So, we’re potty training.
Don’t worry – I have no desire to document for you (and the entirety of the Internet from now until forever) the specific details of this process. If Ryan is old enough to go on the potty, he’s old enough to have earned the right to a tiny amount of privacy.
However, given that I feel as though we are chained to the inside of my in-laws’ house (yep, still living here!) and I have already escorted him on 18 trips to the potty today (I said he earned a tiny amount of privacy), I thought I’d better blog about it, lest my head explode.
Here’s how I feel: Potty training is the worst parenting task I have tackled so far.
I hate it. I hate it more than 3 a.m. feedings and more than teething. I hate it more than the time he drank some bad formula and screamed through his entire first Christmas. I think I may even hate it more than flying with a toddler.
To his credit, he’s doing great. He really is. As good as you could probably hope for. Still, I keep thinking I have reached my limit. That if I have to talk about pee one more time, if I have to perch my adult-sized butt on the child-sized stool in the cramped downstairs bathroom and wait for somebody else’s bodily function to occur one more time, I might run screaming from the bathroom, out into the garage and through the neighborhood.
Of course, I don’t want to be responsible for Ryan’s therapy bills later on, so instead of screaming, I plaster a smile on my face, clap my hands a lot and dole out stickers. This is what good moms do.
So. Anyway. Gotta go. Trip number 19 is about to commence.