A toddler’s bathroom accident led to an unexpected lesson in patience and grace. The author wrestled with frustration but saw her grandsons respond with empathy and support. The story underscores the power of encouragement and unconditional love in family life.
By day five of caring for my 2-year-old and 8-year-old grandsons full time, I nearly lost my patience. I had slept only a few hours and woke up dehydrated, my tongue dry and sticky, my head pounding. In the bathroom, I noticed yellow specks on the porcelain rim. With a 2-year-old in the house, that wasn’t surprising.
But then, at 7 a.m., I saw it: a puddle encircling the toilet, a musty odor rising from it. I turned on the fan, grabbed a paper towel to clean up the mess, and reminded myself not to overreact.
The author took care of her grandsons for a week. My grandson said he could do things himself. All week, I had offered to help, but George always insisted he could do it himself. Then he would slam the door shut.
That puddle tested my self-control. “Stay calm,” I told myself. “He’s only 2, and at least you’re not changing dirty diapers.” George knocked and asked if I was taking a shower. I stepped into the hallway and told him I wasn’t happy. No response.
I explained there was pee all over the floor. Both Grandpa and his older brother, Stanley, had shown him how to use the toilet, but George preferred lifting the seat and aiming for the opening. I had seen him guide an RC car through impossible turns, so aiming into a toilet didn’t seem like too much to ask.
The youngest grandson is a grandpa boy. George lowered his head. The usually nonstop talker fell silent, turned toward the wall, and buried his face in his shoulder.
After breakfast, he was back to his chatty self, driving trucks through kinetic sand, flipping off the couch, and riding his scooter around the house. When he needed the bathroom, he chose outdoor “nature pees” instead.
Later, as I made lunch, George scooted into the bathroom and slammed the door. I waited, then quietly peeked inside. He wasn’t sitting or standing. He was kneeling, reaching toward the back wall with a huge wad of toilet paper. The bowl was clogged with even more paper.
What I wanted to say: WE TALKED ABOUT THIS! What I actually said: nothing. I just sighed. My grandkids taught me an important lesson
That’s when Stanley stepped in. During the day, George followed him everywhere, copying his every move. At night, they shared a bedroom. Though they had bunk beds, they chose to sleep side by side on the bottom bunk, arms wrapped around each other.
Stanley glanced at George on his knees, smiled broadly, and suggested I praise him for his effort. The author learned an important lesson from her grandkids.
Stanley then looked straight at George and told him what a good boy he was. He didn’t mention the clogged toilet. He didn’t scold him for the mess or the wet floor. He didn’t even remind him to wash his hands. He simply opened his arms for a hug. I stood there speechless. Where I saw a disaster, Stanley saw effort. While I considered a lecture, he offered comfort.
I guided both boys to the sink to wash their hands before lunch. After eating, we played with Monster Trucks. When George grew cranky, I put him down for a nap. I played cards with Stanley and later cleaned the bathroom with bleach.
When George woke up, my husband suggested a walk to the park. With Stanley visiting a friend, George, Grandpa, and I headed out together. They taught me we all need a little grace
George is Grandpa’s boy. Every sentence starts with, “Grandpa, watch,” or “Grandpa, look,” or “Grandpa, can I?” He holds Grandpa’s hand in parking lots and sits on his lap for every story. But at an intersection, when Grandpa asked him to hold hands, George surprised me.
Instead of reaching for Grandpa, he took my hand, squeezed it, and held on long after we crossed the street. His tiny fingers wrapped around mine told me he wanted us to be okay again.
At bedtime, when he usually chose Grandpa, George asked me to read to him. Five books. We didn’t talk about bathrooms or disinfectant or better aim. I simply held him, pulled a blanket over us, and read slowly to savor the moment. I tucked him in with Doggie, his favorite stuffed toy, kissed him, and told him I loved him.
By 8 p.m., I joined Grandpa in the living room, too exhausted to read, pick up toys, or empty the dishwasher. As I thought about the day, I wondered what I could have done better. I realized the lesson wasn’t about toilet training, reasoning with a toddler, or keeping a spotless bathroom.
The lesson was that we all need a little grace. Stanley praised George not for getting it right, but for trying. When was the last time I did that?
In a world obsessed with high expectations, perfection often feels like the goal. We’re so used to correcting and fixing — our kids, coworkers, even strangers online — that we forget how powerful encouragement can be.
And then there was George. Without a word, he reached for my hand, a small act with extraordinary meaning. Adults forget this truth too: love often repairs itself through simple gestures.
The best kind of love, I learned, isn’t earned by perfection. It’s offered right in the middle of our messes.
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