Ever since I first started potty training Abby, I've offered her encouragement in the form of a song I made up, off-the-cuff, to be performed with each success. Though I've ceased to follow up every session with treats like chocolate morsels and stickers, stressing that using the potty is merely one our normal daily tasks now, somehow the song has stuck. She asks for it every time she goes, and I'm loathe to refuse her since it's a pretty simple thing to provide and it makes not only her, but also her siblings, exceptionally happy to hear it.
Thankfully, everyone is of the understanding that it's a bonus rather than a requirement, particularly since Daddy's rendition simply won't do. It must be Mommy each time, if she is available to fulfill the request. Knowing this, I'm comfortable playing along indefinitely, and I'm sure that the positive association of the experience will serve me well when it comes time to jump into training for Michael.
However, there does appear to be a consequence of this routine I hadn't much considered until this afternoon, when I slipped off to quickly take care of my own business. From the next room I heard it, a slightly altered version of my own Dora the Explorer rip-off ditty:
Mommy sat on the potty and made a pee-pee, yeah she did it.
She did it, she did it, she did it.
She knew she had to go, so she went to the bathroom, she did it.
She did it, she did it, she did it.
Now she's gonna stay nice and dry,
And her girl is so proud of her,
'Cause she did it.
She did it, she did it, she did it, she did it, she did it!
Yeah!
I couldn't stifle my giggling despite a brief, impulsive flash of embarrassment at having my private operations so enthusiastically acknowledged. Despite the fact that I could not see him from where I sat, I was quite sure that Michael was dancing around to the performance, as he so often does, and I could hear quite clearly in her voice the true pride that Abby felt for what was- from her perspective- a personal success on my part.
All good things. However, I can see that future trips to public restrooms with my oldest (and indeed, likely any of my children going forward), will be quite the entertainment for all else present. It could be worse, I suppose. I'd rather a personal cheerleader than a descriptive narrator in the stall with me.
Of course, knowing Abby, she'll probably play both cards someday.
