Brontë and I continue to work on potty training, and I’ve just about exhausted my bag of tricks.
It’s starting to feel like a two-year-old has taken me hostage. She has her finger right above the poop trigger, and either I meet her crazy demands, or this whole place is going to explode.
Recently, she demanded that a unicorn accompany her to the potty chair. Not just accompany her, but the unicorn needs her own potty too. Only the best for Princess Celestia.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I fulfilled this demand, setting up a secondary potty chair and even talking Princess Celestia through the process to maintain the unicorn fantasy.
It seemed reasonable enough at the time. Who wouldn’t be reassured by a fluffy cupcake unicorn, crapping right along with you?
What’s not reasonable? My daughter also decided to empty the stuffing out of her Doc McStuffins pillow all over her bed yesterday morning. Whether she is delving into a possible connection between stuffing and McStuffins, or simply being a Toddler Destruco-Agent, I wasn’t certain…
I’ve been trying to hit this potty training thing from every angle. We’ve done stickers, candy rewards, lavish praise, bedtime stories about potties… tried to employ various methods from smug little books about potty-training in three days or less, but to no avail.
Brontë enjoys the candy and stickers but remains quite resistant.
I finally saw some success after leaving her naked and giving her no where to go. She repeatedly asked for a diaper but was denied. She finally resorted to actually sitting on the potty and trickling out the littlest bit of pee.
Of course, I praised her as through she just painted the Sistine Chapel. Maybe she would be convinced to do it again.
But she was having none of it. I just caught her on her bed, trying to pack the disemboweled pillow stuffing around her butt to make a diaper.
So THAT’S why she tore the pillow up. She was making a diaper.
You would think a child with enough creativity to build a diaper from scratch would have this potty thing down. Kids are a conundrum.
Later that evening, I went out to dinner with girlfriends. I needed a break from the Potty Wars.
But Brontë was quite upset, so upset that she crapped in her hand and rubbed it ALL OVER the mirror in her room. She really put some elbow grease into it. My poor husband.
When I came home, I walked into her room to greet her and was met with a fecal-smeared wall. She looked up at me with initial defiance before suddenly reading she was both literally and figuratively in a world of…
Her eyes grew wide as she walked up to me, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I missed you, mommy. I love you.”
The parenting books DO NOT PREPARE YOU FOR THIS.
Parents are just flying by the seat of their pants. Try to be forgiving. #Brontëkeepsitreal