Throwing in the Towel (and picking it up again)

I was done. 

Done with potty-traininig, done with the frustration, done with the messes.

"Potty! Potty, Mama!!"

Too late. My two-year-old consistently tells me AFTER the fact. And that was the last straw, because the result was a puddle in the dining room and a wet trail leading through the family room, down the hall, and to the bathroom.

"No more potty-training. I'm putting you back in diapers. I don't care anymore!" I shouted to no one in particular as I mopped up the mess.

I wasn't usually one to give up, but I was so fatigued. I was running on minimum sleep (yet again) but more than that, I felt that all my efforts were for nothing. And when one reaches that point, it's hard to get up in the mornings.

So I used cloth diapers for the rest of the day, and I was prepared to use them the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.

But after a rather decent night of sleep, I woke up to my husband's voice. 

"Good job! Good job going potty!"

Oh, of course, she goes for him, my cynical self thought. But a grain of hope had been planted, and my plan to give up had already gone awry.

My husband put our toddler in her training pants, and I had to choose. Do I try again, or do I use the diapers? I decided to go for it.

And as I knelt by the toilet, reading a book to my daughter as she sat and tried, I knew I had done the right thing. I had allowed the darkness of despair to overwhelm me. It had overshadowed the path so that I couldn't see past my nose. And all I needed was one grain of hope to glimmer and give me light again.

This morning, my little girl told me twice that she had to go to the potty. This is the first time that has happened, and it has only been nine days since I said I was done.

Good thing I didn't give up.