Tinkle tinkle little pee, in the potty you will be...

Today I took the twins to the library for the Potty Tales program, which is just what it sounds like. We learned to boogie to the potty dance, listened to stories about children who have conquered the potty mountain, and sang “Tinkle Tinkle” to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle.”

On the ride home, I discussed the cultural implications of remaining in diapers past a certain age to Daniel and Ella.

“…so, if you want to someday get married and have children of your own, it is crucial you wear big boy or big girl underpants. Because I can almost guarantee your mate will. So then, Daniel, do you want to sing the potty dance song again?”

“Yes!!!!”

“Good! And when we get home, will you make pee-pee in the potty?”

“No!!!”

It’s a process, people.

As a born procrastinator, I admit I should have been more diligent in potty training them in the past few months. People in Africa carry their babies around naked, training them to poop and pee over a potty (or hole in the ground or whatever) on command. Two-months olds! Little itty people! When I read things like this, I feel like a complete and utter potty-training dud.

Last week, I told myself I would start seriously potty-training after the garage sale, although Ella and Daniel were adamantly against it. Potty-training that is.

I put Ella on the little potty and pulled down her pants.

“Ew,” she said, “stinky stinky butt.” She loves to say stinky butt. Anytime she smells something foul, she declares it a case of the “stinky butt.” Whenever I change Daniel’s diaper, she comes over to inspect whether or not Daniel has a “stinky butt.” If I happen to run about upstairs in my underwear, she points at me and yells, “stinky butt!” (Which I take offense to. For the record, my butt smells like roses.)

So Ella was on the potty. She immediately got up and ran off yelling, “Ew! Ew! Ew!”

Ben has been training Daniel in the art of pooping on the potty. In fact, the training sessions got a little weird, so I had to put a stop to them. Daniel won’t even sit on the potty and clings to his diapers like Charlton Heston clung to his guns. During the Potty Tales program, we all encouraged our kids to shout “No more diapers! No more diapers!” If it had been a union strike, Daniel would have totally crossed the picket line. He is that attached to his diapers.

“YES diapers,” he muttered. Ella, on the other hand, never gives up an opportunity to yell anything.

“No more DIAPERS!” she shouted with the crowd, and then did a little spin move and fell down. An agitator for sure.

Tomorrow, we’re going off diapers cold turkey. I expect there will be at least four to five accidents. But I’ll put them on the potty ever hour and see if anything happens. I’m betting Daniel actually goes first, because I expect he will be mortified when he has his first accident.

Oh, I don’t want to do this. I’m thinking of moving to Africa, where I can carry my babies around naked in a sling, and live a life of minimalism. I mean, I’m sure most African peoples can’t conceive of having so much crap that they could sell it at a garage sale. (My garage sale was rather poorly attended, by the way.) I would be the palest African in the history of Africans and would live in perpetual fear of the black mamba, but a simpler life appeals to me. Sometimes I think- I know- I make my life harder than it has to be. By accumulating worthless junk. By procrastinating. By picking fights with people on the internet. (That’s a bit off-topic, I realize, but it’s what I’ve been up to lately.)

I want simplicity. It’s something I’m really really going to work on- after I potty-train the twins, of course.