Kyra, my two-year-old, recently attended a day care where you were considered an over-the-hill parent at 25, where everyone (disabled or not) parked in the disabled parking spaces, left their Hummers humming, and allowed rappers named after pocket change to cascade freely through their open windows. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but we probably could have been more tolerant had it not been for the fact my two-year-old’s older sister was enrolled in another day care, one more conveniently located, one whose staff would use the word “profession” to describe their line of work, as opposed to the dreaded JOB.
The reason that Kyra wasn’t at the same day care with Emma was because of their policy to only take children who are fully potty-trained. Something that Kyra was not. So, in an effort to reunite her with Emma and keep my nerves from imploding, we diligently worked on the potty training.
In all regards, Kyra seemed ready. She could differentiate between underwear and a diaper. And, whether it was true or not, she would hop out of bed and announce, “I have to go potty!” Just as emphatically, she would yell “All done!” at the appropriate time as well. She wiped. She flushed. She pulled up underpants and wave goodbye to the water. All systems were go