Don't say I didn't warn you. If you don't like child-related TMI, stop here or hold the complaints. Actually, it's not that TMI. There are no gory details or graphic descriptions of bodily functions. But this may simply not interest you. However, if you are planning to have children EVER, or if you are still in the sweet early days, I urge you to listen to me now.
We, I mean, I am potty training 2.0 (nothing against Jeremy; he works all day, so it's not like he can magically be here to help me while still earning us a living).
2.0, I have decided, is evil. She started off the first day like a rockstar. If a rockstar can be defined by one's ability to eliminate in an appropriate receptacle. Which it can't. But shut up.
Then she woke up from her nap with a whole new agenda, and only this afternoon did she start reforming. And I'm pretty sure it's only because I upped the reward from one raisin to three Skittles.
Potty training is about as close to hell as comfortable suburban living can get. It's not the messes. Those are gross, certainly, but if you've been a parent long enough, it's not like you're not used to such things. No, it's the frustration.
See, children are basically evil, and they will use any foothold you give them to climb up over your dead body and jump up and down in jubilation on your corpse. I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I'm saying it anyway because it's true. You can deny this fact and deepen this frustration, or you can accept it and learn to love your kids anyway with slightly less frustration (and perhaps a small sense of admiration at their devious methods; seriously, it's kind of awesome when your kid starts to play jokes on you intentionally). Your choice. But don't judge me on mine.
Anyway. 2.0. She started out amazingly well. So much better than The Child did. So, SO much better. And then she woke up from her nap on Thursday determined to make me completely crazy. She got me so excited over the prospect of no more diapers and no more expense and no more lugging her gigantic body of obviously Germanic origin up onto a changing table. And then she yanked it all away in one afternoon. I spent all of Friday sitting on the living room floor halfheartedly directing her to the potty every ten minutes, wishing for this all to be over, for some miracle to happen in her kumquat-sized brain, or for lightning to strike and kill me.
(It didn't happen)
Then today I went out with the older one, the (now-favored) one while Jeremy took over for the morning, and life started to seem worth living again. The older one had interesting conversation. Hilarious quips and perceptive insights and adorable smiles, and I was starting to think about selling 2.0 to buy the original a bicycle or a hundred Barbies. But then we got home, and 2.0 woke up from her nap and resumed her rockstar performance, and I'm not completely dreading the next day anymore.
But friends, let me tell you something. Anyone who has ever told you, "When they're ready, they will just be so easy to train," either had one of those rare children who you probably have to make a deal with the Devil to get, or they spent so much time drinking around that time in their life that they've forgotten the mind-numbing frustration and stifled anger of those days. Because even if your child is ready for this, no, RARING TO GO, it will drive you to drink. Or close to it. If there is a next time, we will be hiring someone to do this job for us, even if I have to sell a liver.