I am doer.  Always have been.  Always will be.

I am a procrastinator. Always have been.  Always will be.

The pressure of a deadline, tournament, or goal is essential to my existence as a competent, strong woman who excels at almost anything she decides. I need pressure to be successful.

Therefore, here I am. Slumped, crisscross apple sauce, on my deep rooibos wood floor, counting the grain lines. My head dodges two year old legs, swinging rhythmically, like a metronome, in time with his sweet, devilish voice singing to the tune of Friar Jacques, “Red is rojo, blue is azul, green is verde…”.

He is on round three of this blasted song and I am seriously considering laying my head down on the potentially urine splattered floor surrounding the toilet. How hard do three little men, actually, have to swipe their willies to get that last drop off? Because mine do it with such virility, that single drop launches anywhere in a two foot radius.

Alas, I force my fingers to resist tapping the grains, place a cool hand on the mocking Ninja Turtle wrecking balls, and ask the most dreaded question, “Did you go?”

With Churchill confidence and a pound of his fist he sounds, “YES!”

Liar.

Stewie’s my third boy.  My third maniac. My third attempt at assimilating the wiles of an alien into the human race. My third doctorate in Deceptive Interrogation Systems, providing the ability to unveil truth hidden within wide gaping mouths, twitching eyes, hand wringing, defensive screams, or emphatic enthusiasm. My third and final Potty Training Comprehensive Exam. Forcing me, one final time, to tap into my previously honed talents, such as the ability to decipher the slightest yellowish shade in the toilet water with my laser eyes, or use my sonar capabilities to hear the smallest droplet or identify the most minute stale stench; all in order to permanently rid myself of diapers FOREVER!

Liar.

In ten minutes, nothing. My radar went off only once. His song silenced at “pink is Ros….” My eyes flew up to examine his pierced expression, tense crossed eyes, breath held with clenched buttocks, when it hit me. He is intentionally holding in his pee. Deliberately. Stubbornly. Hatefully.

But my deadline is on the horizon, mocking me. Three years old. Wheels was trained just before two and Malcolm at two and a half. Stewie has less than three months.  I have never had a three year old in diapers.  I must persevere.  I HAVE to.

I succumb to this session, 0-1, and gently pull his tiny Thomas undies up his legs and over his hips.  I remind “if your tummy tells you, you need to pee pee, holler Momma, I have to pee as loud as you can, and I will take you. Or, oooo, you can pee on a tree! Remember, you get a treat when you go!” Anything to sweeten the temptation.

He races across the warm floor and out into the sunlight. Galloping, leaning forward, arms extended behind, as though a winged colt wanting to fly but reliant on the ground.  With cheers from his brothers, he reaches the construction site the threesome have been intensely building all morning. Three little blonde heads, hunched over a dusty hole. Close. Whispering. Pretending. Encouraging. The sun passes through the protective limbs, allowing the scene to bathe in loving brotherhood. Musing together.  Fusing into a unit. I melt in solitary happiness.

Stewie’s small brutish, statuesque figure rises between the larger mounds. Seeking me sideways over his shoulder, he grins wildly, emphatically, his alabaster face already streaked with boogie dirt. He hollers, “Momma LOOOK!!!! I made ginooooormous pond!”

Yep, gonna to miss that deadline.