I have apparently lost my mind. Completely. It's the only explanation I can think of as to why I've decided to take it upon myself to start potty training Elsa. Me. I'm actually taking the initiative to turn my child into a functioning, somewhat independent human being who doesn't pee on the floor.
With Rollie, Jeff was the one who kicked him out of our bedroom the day he turned 3 months old. Jeff was the one who encouraged me to buy Rollie a potty seat, reasoning that I wouldn't want to be changing two sets of diapers all day long. It was Jeff who decided when to take Rollie's pacifier away, and when to buy him a Big Boy Bed and when to have Rollie take over the check book duties after I sufficiently proved that I suck at basic math.
Yet here I am, letting Elsa run around without any pants, asking her every five seconds if she has to go pee-pee. What the hell am I thinking? I'm attempting to get a person who thinks crayons are a food group to be in tune with body cues that are sometimes so confusing she can't tell the difference between a full bladder and a stuffy nose.
It all started when I was talking to some of my other mom-friends and I mentioned that Elsa keeps taking her diaper off. One of my friends, whose daughter potty-trained herself before she'd shed all of her lanugo, told me that this was the sign that Elsa and the potty are ready for their introductions.
"Really?" I was pretty fascinated. "Already?"
My friend, who'd suddenly bumped Professor Dumbledore from the number one slot on my list of Wisest People Of All Time, nodded. "If you don't do it now, she won't be ready for potty-training until she's around two-and-a-half."
"Two-and-a-half!" Slowly I did the math. "....That's like....a whole year from now."
"She's telling you she's ready."
Holy Crap! I looked at Elsa, who was busily removing her hair bow and trying to eat it, and suddenly I had visions of her sporting a pair of girlie undies, announcing that she had to go pee-pee, and then dutifully marching into the bathroom, climbing up on the toilet and actually going. Clearly I had been smoking lots of crack.
Still, when I got home I removed her pants, allowed her to remove her diaper, and sat down to look her in the eye.
"Now Elsa," I said. "You have to tell me when you need to use the potty, okay?"
"I'm serious. I don't want to clean pee-pee up off the floor all day long, okay?"
"Make sure you tell me when you have to go pee-pee?"
"Do you have to go now?"
Since I have learned from experience that 'Mmm' means 'yes', I took her into the bathroom and put her on the toilet. She sat there for a few seconds, looking as incongruous as a toad on a throne, and then I heard the beautiful sound of tinkling.
"Baby Elsa!" I gasped. "You're going pee-pee!"
"Pee-pee," she said. And smiled.
"Yay!" I clapped and beamed. This is going to be a piece of cake! I thought. It took Rollie a year--a year--before I felt confident enough to let him out of the house without ten emergency outfits stuffed in the diaper bag. It was like running errands with Cher. Elsa was already on her way to being diaper-free by preseason football.
So for the past week or so, I've been letting Elsa run around the house sans pants. It's been going well. She tells me she has to go...sometimes even before she's already gone on the carpet. The only problem with this arrangement is that she is veeeery interested in her girlie parts. Over the weekend, Jeff asked me if I could please put some pants on her. I guess he's not quite used to the sight of our 19-month-old daughter playing Ponce De Leon with her own body. Which I can understand. I'm hoping that as soon as she is potty-trained, she'll jump right back into her clothes without any fuss.
Stay tuned ten years from now for an upcoming blog: Tales Of A Fourth Grade Nudist.