That is the only word that describes Monday night's experience. It's taken me this many days to be able to relive it without wincing in pain.
Dex has been doing a great job with going pee-pee in the potty, but pooping has eluded us (until Wednesday night, but that's another post). Because he has such anxiety about pooping in the potty, he's been holding it and going every other day, so far in his pants. I was expecting him to need to go Monday night, so I was delighted when he suddenly yelled "Dexter have ta' go poop!" from the bleachers at Abi's ball game. So, away we ran to the bathroom. No poop. Only tears. We return to the stands. A few minutes later, "Dexter have ta' go poop!" So, away we ran to the bathroom. Again. No poop. Only more tears. We return to the stands. A few minutes later, "Dexter have ta' go poop!" So, away we ran to the bathroom. Again. (No, my computer is not stuck on copy/paste). The only poop is the streak in his underwear. More tears ... and underwear wrapped up in cheap, paper-thin toilet paper. We return to the stands. Again. A few minutes later, "Dexter poop!" (I should have noticed the change in tense here.) So, as we are headed toward the bathroom, I smell it. Ahh! At the bottom of the bleachers, DEXTER FANS HIS SHORTS LEG AND HIS TERD FALLS OUT ON THE GROUND!
Mortified. Speechless. Disgusted. Potty-training for the last time.