Training Day(s)

Recently, as I began the potty training process with Daughter, I was quickly reminded that there is Potty Training and then there is Poop Training.  Potty training is all M&M’s and Unicorns but Poop Training is more like hellfire and rodents.  Now, this is only my experience as I understand that there are kids in this world who just ...go poop...in the toilet...like it’s NO BIG DEAL.  (Flashback to Poop-Training Son: saw a friend with his boys at the park and his son had just taken a poop.  In the park bathroom.  With no trauma inflicted on either party.  I. Was. Amazed.)  I held out a very small sliver of hope that Daughter would just poop like a normal person on the toilet and we would laugh and dance about how wonderful and easy it was to both potty and poop train her and she would become my new favorite child.  But Daughter will not be so swayed.  Daughter has her own ideas about where her poop should go and it’s not the toilet.  Or a diaper.  She prefers to just hold it as long as possible, sometimes a day or two, and then just...go. Most likely in her adorable princess undies.  Which, although somewhat pleasingly poetic to me that she chooses to quite literally shit on Cinderella, is mostly annoying.  And kind of gross.  (Not to mention there is no money saved on diapers if I must keep buying underwear because I’m just...not...going to clean the offending Princesses.)  

There is supposedly a theory that girls are easier to potty train than boys.  That theory is false in the Gelato House.  When Husband reminded me that Son, too, had accidents, I reminded him that Son had three accidents in a year and Daughter has three in a day.  Not that I’m comparing them or anything...God...who does that?  But I do have to remind myself that this, too, will pass, and she will eventually poop on the toilet and hopefully stop demanding to wear Ariel on her butt.  This whole process is just another gentle reminder that kids are hard and having expectations can prove foolish and, oh yeah, Daughter is the boss of me.  Because who else gets to poop in their pants and then demand that I play 6 rounds of Curious George Discovery Beach Game and by the way get me a snack and I would like ice in my water, please.  

I know...I know...one day I'll be that lady, watching a young mom stroll through a store with her kids and I'll stare longingly, wondering where the time went, but before I tap her on the shoulder to harass her about enjoying each moment, I will remember that she probably has to go home, clean poop out of someone's underwear and then make a dinner that nobody will eat, so instead I will give her a silent cheer, an evil laugh...and be on my way.