Potty Training

Am I the only one who can't figure out how to do paragraph breaks in bloggers new format?? No, the title of this blog is not a metaphor for some beautiful, existential experience in which I break down long repressed "poopy" experiences in order to break through into the training of my real life. No, it's actually about poop. Potty training is a lousy idea. Diapers are awesome. Anyone who says otherwise has never actually potty trained another human. Don't tell me if you have one of those kids who potty trained in 24 hours and then trained your neighbor's kids and their dog. I don't want to hear it. We have begun this process for the fourth time and my brain had already blocked out how much I hate it. OH, the puddles of urine! The urine footprints running away from the puddle! The laundry that just can't wait until Thursday laundry day! The carpet that will remain stiff in places from the pee-pee/Resolve cocktail that's been poured on it six times! And the 1000 other things I am in the middle of when someone yells, "MOM, Johanna's soaking wet!" Of course, there is another type of waste, affectionately known as "Number 2". (My poor sister KayLynn, second in our family, loves it when she is called Number 2. I digress.) That is an even worse mess. Wanna hear about it? Johanna let loose a NUMBER 2 yesterday in her sweet little girl panties. This is not the first time I have dealt with this but it is the first time I have dealt with it with the, ahem, help, of three older siblings. Nathan took the lead by yelling that something smelled terrible and then crying when he discovered a particle of this matter was on his lego creation. He also assisted with the dry heaving outside the bathroom door as I was dealing with the mess. He wouldn't leave the scene but he wouldn't stop gagging either. Truly irreplaceable help. Dane was the broadcaster. He kept Aubrey and Nathan abreast of the situation. He told them about how Johanna, in her desperate attempt to be rid of the disgusting panties, managed to step in them and then do a poopy dance about the bathroom. He also described the smell, how many wipes I had used, what other items in the bathroom had poop on them, and how he felt about the experience in general. Aubrey, once she was brave enough to survey the scene, provided invaluable instructions. "You missed some, right there on her leg." "Mom, this is taking a long time, can you go faster?" "Mom, you should be more careful, now it's on the bath mat." "Mom, you should have put her on the potty before she went in undies." "Mom, I am going to continue to think you are an incompetent fool for the next 12 years." (The last sentence wasn't actually stated but generally implied.) In the midst of the commotion, the timer on the microwave began to beep, beep, beep. It was a reminder for me to put Johanna on the potty. Folks, you just can't buy this kind of help.