Terms of the Treaty

I give up! I give up! I give up! I give up!

Three months since my last frustrated posting about potty training, and I am only now crawling out of the bunker, hands over my head where she can see them. I surrender. We put her back in diapers this morning because we are sick to death of cleaning up accidents, dragging her to the bathroom, and arguing about it. Audrey happily wears her underwear but has not once—not once—in three months actually volunteered that she needed to go to the bathroom. And forget about #2—you’d think we were asking her to jump out of a plane with no parachute. Even the incentive of a brand new guitar of her own, wrapped and waiting right there in front of her, has made no difference. This morning I asked her why she persistently refused to tell us that she needed to go to the bathroom even though it was making Mommy and Daddy very, very frustrated and she said, “Well, I’m not ready.”

I love clarity when I am right, but when it works to prove me dead wrong, I prefer the comforting muddle of uncertainty.

I know, I know, I know. It’s not like we weren’t warned from every possible source. I just thought that I might win this battle of wills with her. I was so, so wrong. Being as willful as my two year-old is simply not working out for me.

But I am not going to surrender quietly. For the record: if there was a way to force this I would do it. I would! Sue me, I would. I’m that sick of diapering. There is something deeply irking to me about a preschooler in diapers, even though I was a preschooler in diapers once. But there is no way. I’ve tried. Independence begins with the boundaries of your own body and Audrey has defiantly laid down the law on this one. You win, kiddo. But don’t think for a moment that the battle over green vegetables is over…