I Can See the Finish Line. I Just Can't Get There.

I have been a mother for 4,111 days.

That's how many days I have been changing diapers. I would do the math to figure out how many diapers that translates into but (a) I would cry and (b) I would give all those environmentally-minded, population control people way too much ammo. (Just an aside: the water required to launder cloth diapers cancels out the landfill impact of disposables. Did you know that?)

My youngest is over 3, and there is no nice way to put this so I'll say it with asterisks: she is f***ing with me. She knows what she needs to do. She just refuses. She's got the physical control. She knows where the job needs to be done. She'll even sit there every so often. She claims to be a "big girl." She claims that she uses the potty. She is a great big huge flaming liar.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, she won't go to college in diapers, yadda yadda yadda. I don't even want her to go to the grocery store in diapers, and we're leaving as soon as I finish this post.

I am so ready to be done with this phase of parenting, I can almost smell the fresh air. I am so tired of the wrangling, the smell, the disposing, the managing, the cajoling, the training, the waiting, the rewards, the disappointment, the frustration, the patience required of the mother of one who is potty training.

And the child in question? What does SHE think of the whole subject. I think this photo sums it up quite well.


Further proof. She hates me.

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