Holy schnikey. It's apparent that one of us isn't going to make it through this process without keeling over dead in a lifeless heap. It's equally apparent that I
will be the corpse on the floor of the pee covered bathroom tile. I already spend a shocking amount of time curled up in the fetal position on that same pee covered floor, weeping and tearing my clothes while I wonder why, oh dear me why, does my son hate me so?
Sigh. I'm ready to throw in the towel. Don't you think Daddy's should be the chief potty trainers?
I've come up with a brilliant money making solution for someone with more patience and stamina than myself- open up a potty training boot camp! You could franchise it all over the U.S., and then you could charge exorbitant prices for children to attend for a specified amount of time until they were at least mostly trained.
I would pay. Oh, yes. I would pay big. Through the nose! I would take a night job and I would do whatever it took to make sure my child could attend said camp.
What the heck was I thinking adopting a baby
? This means I have to do this again! I should have requested an older child. Of course, with my impending death, I suppose it doesn't really matter. L's next wife will have to worry about potty training H2. There's a silver lining in every story, no?PS- I decided to start making all of our bread. It's ok, I'll wait till you're done laughing. Better? Ok, so I made my first two loaves yesterday. They could be used to anchor a boat. Or a ship. Whatever. Their failure led to the purchase of a mac-daddy bread machine, which should be here tomorrow. Anyway, about the kneading. Dear heavens, they should have kneading classes at the gym. I am sore all over my ENTIRE body, just from 10 minutes of kneading. Maybe I was doing it wrong. Or maybe I am just a really pathetic individual. Sore, people. I'm so freakin' sore.