Hit or Miss

Landon was potty trained.

Once upon a time.

I suppose life's fascinations caught up with him, and tedious things, like the proper disposal of one's waste, were no longer thrilling enough to employ his full attention or effort.

Little by little we saw our hopes for his bladder control fizzle into a puddle of ... well, we will leave this sentence as is.

It started with a little dance here, a "Landon, go the the bathroom." there, and so on. Casual reminders that we thought were frustrating at the time are now a fond and distant memory. In the middle of the night, we used to hear little feet padding down the hall into the bathroom. We would hear the same little feet doing a nervous quick step in front of the toilet. We'd listen, anxiously awaiting the sure sound of liquid hitting liquid. It was a rare commodity...
Even still, we miss those sounds.

Now we watch his little body squirm.

He dances around the house twisting and turning, bouncing and wiggling everywhere he goes.
We scream "GO TO THE BATHROOM!": He casually responds "My not need to."
We beg, "Please go to the bathroom.": He looks at us as if we speak pig latin
We bribe, we threaten, we demand: He ignores, he shrugs, he screams "MY NOT NEED TO!"

His soaked underwear begs to differ.

We no longer hear little feet in the night. We hear a washing machine in the morning... washing bedding, and pajamas. Every morning.
Last night Brandon was excited to hear him wake up, his little feet padding down the hall to the bathroom. Then he was confused when he heard those same little feet turn around and run in circles back to his bedroom. Upon investigation he found him peeing... on his bedroom floor... Not quite the end result we were hoping for.

He must have somehow or other made it back into the bathroom that night for a second go at it, as was evident by his unique graffiti art on the walls and floors surrounding the toilet.

This afternoon, after noticing his damp britches and wafting fumes, I decided to take matters into my own hands. When I saw him crouching and bopping, I took hold of his little hand and told him I was taking him to the bathroom.

"Why you walkin' me?" he asked on the quick jaunt to the potty.

"So I can make sure you go." I responded.

We entered the bathroom where he was immediately distracted by some bright shiny object.
"Pee" I said to him calmly.
At which he did (not paying attention to the stream, mind you.)

When he was almost done he turned from the fizzle streaming down the toilet seat and offered me his up held palm.

I glanced down at his hand, bright orange from his recent snack of nacho cheese Doritos. It was about the time I realized the distinct moistness on his fingertips that I also realized he was holding his hand up for a reason.

"Yay Mommy! My did it!"

There are some instances where, despite your better judgment, it would be rude to deny the high five.

"Good job son."

And so, to make sure he knew I was fully committed to his success, I gave him his high five.
(Then I washed my hands. Boys are gross.)

Side note: I'm thinking I'm going to teach my son the celebratory act that is the chest bump.
Although controversial for a mother and son,
you just never know when it might come in handy.