Remember the potty-training post? From, like, four months ago when I thought for three seconds that my daughter was miraculously potty-trained?
Yeah, we haven't made much progress since then.
In our house, she gets a sticker for just siting on the potty and "Emmys" for actually going potty. Let's just say Madeline's sticker board is full and I ate the M&M's because I can only resist temptation for so long.
In other words, nothing has happened.
It's OK. I'm not pushing her. I'm not panicking. We're just waiting.
But yesterday, I finally heard those words I've been dying to hear: "Mommy! Pee in potty! Pee in potty!"
The bad news? We were in the middle of the nation's sixth largest city park which happens to house the most disgusting bathrooms in world history.
Which means when she finally told me she had to go potty, we were in the middle of something like this:
I cannot even begin to describe my gut-wrenching disappointment and heartbreak as I told her, "Baby, I'm so proud of you for telling me you have to go potty but I'm really sorry. We don't have a potty."
Because there's no way I'm putting my child in a nasty park outhouse.
I know, I know. One day will come when that's the only option.
But I'll be prepared by then. With toilet sheets and a daughter who knows how to squat.