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18 Sep

Potty On

This morning, Wonderbaby tugged on my arm as I lay on the sofa, sniffling and coughing and muttering softly about the evil of Bill Maher and of viruses in general. She tugged on my arm, and said, potty. Pee-pee. Go potty.



And so I dragged myself out from under the covers, and took her by the hand, and – asking, all the way, are you sure? you want the potty? – pulled out the little green Boon Potty Bench that we had tucked away for the toilet training that we felt sure wouldn’t begin until she was two, and I helped her unlatched her diaper, and she sat her little round bottom upon the seat, and she tinkled.

And then she asked for her sunglasses, which I fetched, and she put them on. And then she tinkled some more.

And then she asked for paper, and I helped her dab her parts, and then we tossed the paper in the toilet, and we washed our hands. Then we went back downstairs and I took some more Tylenol and crawled back under the covers on the sofa and thought, what the f*ck just happened?

I considered the possibility that I’d dreamt it, or that it was an hallucination induced by the cocktail of Neo Citran and Tylenol that I’ve been taking – the sunglasses were, I thought, a particularly fantastical detail – but then I checked my camera:

I must leave the bathroom door open a LOT.