I think Husband came home just as I was screaming "J*sus H. F*cking Chr*st" as Winton peed into the carpet by his sister's bed, mere moments after upturning the bathroom footstool, climbing into it and peeing in there.
I was busy cleaning the footstool as he started calling "Hey, Mummy. Pee pee. I'm peeing."
He's now in bed yelling "Swiper, no swiping!" at his sister, so he doesn't seem to be traumatized. But I'm sure the potty training books caution against vehement, explicit language at high volumes.
Husband hasn't emerged from downstairs yet: he's probably afraid.
Sometimes I really really suck at this parenting gig. So it's good they're at daycare, right?
Hah! For, But.
There's a big, permanent, festering sliver in my heart about my life's fiscal limits (I think I should be home with the kids, should always have been home with them, but never could afford to be).
I am, if you'll pardon my language, completely f*cked: heartsore AND incompetent.