“I no go pottie”
“That’s fine. If you don’t have to go, that’s fine.”
“I fine. I no have to go.”
There’s a loud rip as the diaper is torn and yanked out from between her legs, and then a thud as it lands at my feet.
“I no need diaper.”
“I would rather you wear a diaper.”
“Then you need to wear your Dora pants.”
“No. I fine. I put pee-pee in toilet.”
Fine, I think. Whatever. I’m too far exhausted to wrestle her into a diaper, and far too mentally and emotionally spent to invite another tantrum. And isn’t there some sort of toilet-training method that involves just letting your kid run around naked and piss on the floor and it’s all like attachment-potty-training or some such shit? Whatever. I GIVE UP.
Five minutes later, I notice that she has a small plastic cup – a bath toy – clutched between her knees.
“What are you doing with the cup, sweetie?”
“I just HOLDING IT. I FINE. YOU DON’T TAKE IT AWAY.”
Two minutes later, my attention – heretofore entirely occupied by the critical task of figuring out whether to hoist my massive, belly-heavy self to its feet and down to the kitchen for more chocolate, and risk distracting the hellion from her concentrated effort to balance wooden fried eggs between wooden slices of bread and create the perfect fake fried egg sandwich, or to just stay safely and comfortably put – is captured by the sound of a single stream of rain hitting an empty plastic bucket.
It’s not raining. And we have no buckets.
Wonderbaby has abandoned her toy kitchen cum sandwich station and is standing with chubby naked legs spread, both of her little hands clutching the plastic cup directly beneath her nether regions, and is peeing into the cup. She waits for the stream to run its course, and then waits another moment to catch the drips, and then marches blithely past me, out of the playroom and into the bathroom, where – as I continue to watch, in stunned, immobile silence – she carefully pours the contents of the cup into the toilet and flushes.
“I PUT PEE-PEE IN TOILET MAMA. I ALL DONE.”
Then she washes her hands, and leaves the cup in the bathroom sink. She returns to her post in the playroom, where she puts the wooden slices of bread stacked with wooden fried eggs on a little wooden plate, dashes some imaginary salt from the toy shaker over it all, and hands it to me.
“There you go Mama. You need my cup? For juice?”
Does one laugh, or cry? SERIOUSLY.