Uh-uh, no he didn't.

In a recent effort to dumbfound their parents, both Mason and Peyton have picked up the pace a bit in the world defining toddlers.

Last week I sadly regretted leaving Peyton for five minutes too long while I threw the wash into the dryer downstairs as he remained seated in his chair at the kitchen table. Jason always warns me that Peyton is a Jason-in-the-making kind of kid. My husband, who was not your run of the mill little boy, turned every one of his parents' hairs gray by the time he turned 18 months. No, no, I say-- Peyton has a smile that will melt you in 2.8 seconds if you ask him if the whelt on his big brother's back came from his tiny little fist.

So back from the laundry room I came, and there was that little smile again. He already has his gig down pat. As I slowly walked up the steps I peered at his heartbreaking smile and I swore he batted his eyelashes a few times, something he may have learned from his father. Sitting between his tiny hands was my mug. Full of coffee. That he retrieved off of the table with his disproportionately long arms, also something he inherited from dad. Good for basketball. Bad for reaching anything without his name on it.

"Maaaaaamee! Yook it's cooopee!"

No, buddy, you finished that mug of coffee. Bone dry it was. All that remained of my Peppermint Mocha Cream with a touch of Columbian fresh ground coffee was the trace amount on Peyton's upper lip. He was a little wind-up toy well past lunch. Lesson from Peyton: keep ALL beverages at unattainable heights until he has entered into college.

The second mini-lesson was merely a vicarious experience through Jason a day later. Thank God.

Mason, the potty training guru of the house has become, well, stagnant in his porcelin throne degree. The process is difficult for all parties involved, it goes without saying. Often by evening hours Jason takes reign of the duties if you will.


Not surprisingly, Mason was reluctant that evening and so Jason took the wee one upstairs. I secretly smiled at the bickering I heard overhead thankful that I was not in the potty tantrum whirlwind at that moment. More screaming from Mason resisting. More retorting back from Jason. He tried calming Mason. He tried raising his voice. Rewards. He conceded to stay in the bathroom all night if need be.

Then, "MASON, what are you doing?!" More crying. Then silence. Toilet flushed. Out scampered Mason's little feet so fast I'm certain he left a trail of smoke in his path downstairs to me. It reminded me of the same fearful expression I would see on my dog's face when he did something like, oh I don't know, pee on the carpet.

Jason came thundering down the steps next muttering something under the paper towel he was blotting upon his face.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Pee! He peed on me! No I mean he really peed on me," almost as if I couldn't understand just exactly what that entailed he continued. "I said 'Relax Mason,' and he leaned back on the seat, screaming and crying, and out came the pee. On my clothes, on the floor, and as I yelled at him in response it... it went in... my... mouth!" Lesson from Mason: face masks may be an upcoming trend for swine flu prevention, but also for deflecting the offshoot of my wayward potty trainer.


Lesson three: never doubt what a toddler can consume or what they can regrettably serve.