Over the weekend we started potty training my 3 year old. For some reason when I set out on the process I naively thought that it wouldn't be too bad--my son and I are pals and we would make the transition smoothly, as pals. But, I was wrong. SO stepping-in-mystery-puddles-filled-with-terror-whenever-my-son-calls-my-name-covered-in-random-fluids WRONG.
It's weird because I feel like people warned me about lots of the hard stuff that comes with parenthood. Sleepless nights, temper tantrums, teething, I knew they were coming. However, I was NOT sufficiently warned about the horrors I would confront with regard to potty training. I can only imagine that the reason for this is that once a mother has potty trained her child she then goes into a state of selective amnesia as a result of PTSD, not all that different from the way a soldier might after battle. In order to recover, she likely seeks the treatment of Ben and Jerry's and once said treatment has concluded the incident becomes like the Lord Voldemort of parenting experiences (Pee Who Shall Not Be Named) and is never spoken of again.
So today I have on my pleather leggings, the clothing item I turn to when I need to feel a little less like a mom, (Plus, they are waterproof. Come at me, bodily fluids.) and a little more like someone who isn't spending her afternoon praying that the smudge on my carpet is chocolate from a cookie.
Moms. You are amazing. Hang in there, ok? Ok.
Sandals: Old Navy