Abby peed on the potty the other day.
This would be cause for celebration. I even called my mother immediately after to brag, because who better to commemorate the occasion with than the doting grandma? We whoo’d and yay’d appropriately. But then I began to contemplate the situation I was in. What did I just start?
My daughter may be ready to potty-train, but I’m not.
Now, being a house without diapers would make me ecstatic. However, there’s the matter of getting there. Of spending hours in the bathroom, again. Of keeping hands out of pee-tainted toilet water, again. Of wiping up accidents and scrubbing carpets, again. Of piles of stained, smelly laundry, again. Of potty parties, which aren’t nearly as fun as they sound, again. I’m not even 100% with Buzz, since we’ve had some major regression issues. I just… I can’t… I won’t. You can’t make me! Not again.
I hate potty-training. Nothing else in all of parenting makes me feel as inadequate. Because forget development of the kid, this whole thing, it’s all about ME.
Abby has only had that one successful potty incident so far, which was only positive because it required no direction from me in any way. All I did was pull her pants down and feign glee at the end result, she did the rest. I’m not going to force it. I’m just not ready. I’m more inclined to hide in the closet and let someone else deal with it. While they’re at it, they can help Buzz with his issues, too. Takers? Anyone? No? Shit.