Road Trip Through Inferno

One of my adorable, sweet little ones has begun the process of potty training. I am so thankful that her parents decided to start during the holiday break, but I still dread the process of timing bathroom breaks and the frantic drop everything and run bathroom dashes when she suddenly realizes that she has to go immediately. There is little room for error in potty training, and little warning before disaster. With occasionally explosive results and toxic waste, it seems like it would be some distant cousin of bomb disarmament and hazardous waste disposal. However, the best way I can explain it is that it is a road trip through Dante's Inferno. You believe that on the other side is a type of paradise, free from pull ups and accidents, from soiled pants and unbelievably nasty smells, and so you pack up the car for a trip through what initially seems mildly unpleasant. By the time the child is writhing on the floor, crying that they will not go near the potty, that the potty is evil and that they will wear pull ups to their own wedding, you realize that you are on a road trip through the inner circles of hell. The only way out is to keep going and to cling desperately to the fact that no child who is typically developing, or just quirky, has ever really worn pull ups to their own wedding...right? And you watch your money vanish into flames as you quickly resort to the "reward system" which is a nice name for flat out bribery. You pay the child to drop the loads in the toilet and not in their pants, or all over the floor, or on your nice clean sofa that you just finished having steam cleaned from last time. Sometimes it feels like hostage negotiations, with a full on SWAT team surrounding the bathroom, while other times it seems more like an auction with the successful potty trained child going to the highest bidder. In the end you emerge from the other side, smug and proud of yourself for the fact that you endured a road trip through the Inferno and emerged with a potty trained child. Just so you know, your child is smug and proud at the haul of goods they managed to extract in exchange for doing what all the cool big kids are doing now anyway and for having drug you through that Inferno. You have been at the mercy of a child who has yet to master the high tech device of the blue jean button. You should be so proud of yourself. As for me, I have a cardboard box of bribes, a folder of awards and certificates, and no delusions of any grandeur. I am at the mercy of a creature unable to reach the sink without a stool, unable to open her own juice box, and unable to fasten her own pants. It should be a long, strange trip. Anyone want to be copilot for this one?