I love being a parent. I particularly love those peaceful moments when everything seems right in the world. The world is full of hope. The end is in sight and you bask in the glory of each tick of the clock, so filled with joy that you may burst. I am of course talking about the moment when you realize your child is potty trained. I’m calling it. Griffin is potty trained. To give you a moment of perspective, I have only one in diapers. ONE. The last time this happened was 5.5 years ago, before Maxton was born. I’ve had three in diapers. Twice.
When we had our children insanely close together, I knew that diaper changing was going to be a huge part of it, but I looked at it as an advantage. My reasoning went like this: if you space your children approximately 3.5 years apart (so far, the approximate age of potty training for my children), and you have four children, you will have changed diapers for 14 years. That is a lot of years. Doing it my way, you will have to change the same amount of diapers, but it is condensed to 7.5 years. That is a difference of 6.5 YEARS. Yes, I know my math skills astound. I took calculus.
Baby, I only have 1.5 years left! Maybe sooner!
Griffin is strutting around the house, hugely proud and stuffed with candy. I bribed him. Bribing is one of my main parenting tools. We got a huge fishbowl, filled it with Dots and Tootsie Rolls and he got a treat for every successful bathroom trip. When all the candy is gone, he is getting a fish. We’ve never had a pet, so this is big time stuff. I've been generously helping him along by donating my teeth and daily calorie allotment to eating tootsie rolls. Especially the vanilla flavor-rolls. It's my duty as a mother.
In other Griffin news, we recently had our first “where do babies come from” talk. His aunt is pregnant and due soon, so it’s been on his mind. I explained briefly.
His next question?
“Mommy, what happens if somebody eats your brains?”