Everyone’s New Year’s night photos are so great, but I have a 💩 story to share tonight, so if that’s not your cup of tea, scroll on.

Ready?

OK. We put Elliott in underwear Thursday, after he woke up with a poopy diaper, declaring it time to be potty trained because he’ll be 4 in April. He’s done great — no pee accidents. He’s a champion holder, which is good and bad, because he’s almost too good at holding it all in. You know where I’m going with this.

Three days go by in underwear and no accidents! But also, no #2. He just refuses. He didn’t even accidentally 💩 in his sleep, when we put him in a pull up! And this is with me increasingly dosing his chocolate milk with MiraLax, per his pediatrician’s advice. Finally, tonight, he is in pain, but he insists he can’t poop. I sat with him for nearly an hour and a half, feeling like I was a labor coach, encouraging him to push it out, intermittently telling him I loved him and trying to get him to relax. We end up totally late for midnight service at church, where he continues to pace and whimper, while still fighting a BM.

A nurse at church said we should try a mineral oil enema, which we were not keen to try, but the poor dude was in such pain all the way home. So as Trinity gloves up, I watched Elliott pace and moan from the living room to the kitchen, and finally saw his legs start to collapse. So I’m like, oh, here we go, and I rush him into the bathroom, pull down his now trashed underwear (thank God for hand me downs) and get him on the toilet. Oh, there was poop smeared everywhere — the bottom of the toilet bowl, the edge of the kid attachment to the toilet, on Elliott’s legs. He finally gets it all out, and he is just jubilant — high fiving us, telling us repeatedly how he pooped in the potty. After we get everyone cleaned up and in bed, Trin’s washing his hands and asks me how I knew he was having an accident.

I said I had seen his legs start to collapse, and he starts just cracking up. “He pulled a Bridesmaids?!” Oh. My. God. I start gasping, laughing, because that’s exactly what he did.

This is two days after two boys vomiting in their bed, so parents-to-be, keep your sense of humor.

I’ve been riveted by the sexual assault stories swirling around this year’s election, with good reason. There are probably instances of impropriety I can’t remember much earlier in life, but I’ve dealt with unwanted groping since junior high, when boys thought my early development was an invitation to touch and grab. I was ashamed and nearly crying on a bus trip to the beach, when two boys I’d known since kindergarten thought it was a game to try and grab me from their seats behind me. I had to borrow a big puffy jacket from my friend sitting next to me to try and shield myself, but they still kept trying. I didn’t drive until I was 20, but walking to bus stops or waiting for buses and for my mom to pick me up was excruciating because I endured catcalls and whistles. I would wear billowing T-shirts on 100-degree Fullerton days, sunglasses, headphones and a ferocious expression to get through each day. I thought it was my fault, especially since family members would look at me disapprovingly just for wearing a sleeveless shirt, or something that didn’t completely obscure my figure. It came to a breaking point when I finally gave in to a guy who had visited my church and had been touted as “a good boy” by a close family member. I had made the mistake of letting him come over to my house, but to get him out without getting in trouble, I had to say, “OK, fine.”

It’s not fine.