Potty Training: Part Deux

     Yesterday morning, Clara got out her sketch pad and asked for her crayons.  Her diaper was so engorged with pee that I felt sure it would soon explode, leaving the white, absorbent diaper granules that Wilbur the dog so loves to eat all over the floor.  
     "Let's change your diaper before we color," I suggested.
     "No!" she said forcefully, bringing both arms down in a baby karate chop motion.
     "Alright, alright.  At least let me take your diaper off, okay?  You can wear your pajama bottoms with no diaper for a little while, okay?"
     Clara was extremely amenable to this suggestion because it meant she could remain standing while I finagled the sodden diaper out through her legs.  And while standing, she could continue to color, making impatient sounds at me if I jerked too hard in my struggle to relieve her of the diaper.
     After awhile, when I had drawn for her several babies and dogs, a couple of hats, and a self-portrait ("Daw Mommy, Mommy. O-tay? Tanku, welcome."), she went to the basement playroom to work on her puzzles.  I wandered down with some laundry.  She left her alphabet puzzle and came running to me.
     "Poop, Mommy! Poop!"
     "You have to go poop?"
     "YES."
     Two or three weeks ago, Simon and I decided to put away Clara's potty.  While she seemed very interested in learning to use the potty, she hadn't made much progress potty training.  We figured she wasn't quite ready.  We also put away the "Elmo Goes Potty" video because, for some inexplicable reason, it seemed to get her really amped and kind of stressed out.
     We decided to just wait until she was ready.  We had no idea what "ready" looked like.  She seemed to be "ready" for potty training, according to all the parenting lists.  It seemed the one thing she hadn't developed yet was the ability to tell when she had to go.  Until yesterday.
     "Uh....do you want to sit on the potty?" I asked after she told me she had to go.
     "YES."
     I brought her into the basement bathroom, took off her pajama bottoms, and sat her on the toilet.  I held her under her armpits to keep her from falling in.  She suddenly seemed so little.  Her little pink piggies dangled a foot and a half off the floor.
     "My turn, Mommy," she told me sternly, pushing me away.
     "Okay, you want to hold yourself up.  That's good.  That's okay."
     I let go.  She grasped the edges of the toilet with pudgy hands and strained her plump baby triceps.  It was a losing battle.  Her bottom sank lower and lower into the bowl.
     "Mommy helps you," she panted after a moment.
     "Okay, I will help you." This time I hugged her and she leaned against me.  Her hair smelled like raspberry jam.  The skin on her back was so peachy and soft I couldn't help stroking it a little.
     "Mommy, poop is coming," she muttered into my ear.
     "Uh....Okay...Well, just let it come out."
     For some reason I couldn't help but flash forward a couple decades into the future, when I might be there for the delivery of her babies.  Yes, I just compared a bowel movement to the birth of my future grandchildren.  I imagine some elements are similar: the encouragement, the sense of solidarity ("I'm here for you, Baby.  We'll get this thing out, no matter what it takes!"), the ultra-close proximity.  And yes, the joy at the completion of a hard delivery.
     When it was all said and done, Clara prodded me out of the way and hopped off the toilet.
     "Wait!  Let me take a picture for Daddy!"
     "No, Mommy.  Flush.  Flush potty.  Bye, poop.  Bye-bye."
     "You're right.  Taking a picture is probably a weird thing to do."
     "Wash hands, Mommy.  Wash hands."
     "Right.  Yes.  Good.  Hygiene is important."
     After she'd washed her hand two or three times (pumping the soap is apparently one of the funnest things you can do), I gave her a chocolate chip as a reward.  And then we put a sticker on the calendar to show that she had gone poop in the potty that day.  And then, what the heck, I gave her a packet of chewy bunny candy, too.