Nobody plays “king” quite like a toddler using the toilet for the first week.
That’s right. He has my attention. My full, undivided, can’t look away for one second lest he crouch down behind the rocking chair and mar the entire morning, kind of attention.
My liege and I. Me and my liege. We play Legos together, read books, Star Wars guys, you name it. I don’t take phone calls, I don’t catch Oprah. Lunch is crackers and cheese. Any change in facial expression, posture, and/or general orneriness, and we’re off to the races. Go, go, go!
I’m in a constant state of prompting the young master with M&Ms in my pockets and Dum-Dums on a silver tray. “Would you like to go now, your majesty? How about now? Now? Or now? Now?” And as long as I behave like a matronly version of Mad-Eye Moody (“Constant vigilance!!”) we remain dry all day long.
Yes, he is king of the throne. Master of his small, tiled domain. He and his loyal subjects all benefit from the free flow of candy around here too. No one is above extending a washed hand to receive a treat for doing their duty.
“But you’ve been potty trained for years!?”
“Yes, but I’m setting the example for Dean.”
Can’t argue with hard logic like that.
But with a enough liquids and prompting, I hope to ween my brood off of the treats soon. Besides, they found my ultra-secret candy stash. Is nothing sacred?
Wait…this just in…his majesty is on the toilet right now of his own accord….and…and…success! No prompting from moi. No demand for a treat.
He even flushed.