Potty training is the hellish process by which toddlers exact revenge on their parents for future ills. Somehow the Geneva Convention fails to mention potties. Perhaps as with childbirth, the frequency of this right of passage makes it seem somehow normal and okay. As a potty training survivor, I can confirm that it is not. That period in my life is a blur. I still don't like to talk about it...much.
During my dark days in the potty training trenches, the trusty Auntie D lent me a lovely pull-the-tabs potty training book. The kind of delicate book that survives in a household with nice orderly children, not monsterdogs who use mauling to show affection. It didn't take long for some alterations to occur (see below).
'And as a reward you can keep your other arm.'
'Mum, I think I pushed too hard.'
Cat flees wreckage; limbs continue to drop at an alarming rate.
I'm not even sure WHAT Ana ripped out in that last picture—whatever it was, it has long since dissappeared, likely eaten by its attacker.
Auntie D: we officially apologise for maiming your book. However, since we had a floating head and arm handy, coupled with a sleep-deprived sense of depravity, we humbly submit the following potty story re-imaginings in compensation.
Cat watches in abject horror. The storyline has taken a grim turn.
Grotesque genetic experimentation gone potty.
No. It is a human head. Cat pukes hairball in terror.
Though I don't have a picture of it, one image sticks in my mind from the potty training days. On a dark stormy night when Ana was supposed to be tucked safely in bed upstairs, Papa and I suddenly heard her shrieking for help through the floorboards. We dashed to the rescue, ready to defend our precious girl from night pirates, monsters, ogres, demons, or whatever, armed with nothing but our bare hands and ritious anger. We smashed open her bedroom door, and there was Ana: crashing about her room with her potty stuck fast on her head, like an irate Pooh Bear caught in a honey pot. She'd snuck out of bed to try it on like a hat—just like all the good potty books all suggest. Papa eased the hat off and calmed her down. We both tried not to laugh too much.
Things have really improved since then. But we are due another dose of potty training in a bit over a year. So as they say to St Jude: pray for us.