I love my boys. A lot. Also, I hate potty training. A lot. Today was the day I decided to potty train Cade. He's three and I was convinced that as long as you waited until a boy was old enough, he could and would learn how to use the toilet like a champ. So with all of the traveling and company we’ve had going on since mid-April over, I decided it was time to get down to business. Superhero underwear? Check. Potty treats? Check. All sorts of confidence that I rock at potty training? Check. After all, Colt (from what I can remember) only had two accidents and magically became a toilet pro. So though I would sympathize with all the mothers out there who had it worse, the empathy just wasn’t there. Enter my second born child Cade and the myriad of reasons why he is so dang good for me. He humbles me like nobody’s business and reminds me that all those "amazing" motherly skills that worked so beautifully on Colton mean jack squat with him. Today we went through 8 pairs of superhero underwear, spent approximately 3 hours on the toilet coaching, pleading, bribing, begging, and not one success. Not a drop in the potty. Not ONE drop! All the while this pregnant mama spent way too long on her knees cleaning up what had to be at least 3 gallons of pee.
By 3:00 pm, I was done. Like out of my mind done. By 6:00 pm, when Evan called to tell me he’d be late from work and I was cleaning up my 8th mess of the day, there might have been some bawling and me telling Cade that he’d be the only kindergartener in diapers and it served him right. By 10:00 pm I decided to quit potty training all together until Cade’s 16 and ate my weight in cookies. Tomorrow’s a new day right?
