I had my morning all planned out yesterday: Have maid cook breakfast, advise Rodolfo I could only have a thirty instead of sixty minute massage, read for an hour, look for the Sarah McClachlan "In the Arms of the Angels" commercial because I finally want to donate to save hairless cats, and then blog. You noticed I didn't include my Monday morning sponge bath, but we're still trying to fill that position after the last person stopped showing up or returning my calls. At least I don't have to explain the screaming to the neighbors anymore.
Nope, yesterday the sun rose and was all like, "Your kid wants to be potty trained."
I shook my Aldi-brand coffee at it. "No, she doesn't. She told me she wanted to wear diapers until she's twenty and no longer financially dependent on me. You think the people over at Depends make adult diapers for fun?"
And the sun said. "Maybe. Those older people always look like they're having fun, playing badminton and stuff. But that's not the point. Move, now. Or your floor gets peed on...again."
Me: You do it.
Sun: No, you.
Sundance has decided she'd like to join the rest of civilized society and start using the bathroom. I didn't force her or even hint at the fact it'd be nice if her and her brother made this transition before the baby gets here. I'm too fat to care at this point. But that didn't stop her."I wanna go potty."
"Are you sure?"
"Because that means I have to waddle upstairs."
"Ok, let mommy finish pinning eight more pictures of crafts we won't do together and I'll be right there. If we weren't going to do a craft, would you want it to be the reindeer made of hand prints or the rug woven on a hula hoop? Which would you be more likely to look back on and say, "My mom never took the time to work on quality projects with me?"
The next nine hours or so required I climb the stairs, get the potty chair set up and stare her down until she pottied. Because a toddler does not simply walk into the bathroom to potty. A toddler walks into the bathroom to make paper mache swans from the toilet paper, try out the plunger, and use various toothbrushes to find out which one cleans grout the best.
And so, we sat.
"You gonna go?"
"Sing ABC song?"
"ABCD...U is for urine."
"Sing Row You Boat?"
"As long as we're rowing it down a stream of urine."
"Mary little lamb?"
"As long as the lamb makes it to school and pees in the toilet."
By the time five o'clock rolled around, there were no groceries in the cabinet, no laundry done, and Jimmy Johns working busily to feed me.
"Jimmy Johns. What can we get for you?"
"Umm. I'd like a roast beef sub and the number for Tori Spelling's nanny....and a Diet Coke"
I didn't ask for this. It was dropped upon me. The good news is she went four times. The bad news is that she's forgotten all about it today. The good news is it gave me time to write about it.
The bad news is she's eying that toilet again, and I just sunk back in my butt grove preparing to pin articles on how to potty train your toddler when you're ready...ooooh, and one for making your own reminders to wear pants.
Until Next Time, Readers!