Night Nine? Not so much

Ohhhh, he tried so hard. So so so hard to become the Master of Night Time Dryness. And we were so close.

Night Nine of Operation: Dry Pull Ups coincided, unfortunately, with dinner plans I made a month ago. That meant a sitter came and that meant I wouldn't be there to sit with Lil E during those final seven potty trips in the half-hour before bed. 

I prepped and prepped and prepped the boy. We talked through a plan for the night several times, went through his options and even let the idea -- just the inkling, the suggestion, the tiniest glimmer of the thought -- of Lil E going with the babysitter before bed. Minutes before I left, that idea turned to those lip quivers that come just before the long, drawn out "Mommmmmy," which of course comes before the blinked out tears. At that point, any hesitation in responding to the small child is the open door to the gush of tears and guilt and reconsidering of all plans to leave the home, including those made a month in advance.

Fortunately, my good sense over-rode my guilt and brief thoughts of staying home just to make sure the kid peed enough so he could make it through to the completion of our project. I took him one last time and then, with fingers (mine) and legs (his) crossed, I kissed him goodbye and left with prayers to the potty goddesses.

Let me pause here just to say what a fun night I had and how glad I was that I went. Dinner was al fresco at a lovely little Andersonville restaurant and was with two friends from camp. We had cocktails and pasta and laughed and dished about everyone who was having sex at the conservative Christian camp (make that, everyone but me). Back to the bathroom detail...

Lil E's night was a good one too, despite his protests and near-tears. I kissed him goodnight when I got home and he didn't even stir when I pulled his blanket up and put the paci back in his hand. The next morning, his yelly alarm clock -- "MOHHH-MYYYYYY! Can I get up yet?!" -- was twinged with hope. He was so close and he knew it.

He ran into my room.

"I think my Pull Up is dry! I really do!" His enthusiasm pulled me out of bed.

"Let's check!" I cheered and we ran into the bathroom, stripped down his glow-in-the-dark dino jammies and checked.

Before I could let the hushed "Ohhhh" out of my mouth, before I could hug him or say something reassuring and full of the same hope he had only minutes before, he interrupted the moment we both knew had already landed.

"It's only a tiny, tiny, tiiiiiiny bit! It's OK! TINY!" His eyebrows were raised, his little fists were clenched and his mouth was parted in anticipation of celebrating...maybe, possibly.

That's when the "Ohhhh" slipped out.

"Honey," I said as I slipped off the heavy, soaked Pull Up, wrapped it up and tossed it into the trash, "It is actually a lot."

I pulled him, eyes still wide and arms still raised, into my arms.

"And that is OK. You've worked really hard and I am so proud of you," he nodded as I spoke. "And I know that if we give you one more night, you will be dry and won't have to wear Pull Ups again. I know it, baby."

He breathed quietly in my arms for a moment, relaxing his hands, releasing his fists, his eyebrows falling to frame a comforted, sweet smile.

"Yes, Mommy. I know it too."

And so we agreed that Night Nine was a wash. Along with the sheets and the jammies. And the pillow cases and a few of the stuffed animal babies.

Night Nine didn't work out, but the mission was still a go. Now if only we could make sure that on this do-over night, the boy would go and go and go, tuck in and then not go at all.  And that left us to a new day, once again, fingers (mine) and legs (his) crossed.