I have called a retreat and am waving the white flag...

So Kaitlyn and I have been in a battle, there have been casualties on either side and I am conceding a temporary defeat so that she will cease fire. It began on a Monday morning just over four weeks ago with a great quantity of princess panties and a tiny toilet. Now my background is from Isaac who potty trained in about three weeks when he was two years and seven months old. We were in daycare then and I saw all of these three year olds who refused to be potty trained and were cognizant of the power they had over their parents. Not me, I vowed, I would potty train before the child was old enough to realize that his or her parents were desperate, I would get them early.

It was a cold morning when Kaitlyn was two years and three months of age, and I figuring that girls learn earlier than boys, thought we had as good a shot as any. For four weeks it came in fits and starts with really good days and abismally bad days, Kaitlyn telling me she needed to go potty every 10 minutes whenever we were out, especially at Ikea where the labrynthian store made sure I walked at least four miles that day, and me living in fear of carrying her on my shoulders. Oh sure, we made progress, but then like Hansel and Gretle of old I could find my way back to her room by a trail of pebbles that no pigeon would eat.

Until her final and unbeatable strategy came as the clock struck one and a half yesterday. She had done well early on waking up dry until after I took Isaac to pre-school at 11:15AM, there is no mistaking that bowlegged walk and the smell that follows as she tried to sneak away undetected, but I rallied, #2 is hard to manage, it took Isaac the longest, so we suited up with new pants and an explanation of the benefit plan where a glorious assortment of raisins and stickers could be hers if she just stayed clean and dry. We continued an hour later, an urgent cry of "Mommy!" had me running, but sadly too late. More of the scat, a nigh unthinkable amount of the brown ruiner of destinies packed down the sides of her pants. This almost brought me down, I have killed a dog over lesser evils (alas a story for a different post, not entirely on purpose, but it was my hand that signed the release). Anyway, to return, I cleaned her off and set her on the potty, shutting the door of the bathroom so that she might ponder what she had done. I took a 15 minute break to shower and get a cool head about me, when I returned to the incarcerated I realized I had made some critical error because there was laughter and singing on the other side of the bathroom door, not sounds of penitent remorse. I creaked open the cell door and saw red, quite literally, the entire bathroom and it's occupant were redecorated with red dry erase marker. I need to now buy stock in the company that makes "magic eraser." My tiny terrorist was covered with war markings on her face and completely colored-in legs and feet. I could see it was not the time to hold grudges any longer so we made up, I clad her in her last pair of shorts and we danced to my bathroom where she helped me apply my war paint. Newly refreshed and bonded I was sure the worst of the day was over, we reconvened to the living room, not even 10 minutes later she delivered her final Machiavellian maneuver and uttered the words "uh oh, poop." She did not run to the bathroom as I urged and I was almost relieved that she had misspoke, for it was only pee, but then I watched in horror as the stream of liquid ran down her red legs and off her red feet and dyed the carpet. That's when I threw in the towel and a lot of "kids n' pets."