It started with our daughter refusing to wear a pull up at night. She told us that it felt too “bulky,” as she pulled them off and tossed them into the laundry pile.
Inside my head I begged for her to be compliant and put on the pull up, I was certain this wasn’t the time. We had just been down this road and it ended with my being peed on and a tantrum of gigantic proportion.
But she pleaded and insisted that she was a big girl now, she didn’t need a pull up anymore and she wasn’t going to pee her bed.
So we agreed.
More so Brian than me because it would be me who would be getting up all night taking her to the bathroom, and it would be me who would be changing the sheets if she had an accident.
The first night was horrible.
Not because she peed, and not because she was up dancing in urine, but because I was up every half hour checking to see if she was.
I rotated between the alarms I had set on my phone and my brain waking me up to check on her. I took her to the bathroom three times to pee and then to pee myself.
I didn’t sleep.
She didn’t pee.
We celebrated and squealed, we danced and jumped up and down, and we had a special treat waiting just for her and her success.
Night two I eased up a bit and only got her out of bed twice, still not sleeping myself, and she was successful again.
This pattern continued until we reached five nights with no accidents. Could she have been ready and knew it?
I guess she was.
I was the one who wasn’t.
Today in the car while we were on our way to daycare I congratulated her on being such a big girl and she smiled, full of pride, “Mommy, imma turn 23 soon, don’t worry.”
Oh my heart.
I can barely handle age 3.