Potty training is on the agenda today.


I didn’t plan for this.


I didn’t authorize it.


I didn’t want it.


It just is.




Muffin came home from being out all day yesterday and just decided, right then and there, to start potty training.


She’s 25 months old.


I’ve told you before, I’m not ready for this.


I’m still not.


In 45 minutes, we went through three perfectly good diapers.


But things really started getting exciting around here when Muffin started running through the foyer shout-crying in near hysterics, “Potty! Potty! I KNEE POTTY!”


Suburban drama.


I rummaged through the foyer closet and (dislodging a mountain of toys I’d stashed to keep my house from looking like a perpetual garage sale) found the nearest potty chair (also stowed).


After that thing was on the ground, Hubs and I stood back to watch what we thought was going to be our toddler potty train herself in one evening. (I was already writing the blog post in my head.)


It looked promising I tell you. She was naked from the waist down and positioning herself over the potty chair like a pro.


Then there were two tiny fart puffs. (Angels started singing and I deliriously mused about whether Oprah would interview us first, or Ellen.) Then there was a big smile and the declaration, “I done!” (Where was my camera? This is the stuff that goes viral!)


Then the revelation…


Nothing doing.


No drops.


No specks.


No syndicated talk show interviews. Sadly.


We did this three times. Clothes on the floor, diaper pulled off. The whole nine yards. If you follow me on facebook you’ve probably already heard me moan about it.


There was nothing to show for it except that she wanted to get progressively more naked as the night went on. Kind of like a woman in labor. Except the baby never showed up.


Last night was exhausting (with two of us), but nothing compared to today.


I’m on my own. And I’ve bathed my kid three times…before naptime.


If all this bathing sounds excessive…or even made up…remember, I grew up in Miami with our baseball team sized family, all-natural fiber-rich diet, and no air conditioning. Kids ran around in swim suits half the time and babies wore just diapers (is anything cuter than a baby in just a diaper?). And they pooped BIG. So a quick bath for every poopy diaper was the norm. 


(This is only because we were not Cuban. Cuban children that I knew played mostly indoors, in air conditioning. They wore shoes and socks, shiny 18k gold jewelry, and matching three piece outfits 24/7. And they were bathed on schedule, in scented bubbles usually with a nearby abuela cooing away, before being wrapped in luxurious towels and powdered and dabbed with the best-smelling violet cologne on the planet. And they pooped small containable turds.)


Poopy diapers in our house growing up could mean temporary chaos. Shouting. Divvying up of tasks among us kids. Someone to grab the offender, someone to pinch the diaper in one hand and their nose in the other as they walked to the outdoors trash, someone to start the bath water…and the poopy baby, who probably needed to be cooled down anyway, got cleaned up, entertained, and relaxed enough for a nap. All in one fell swoop.


Anyway, I can’t hardly change a poopy diaper without a bath. Or a dripping pee pee baby for that matter either.


It just doesn’t feel right. (And I’m not that good at it either.)


I’ll spare you most of the details of today but just suffice it to say that the summary report from three separate rogue potty training incidents are as follows:


1) There is no end to what my daughter can do with a poopy diaper (walls, door, floor, arms, legs, torso).


2) “Up-tairs”, I’ll be washing my bed skirt.


3) “Down-tairs”, My new tennis shoes aren’t so new anymore.


Because, with hundreds of square feet to choose from, my daughter hovers over the worst possible 12 inches of space.

Potty training baby pees on shoes
Yeah, I have big feet.


Like over the space that contains my brand spanking new indoor shoes (that are only at the front door because I don’t wear them outside. Now I might as well).


So, with potty training on my daughter’s agenda today, I had a few extra things on mine…mainly on my to-do list.




And a verdict has been reached: My daughter will be wearing zippered footy pajamas (backwards so she can’t unzip them) and duct tape fortification over her diaper tabs for next six months.


Except for when she bathes.


Which…if I can find my duct tape…will not be happening again today.


Did you ever have a little one decide to start potty training on their own?


How did it go?




P.S.  The shoes are fine, right?