My kids love to do everything together. They build bug castles out of blocks, read to each other, and dance side by side. After three hours of separation while Gavin is at school, they embrace with a level of joy I reserve solely for cupcakes. Their attachment knows no boundaries – not even the bathroom.
Not wanting to be apart any longer than necessary, Gavin requests Chloe join him while he does his business every day. Usually she just goes in there and wrecks shit, throwing all the bath toys around the room and emptying the cabinet under the sink. Everyday I overhear my uber-bossy son telling her not to make a mess, to clean up her mess, but most importantly cajoling her into going in the potty herself. Even though we haven’t considered toilet training her (she’s not yet two), I don’t discourage the seed he is planting. Because I like to be as lazy as possible and if I can somehow pawn potty training the two-year-old off on the four-year-old, I’d consider that a huge parenting victory.
Today we had a small one. Gavin called me, “Mom! She pooped in the bathroom!” I grabbed the bleach and headed in. And there she was, standing over the Baby Bjorn plastic potty with a teeny tiny drop of poop inside. We all jumped up and down making a really big deal of this small step towards a key milestone. My last little hop of joy landed me in some shit. Literally. Chloe got so excited about her work, she popped up before finishing and ran to the door, where she finished emptying her digested food. I didn’t see it when I first walked in, but there it was under my cozy slipper. All I can say is Oprah and Dr. Oz would be proud.