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Monday, January 31, 2005
 
Our House is a Laxative. Along with a Certain Law Office I Know. And Our Bed is a Litterbox. Apparently.
Mia has been developing a regular pooping schedule over the past few months, which anyone who’s even skimmed a book on parenting a toddler will tell you is just another sign that she’s ready to be potty-training. Which is something we’ve been phasing into for the past few months. (We’re totally half-assing this whole potty-training thing. Although every time I see my Dad’s wife, she asks if we’ve been doing the Weekend Potty-Party, wherein you put your toddler on the toilet every 30 minutes or hour. I think we have a little too much going on for that, but thanks. She's using the potty; we're just working on getting her to tell us when she needs to go . . . before it's too late.)

The funny part of this is that her BMs have been moving toward being one a day . . . specifically between 5:45 and 6:15, Monday through Friday. Which corresponds with the drive home from daycare. Or our stop at Michelle’s office on Wednesdays. She has us so trained that we usually ask her if she needs to go when we get home. The answer’s usually “No.” And within five minutes, she takes that thoughtful pause in her playing, followed by the tell-tale stink.

Topping this off is Archie bookending our weekend with an unexpected return to bed-pissing. Friday evening, he peed on our bed, and then again this morning. I really wish we had an extra, well-ventilated room that we could outfit with replicas of our bed and our couch, but we don’t. I'm not sure if any of methods Styro tried with Chet would work for us. (She's had mixed success.) I think the next step is the igloo. After that, it’ll be a rocket-ship ride with Paul Wolfowitz and Anne Coulter.