That's not to say progress isn't being achieved but, it's been incremental.
No need to get into the particulars of that observation; suffice it to say it all looks the same, except of course when it's far, far worse.
For his part, the boy is taking this evolution in stride, which is to say that his level of engagement rests somewhere between willing participant and oblivious bystander.
|Note the book title. At the bookstore, Mrs. Blackwell giving|
the boy a subtle hint. (Mrs. Blackwell would of course want
me to point out her baby bump. We're getting close folks!)
For now, he wears regular underwear during the day — assuming your definition of "regular" includes briefs plastered with superhero logos or astronauts. When he goes to sleep he wears a pull-up diaper, except when I absent-mindedly put him in the briefs, in which case the cleanup duties are mine and mine alone.
While he's getting better and beginning to ask to go to the bathroom, we're still at the point where the boy requires regular inquiry by his mother or myself to determine if he needs to go.
Every so often we'll ask, "Do you need to go to the bathroom buddy?"
Invariably, the boy's response is, "No."
He'll say, "No," even as he's jumping up and scampering off to the bathroom to go.
Then there are the other times when Mrs. Blackwell and I know for certain that enough time has passed and he needs to go, yet he completely shuts down.
He'll begin to cry, occasionally he'll flail or let his body go limp before exclaiming to anyone who will listen: ""No! I'll not go potty anymoreeey!"
Getting to the point of remembering that he needs to go to the bathroom is an exercise in abject fear.
It's like an alarm simply goes off and you realize it's been two hours since you last asked him if he needs to go.
In the ten seconds between this thought occurring to you and bolting to check the kid, you're faced with a 50-50 proposition — either they've done it in their pants or they haven't.
|In retrospect, Indian food was not the wisest choice. But,|
the boy loves him some Tikka Misala.
The aforementioned allusion to the boy's pants last Saturday, is a perfect example of this.
We put the boy down for his afternoon nap.
Not long after we'd closed the door to his room, and unbeknownst to Mrs. Blackwell (who was working on her computer) and I (who am bereft of a reasonable excuse), the boy filled his diaper.
He no doubt called out for assistance but we didn't hear him. Naturally the boy didn't want to wear a full diaper, so the diaper went bye-bye.
Let your imagination run wild with the rest. Just know that, like any mess created by any little boy, it wasn't confined to a small area.
Sure, it's just pee or poop — along with every parent who's ever lived, I get it. That said, developing a tolerance for something is not the same as accepting it. And, let me tell you dear reader, I don't accept it.
But for now, my tolerance is growing by the day and it's buoyed by the fact that the boy really is progressing.
Until we get there, it's two steps forward and one often very icky step back.