LTFP

(Leave Time for Poop)

Or, “You just can’t make this sh** up.”

It happened again.

I was going to be on time. I really was. Everything was ready, the diaper bag was packed, snacks and waters and wipes. We were actually going to get to the parking lot with enough minutes to unload the car, walk at a 3-year-old’s short legs’ pace, and be where we were supposed to be right on time, without hurrying, rushing, worrying, or needing to pray for green lights.

And then, as I picked up the baby to carry him to his car seat, an unmistakable smell reached my nose.

Back upstairs. Pants off, diaper open, wipes, new diaper, pants back on, set him down crying because I picked him up but then I put him down again (which is why picking him up for the car seat was the last thing before locking the door behind me in the first place), dispose of poop, wash hands, now we’re going to the car.

And now we will all say a prayer together for green lights! So that we may not be late! Or at least only a tiny smidge late.

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Some iteration of this scene has occurred too many times to count. (I’ve purposely tried to forget most of them.)

Sometimes we are on the way to a big sibling’s school drop off. Sometimes on the way to church. Moms group. Doctor appointment. Etc.

Sometimes it is the baby. And we don’t want to encourage diaper rashes or blow-outs, so the poop must be dealt with. And the hands must be washed. A plain wet diaper, if urgent, still only adds about 25 seconds to the leaving routine. Poop is a full two minutes, or more…

This last time, somehow a small piece of the poop fell onto the floor (thankfully of play-doh, and not paste, consistency, so it could be picked up and disposed of). The person who picked it up, though, was the baby, and I was informed of this fact by the preschooler, while I was washing my hands, which sent me into panic mode, because said baby typically puts everything straight into his mouth. I thank God and his guardian angels that it was still in his hand when I got back to him, my hands still wet. In the process of getting it out of his hands and into the toilet, and getting him cleaned up, some got on my pants, so I changed his clothes for good measure, mine out of absolute necessity, and then we got out the door.

And then sometimes it is the currently-potty-training or recently-potty-trained toddler. We were already cutting it close to pick up big sis from preschool this time, and I realized his tiny undies were full just before plunking him into the car seat. At least I noticed, though. Or we’re trying to get to church a bit early, to get a better parking spot–because it’s a hike to the front door from even the front row parking spot, and with small ones in tow every yard counts: the further we have to walk because we were late, the later we are–and she announces that Her bottom is unclogged now and Can she have a marshmallow if she pushes out a poop?

I mean, yeah, go for it, girl!

Being Late is a smaller stress than Constipated Toddler, in the grand scheme. I’m still going to be sweating and fretting about the person at the front of the red light line texting instead of accelerating when it turns green, and about the hurried unbuckling and toddling into the destination when we get there, but if I can keep my voice level then being later than I meant to be will be all it is, instead of adding a cranky kid who needed to poop but now (A) hasn’t pooped, and (B) didn’t get her way, such that her level of compliance at said destination will be noticeably lower.

In other words, Leave Time for Toddlers (and Babies) to be Themselves.

I recently heard it said that for every child under the age of 5 in the house, add 15 minutes to the estimate of how long it will take to get out the door. This is utterly sage advice, y’all, so I’m gratuitously passing it on to you.

If she’s in a phase of preferring to buckle her own chest clip in the car seat, leave an extra 20 seconds so she can. Don’t try to just do it before she notices. When (not if) she notices, there will be a meltdown.

If she can put her own shoes on, and she sometimes wants to, leave a good minute for that, especially if you’re going to insist on switching them to the right feet afterward.

If he is picky about jackets, don’t skip asking and leave time for him to choose.

This also applies to other parts of the day besides getting out the door.

I tell my family that dinner is ready five minutes before it’s actually on the table. “Dinner is ready, time to go potty and wash hands, then come to the table.” A kid who needs to pee (or more) will not eat well and will fight more about foods he doesn’t really want to eat, no matter how hungry he is.

It always goes better for me to start bedtime routine 45 minutes before I want them in bed—even though on a good day it can take only 30 minutes from changing to pjs, reading books, kisses, and light outs—so that (A) they’re just a bit less tired (more compliant) when I ask, and (B) if someone needs to go #2 instead of just #1, there’s time, and if the baby needs milk in the middle, there’s time, and if I decide I don’t remember when they last got clean bedside water bottles and I want to switch them out, there’s time, and if I suddenly remember to dose out allergy medicine, there’s time, and if they get ready nice and quick and then pick out a lengthy book for bedtime reading, there’s time. And I raise my voice less, and my blood pressure is lower, and I can actually enjoy reading the books instead of trying to rush through them, and I can sing the toddler her lullaby twice through if she asks instead of just once, and I can wait for my 5-year-old to give me five or six “kisses” (blowing raspberries on my face—why? But he giggles so), and I can answer my big girl’s bedtime inquiries about tomorrow’s plans without any huffiness.

(Usually Justin puts the big kids to bed while I put the baby to bed, and I just go in for back scratches and kisses for a minute at the end, but sometimes I’m on duty for all four, in which case the extra fifteen minutes really make or break the night for me.)

Finally, this applies to getting my own tired self out of bed in the morning. I know it takes a full hour from the moment I wake the kids up to the time they will be ready to go to school. And I know Miryam needs ten minutes from when I wake her up to when she actually gets up. And I know I also need ten minutes (want more, need 10) between waking and getting up, so I can’t blame her. But that means I have my alarm set for a certain time, to accommodate all the slow-waking. If I’m dressed before I go in for initial wake-ups, the whole morning routine goes more smoothly, because I don’t have to try to multitask later. The kids are young enough to still need micromanaging in some areas, so if I try to just verbally remind them of their morning duties, whilst I go get myself ready for the day as well, they will just go play. Slowly I am training them. For now, I have to factor in time.

For all the things.

For some reason it’s taken me *this long* (seven going on eight years of parenting here) (and this Fall was the first time I’ve had to get multiple kids to school on time, with Justin not working from home / not able to do some of the drop offs or stay home with younger siblings still in pjs while I do drop offs), to finally synthesize all these tidbits of solutions to my Getting Out the Door Problems into this one handy metonymical phrase:

Leave Time for Poop