Let’s be honest: I was pretty slow to jump on the potty training bandwagon with my daughter. While my mother-in-law was practically itching to get things rolling and every parenting blogger I followed shared photos of their toddlers proudly sporting underwear, I chose the super chill approach (which some might call lazy). I casually asked her from time to time, “Hey, how about trading in those diapers for the potty?” The response was always a long pause followed by, “No thanks, Mama.” So, we kept on as we were.
Eventually, I decided to introduce a reward system, which meant I was buying bags of Skittles every week at the grocery store. The deal was simple: one for a sit, two for a pee, and a small handful for a successful poop. She loved it, and soon enough, she was filling that tiny princess potty like a champ, all before her kindergarten orientation. I felt like I was nailing this parenting thing.
But here’s the kicker: a three-year-old simply cannot wipe her own bottom effectively. Honestly, I’m almost 37 and, let’s be real, I’ve had my share of close calls (always seems to happen at the most inconvenient times, like at Wal-Mart). Expecting a little girl who just ditched the diapers to have the coordination necessary for a clean wipe is like asking her to fix a sewing machine while I’m simultaneously yelling about the importance of the truth. It just wasn’t happening.
Surprisingly, she wasn’t even that interested in toilet paper, which was shocking given that every YouTube video I had seen claimed kids adored the magical roll that unfurls into a fluffy pile of fun. The first time I asked her to fetch toilet paper and crumple it nice and tight for her pre-wipe routine, she carefully tore off a quarter of a square, shaped it into a tiny ball, and then used it to wipe her bottom. You can probably guess what happened next—let’s just say her hand wasn’t exactly clean after that. I gagged, then burst out laughing. Who knew potty training could be such a puzzle?
I longed for the days when a quick wipe and a neatly wrapped diaper were all it took. Now, my new reality involved:
- Keeping her company while she swings her legs and asks about my day, only to make that comical poo-face while her cheeks turn crimson.
- Hovering over the toilet as I assist her in getting clean.
- Flushing the toilet and realizing that her poop has taken on a life of its own—sticky and substantial, it clings to the bowl like an unwanted reminder of her diet (which, yes, I also contribute to).
- Helping her reach the sink by opening the footstool (after she pinched her skin trying to climb up last week).
- Stepping away to give her “privacy.”
- Returning to ensure she isn’t getting into my things (because, let’s be real, she’s a curious four-year-old).
- Coming back again to adjust the water temperature.
- Peeking in to make sure my belongings are safe.
- Assisting her with the soap—because, clearly, the amount in her second hand should match the first.
- Finally, turning off the stove to check on her after six minutes of “hand washing,” only to find her grinning at me in the mirror while water cascades down onto her little toes.
Next week, I’m making a bold move: she’s going back into diapers. It’s part of my new parenting strategy, which I’m calling Reverse Tiger Helicopter. When I eventually write a book titled Wipe Out!, I’m sure I’ll make a fortune, and she can have her own personal butt wiper when she finally heads off to school. It’s a dream, but isn’t that where all great realities begin?
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