Since my whiny lamenting last week, Gunny has made me the proud owner of two potty chair presents. I won't go into the gory details but he was sufficiently rewarded with a new monster truck for all his troubles.

At his first "production," he actually quietly sequestered himself in the bathroom and did his duty solo. He then ran out screaming, "HALP! HALP! I dunno watta do wit it!" The second time was less traumatic in that he made us wait outside the door until he proclaimed he was "dun wit it."

I thought we were on a roll with our super duper pooper, but I think he was just throwing us a bone. With all of last night's trauma (the sausage incident), Gunny still mustered through by using his potty to "do the deed." We chanted, cheered, and let Hubby do some backwards flips since he was high on Vicodin. It was a nice (albeit stinky) moment in our house.

About an hour later, I heard Gunny in the playroom yelling about something on the floor. I was in the bedroom, pretending I was a young, single gal, when he came running in. I knew there was an issue as he was naked from the waist down and grabbing his little butt cheeks. "I poofed!" he screamed, as he ran out, still grabbing his butt and waddling down the hallway. Hubby and I looked at each other. "He poofed? Didn't he just do that? Surely he's talking about the litter box!" It was nice living in oblivion for just a few short moments.

I followed Gunny into the playroom only to discover that his little bowels were quite the container of wealth. If I wasn't so disgusted, I might have been impressed by his digestive capacity. As I cleaned my carpets, all the while Gunny proclaiming "how discustin'" it was, the big kids ran around, covering their noses and making gagging sounds. I kept the heaves in and the vomit down, but it wasn't easy.

After butts were wiped and the carpet cleaned, I put on my bathrobe in an attempt to salvage the rest of my evening. A trip to the ER, carpet cleaning, and a fever made me want to call it a night and hide within the confines of my flannel kitty cat sheets.

As I walked barefoot into my room through the darkened hallway (did I mention I also had a whopper of a headache?), I felt something cold under my foot. Something that squished ever so quickly through the small gaps of my toes. I prayed for squished raisins. I prayed for a little mound of errant peanut butter. Then I prayed for a glob of lavendar scented carpet cleaner. Reality set in as I flipped the light on and let out a scream.

It was a present from Gunny that I had evidently missed.

I begged Hubby to put me out of my misery but he refused through his laughter. I contemplated hacking my toes off myself, since I knew the feeling of icky squishiness would forever be imprinted on my brain as a phantom sensation. I decided against this because I figured (1), it might hurt a lot and (2) I might walk funny. Since Hubby was gimped out on the bed, I once again resigned myself to carpet cleaning but only after a healthy dose of boiling water and antiseptic to my "discustin'" foot.

Again, the joys of potty training. I have yet to find any.