A Christmas Miracle

Warning: this blog entry mentions "tee-tee" and "poo-poo." Please skip it entirely if you're not up for it.

I've spent a lot of time these past few weeks preparing myself mentally for the daunting task of potty training.

Those of you who knew me back in the day would say, "Jennie! That's not you! Whatever happened to your single gal, free-wheeling lifestyle? The heady days of hefty bar tabs and late nights? The weekends spent planning and hosting a big dinner party with 30 of our closest friends, where I had to wear that crazy costume?"

Folks, if you happen to find that lifestyle, let her know that she needs to stay home once in a while and put all that bar tab money into her 401(k). Good grief.

Anyway, back to the potty training. As I was saying, it's mind-boggling to consider that I will be responsible for getting a child to do something that will carry her through polite society for the next 70 or 80 years, until someone is paid to do it all for her. You know, simple concepts like using toilet paper or washing hands afterwards. And then, there's the training tips that will prepare them for a successful marriage: which way do you hang the toilet paper? After you're done, do you put one lid down, or both?

Valuable skills indeed, and I do feel the pressure weighing down on me each day to get this right.

I bought a potty several weeks ago, brought it home and set it in the bathroom. I talked about it every day, showing her that Mommy uses the potty and now it was Helen's turn. So we have a routine: just before she gets in the tub, she sits down for a little bit on the potty. And she has tee-teed a couple of times. The first time it happened, she looked shocked. I made the appropriate congratulatory noises and moved on with the bath. She talks about it, asks to use it almost daily, even if nothing happens.

A few days later, Helen mentioned "poo poo" for the first time, and held her hand on her bottom. I thought, oh my goodness! The first step is recognizing when it's going to happen. We rushed to the potty, but apparently Helen thinks a little gas is the same as the real deal, so despite sitting there for a while, nothing important happened.

Then came Christmas.

That evening, Helen stood up and cried, "poo poo." She said it several times, appearing to be in agony. And really, haven't we all been there before? Poor girl.

I rushed her upstairs to the bathroom. We didn't bring her potty with us to my parents' house, so I put her on "Mama's potty." Sure enough, a few seconds later - well, I don't really have to type it out, do I?

OUR BABY IS GROWING UP SO FAST! (sniff, sniff)

The bonus part is that from here on out, every box of diapers I buy could be our last. And that, folks, will be reason enough to host another big dinner party for 30 of our closest friends. I'm thinking we need a theme - maybe something to do with water?

And if you know me well, you'll start planning your costume, now.