The pee race

Nothing quite compares to walking away from Bedtime Battles the victor.  The boys will live to see another day. Victory.  Nobody drowned in the tub. Victory. Prying Crew's mouth open and pinning him against a wall to brush his teeth wasn't required. Victory. Paxton's prayer wasn't 30 minutes long. Victory. Paxton didn't pray for another baby in my tummy. Victory.   These are legitimate triumphs in the life of a mother, I assure you. 

Each night I collapse on the couch and reflect on our day, our week, or sometimes if I'm feeling especially nostalgic, on the accumulation of years that have lead to this point.  Just this week I reflected on my experiences of parenting a 3 year old and I smiled.  Paxton's third year has been both difficult and delightful, arduous and enjoyable, hellacious and heavenly.  *Cue sappy music here*

Just as my Mommy heart is about to explode, a figure appears in the hall and hesitantly whispers, "Mama".  All tender feelings come to a screeching halt.  "I want a pee race...pwease."

Ah, yes.  The pee race.  Rod is the mastermind behind this.  A pee race is when you and your competitor race to the toilet and see who finishes peeing first.  The only disqualifications are being female because peeing upright isn't practical.  A simple, stupid game.  Because I was in no mood for protests and crying, I agreed.  We raced to the toilet and I stood by to let him pee.

"Mama, you need to race me. Go pee. Like me."

I explain and silently pray my response doesn't spark curiosity or questions. "Sorry, little dude. I can't pee and stand. I don't have a penis."

A blank stare.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Oh, crap. I've seen that thoughtful expression before.  I can just feel another question formulating in his mind.  I brace myself for what comes next.

"But, Mama! If you eat your food and grow bigger and bigger and bigger, you'll grow a penis. Just like me! You should try it, silly."  I don't know to laugh at his remark or his hand gestures.  

I think back to an exchange we had earlier that day.  Paxton poked my breast.  *Insert discussion on personal boundaries, sacred body parts and keeping our hands to ourselves.* 

"But Mama! They're so squishy!"

Note to self: 3 year olds are socially inept.  I'll have to remember that next time I reminisce on the couch after Bedtime Battles.