Bug has been fully potty trained for more than a year now. Any reduction in the number of diapers I find myself intimately acquainted with on a given day is cause for celebration, and the successful toilet training of my oldest is a parental victory I will carry with me to my grave.
Nevertheless, simply making it to the potty on time does not an entirely independent toileter make. For the sake of hygiene, parental oversight is, on particular occasions, still a necessary help. To her eternal chagrin, this means Bug will occasionally find herself stranded on the toilet shouting at the top of her lungs and (gasp) sometimes waiting a moment or two until her mother can arrive for inspection.
Today, the magnetic pull of Henry the Hugglemonster playing on the t.v. in the basement proved too much for her small reserve of patience to override. Unaware that she had even gone upstairs to use the bathroom, I looked up from the laundry I was folding to see her clutching the handrail on the stairs for dear life, awkwardly lumbering down the steps with her ankles tethered together by her bunched up underwear and pants.
Ignoring the surprised expression on my face, she clumsily trotted over and immediately bent over at the waist, eagerly awaiting my review and anticipated stamp of approval.
So, what did you do this morning?