Zoe vs. Potty Training, Part the Second

When last we left the epic poem that is Zoe and her bodily functions, events had come to a standstill. To catch you up, as well as to lend the proceedings some class, I'll summarize in iambic pentameter: 

Zoe's potty remains unstained. Alas!  

No pee, does she. And as for poo, no too/two. 

Take that, Shakespeare.

A movement about
a movement.

But I'm keeping the faith. Because there's been a new development. The Husband thinks it's a pronunciation issue but I choose to believe she has potty training on her mind. She calls pre-school "pee-school." And pre-K  "pee-kray." Cute misunderstanding or bowing to the pressure?

Of course, as The Husband points out, she also thinks potty training involves an actual train. And desperate as I am, I asked her if she wanted to ride it: All aboard the potty train! I said, my lame attempt to make relieving herself sound fun. Not yet, she responded. While we wait for that train, we're engaged in the Battle of Little Big Girl.

It began when we replaced the crib with a "Big Girl" bed. A Big Deal was made about Zoe being a Big Girl and Zoe responded well. "Zoe's a Big Girl" became her mantra. The words spilled over into ideas, and soon she insisted on doing more things on her own, like taking her shoes and socks off. This minor progress went to my head and I figured here was my chance to turn the screws with the potty.

She was way ahead of me. Albeit not physically.

On Saturday I carried the potty chair into the living room, where Zoe was busy grinding Play-Doh into the carpet, and subtly inquired, "Is Zoe a Big Girl?" Zoe started to answer, "Yes, Zoe's a B---" but then stopped to give me her full attention, sensing the Weight of Meaning in my tone. Her gazed bored into me, an unholy light shining from her eyes. Then she finished:  "--a Little Girl."

Me: "But remember how you told me the other day you were a Big Girl?"

Zoe: "No." 

Me: "But you sleep in a Big Girl bed, don't you?"

Zoe: "No."

Me (sighing): "Can I get an ETA on when you will be a Big Girl?" 

The subject was non-responsive. And resumed playing/destroying.

The fateful moment when Dr. Frankenstein decided
to dip the Monster's hand in a bowl of warm water,
earning him the nickname Dr. Prankenstein.

Since then whenever I broach the Big Girl topic she says, Not yet. Or, Soon. Three years old and already she knows about ulterior motives. What am I going to do when she's a teenager? My hope is that her obvious intelligence will someday catapult her into some powerful position, like Grand Poobah of Mad Scientists or President of the United States, a position so powerful that her underlings won't have the nerve to say anything when she voids herself, soiling her lab coat or lady power suit beyond recognition. 

Still, a mother can't help but worry. What if the Joint Chiefs call her President Poopy Pants behind her back?

I brought my concerns to the day care staff, and one of them recommended a video called Potty Power. With the one-two punch of catchy tunes and peer pressure, Potty Power promises to teach any recalcitrant toddler how to use the potty.

DJ Lance Rock wearing the hell out of a toilet paper cozy.

The video begins with a series of questions asking the child to identify which activities can be performed by a Big Kid and which by a baby. Insanely catchy ditties ensue, all sung by a fresh-faced gal wearing a style-resistant denim shirt. She is accompanied by an animated roll of toilet paper appropriately named T.P. It would be as surreal as children's programming gets if not for the existence of Yo Gabba Gabba.

The video ends with what I assume is a sendup of the "Princess and the Pea" story, except here it's a homonym of pea. (That would be pee, in case you're struggling.)

Chaos reigns in the castle, for the princess will not use the royal potty (I don't know how the writers resisted referring to it as a porcelain throne) and the king (her father) and the queen (her mother), along with the jester (why?), are attempting to train her. The jester is an irritating man-child mainlining silly. Not only does he wear the foolscap and the motley attire, but he's got disturbing makeup, most notably, a perfect circle of color on each cheek. For some reason the king and queen fail to consider that it's maybe the jester's presence that is causing the little princess to have a shy bladder. Eventually though, as with all fairy tales, we get a happy ending and the little princess succeeds.

As promised, Zoe enjoys this video. She enjoys it so much she stands in front of the TV, rapt, stamping her feet rhythmically to the songs in the puddle of pee that quickly forms beneath her.

It was his unusual rosacea that made Jigsaw such a sourpuss.

Still, it must be having some effect. The other night, Zoe shouted: "No more diapers!"

"Right on!"  I said.

"No more pull ups!" she shouted.

"Yes."

"And no more underwear."

"That's ri---" Um. Hmmm. Does this mean she wants to go commando? A whole new problem may have surfaced.

As for the potty train, we'll have to catch the next one.

Zoe: 21; Universe: 0