Monday, June 30, 2014

Potty Training: Day 3

To Whomever May Read This:

Please tell my children and my husband that I love them dearly.
Tell them not to forget to feed the cat because she'll be the first one forgotten now that I'm gone.

I'm just kidding.
I'm still here. Barely. Hanging. On.

This whole thing is like a cruel joke. It's funny how once you survive having a baby, nurturing that child from being a infant to being a toddler, you are thrust into yet another dimension of parenting.
Potty Training
This has got be on the top ten list of hardest parts of raising a child. 
Please tell me it is. 

I tried to potty train Samantha back in December, right after Christmas, before the new year. She did okay, but to be completely honest, I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared to handle the amount of commitment involved which is strange since I've never been afraid of commitment. 

Marry the only man I've ever had a serious relationship with?
Buy the first and only house we look at?
No problem.
Potty train my first born?
Wait. This seems like too much pressure.

Needless to say, that venture did not last long. (Like 12 hours.)

This time, however, I was ready. 
I bought the special underwear.
Installed the toddler toilet seats.
Stocked up on brightly scented, lime green soap.
Aligned the plethora of stools in front of sinks and potties.
Set out the incentive charts with matching stickers.
Hid the surprises that are given out once an incentive chart has been filled.
Poured the M&M's into the mason jar.

I was ready.

In the past 56 hours I have spent more time in the bathroom than a newly 21-year-old frat boy. 

Samantha has totally embraced the incentive chart, clearly taking advantage of the M&M and sticker she receives after every successful potty visit. Considering the amount of time she's spent on the potty, I wouldn't be surprised if she named it soon, calling it "Frank" or something and telling it "Good morning, Frank" each morning and "Good night, Frank" before bed.

Easton, on the other hand, has decided that he doesn't want to be bothered with the effort involved in using the potty. He cares nothing about stickers, surprises, or M&M's and would rather use his diaper until the end of time.  He likes his super hero underpants, but he has temporarily been placed back into his diapers until Samantha has a better grasp on the whole concept. At that point, we'll focus a better percentage of our energy/time/cleaning surplus on Easton and his dislike for the whole thing. 
"I doen wike da pottee."
I'm not giving up this time. My children are going to come out of the other end of this dark tunnel potty trained. I may be delirious and severely sleep-deprived, but I am going to win this war on diapers.  
Stupid diapers.
Stupid potty.
I'm quickly running out of my stockpile of tequila.

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