Therapist M was referred by Supervisor M, which is pretty much all I needed to know. But TM really is wonderful; she has worked with huge violent boys and considers Leelo a pussycat in comparison. She is bubbly and sweet and kind and groks my son. She thinks he's a doll.
But poop still makes her uncomfortable. "Um, I think he's had an accident!" I hear, from upstairs.
No worries. I run up the stairs and survey the scene. An accident, yes, but definitely low-grade. Wipes will be needed, a change of clothes; but no carpet or hair or shirt or hands was involved. Easy-peasy.
As I help tidy Leelo up, Therapist M remarks with a kind but slightly uncomfortable laugh, "The glamour of motherhood, right?"
"Actually," I said, "This is fine. We were told by top experts that he might never potty train, and many of the kids at his school are still in pullups full-time. The occasional accident is really nothing to complain about."
"Oh!" she said.
"Yeah," I said, with a smile.
Technorati Tags: potty training, toileting
This is my favorite ever blog entry title.ReplyDelete