Commando

A couple weeks ago, Elijah decided he was potty trained. Diana explained he just decided diapers weren’t his thing. And I got to see it first hand the other morning as I got him out of bed and extracted his nighttime diaper.

“I don’t want to wear diapers.”

“Oh, cool. Well, we have a wide array of big boy underpants. Look. You can have Elmo on your crotch!”

“No. I don’t want underpants either.”

Hmm. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was Eli really going to be that guy? The no underwear guy? Does that mean we have to buy him leather pants and a “Member’s Only” Jacket? Will he start growing sideburns and wear dark glasses indoors? He does favor his Matchbox Firebird.

I tried to debate the merits of underpants. “Well, aside from the benefits of snugness, which are many, underpants eliminate the worry of getting your special guy caught in a zipper. And brother, you do not want that to happen. Did I mention you can have Elmo on your crotch?”

“No. No underpants.”

I zipped up his pajamas and led him downstairs. I looked at my own baby blue, saggy boxer shorts and realized at age 2 ½ he was already cooler than me.

This new commando Eli has been remarkably accident free. We still force him to wear diapers to bed, due to his propensity to dream about fish. And he wears diapers when we leave the house, because we just got a new German car so I can pretend it’s a Porsche. Urine isn’t covered in our lease agreement.

p.s. There is only a thin layer of sweatpants between you and the good doctor.