Besides the first 17 weeks of both my pregnancies, I have not spent this much time at the toilet since expunging every liquid possible from every orifice possible while backpacking in Peru. And if not then, certainly since college where many a morning was spent cursing the how-many-drinks-to-make-a-110lb-body-fall-over case study.
Regardless, here I sit now, just as miserably, on the floor of a tiny half-bath reading a book entitled ‘Plop’ and singing made-up lyrics that alternate between pee rap and poo rock n’ roll.
Yes, it is potty training time in our household *shudder*. After months of blatantly ignoring the signs that my toddler is ready, it occurs to me that I am 35 weeks pregnant. Which means in about one month, THERE WILL BE 2 SETS OF DIAPERS TO CHANGE! Not to mention pay for. Potty Bootcamp is in session.
None of us are prepared. Not my toddler who gets an acute case of pee-phobia. Not my husband who may as well be armed permanently with paper towel and all purpose cleaner. And not myself, hormonal pregnant lady carrying 40 extra pounds, who failed to consider all the bending this very unbend-able body would be required to endure. Bend/underwear down, bend/undies up, bend/wipe up puddle, bend/pick up flailing-tantruming-peeing toddler, bend/cry in fetal position, bend…
So as I sit, waiting for the toddler atop the Porcelain Goddess to dethrone, I daydream that next time I must sit similarly in worship, it will be because I’m vacationing in Mexico. Or got rip-roaring drunk with my hubby. But we all know when it will actually be: Potty Bootcamp Child #2.