This, my friends, is a picture of a very proud Nolie going pee on the potty (with a few toots thrown in for good measure). This, my friends, fills me with excitement and dread, in equal measure.
Those of you who've stuck with this blog over time know that, not one year ago, I was going through potty training hell with Nolie's older sister, Addie. Not one year ago, Addie was peeing her pants every chance she got, soiling those expensive pull-ups every chance she got, and yes, occasionally smearing poo on the walls. The very thought of it sends chills down my spine.
And so when Nolie began to show interest in the potty this weekend, it was with great reluctance that I pulled out the Dora the Explorer potty seat and step stool. It was with great reluctance that I broke the seal on the Costco-size box of pull-ups waiting in her closet for this fateful day. Don't get me wrong: when that first tinkle-tinkle hit the crystalline, porcelain waters below, I cheered with gusto, praised my Nolie, helped her to wipe and wash her hands and flush. But when the moment had passed, I held my head in my hands and thought, I'm not ready for this.
I'm not ready for the inches Nolie seems to have sprouted in the last few weeks.
I'm not ready for her burgeoning vocabulary.
I'm not ready for her to begin sleeping in her big-girl bed instead of her crib.
But it's all happening anyway, and it's almost as if I have nothing to do with any of it. I'm just here providing the tools as they become necessary: the potty seat, the toddler bed, the longer pants, the words. Up, up, and away we go.
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