, and I noticed his lip was also cut, and he had a funny rash all over one side of his face. His dad came downstairs after investigating, and asked him if he'd learned a lesson about touching things he's not supposed to. Like Mommy's razor.
AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!
The little darling noticed the razor on his last potty trip, climbed into the tub, and "shaved like daddy does". Oh my God. Of course, I retroactively started freaking out about all the things that could have happened while we sat down here, exhausted and at the end of our rope. Fortunately, the blood will wash off, the razor burn will clear up, and he'll live to get up to no good another day, thank God.
He's not the only one that's learned a lesson!
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