Mission Accomplished!

Operation Big Girl Panties began months ago, and yet, much like the war in Iraq that supposedly saw the end of major combat operations in 2003, not much movement has been made on the Potty Front, and major poop operations have ensued on the changing table, (and in the car), (and yes, at the park), (okay, on the floor, too), (and maybe on the living room couch, as a warning to anybody who might visit--sit on the white couch, not the green one).

And yes, I did just compare the war in Iraq to my daughter potty training, but let me reiterate that while I do not endorse the war that is indeed still very much a war, I do support the soldier that is still and always will be a soldier. Phew. Okay, back to pee pee and poo poo. So yeah, panties: check. Dora the Explorer 3 in 1 Potty: check. Elmo It's Potty Time! DVD: check, check and check 1001 times for how much we have viewed that particular piece of cinéma vérité. Still, up until yesterday, there was nothing much to be said about potty training. Diaper insurgencies were the order of the day (and night). Zoey was simply not interested.

So I, too, lost interest. I had kind of resigned myself to the fact that I would forever be changing her diaper. I thought, well, yeah, sure, I can swing by her high school between classes, throw her down in the girl's bathroom and do a quick shuffle, (no) ball, change. At the same time I can make sure no one is smoking in the stalls! That's like Mother-of-the-Year material right there! And then I thought, oh! And what a nice way for her to get to know her college dorm roommate. They can share a box of stale Wheat Thins while watching The Real World: Dubai, and then her roommate can change Zoey's diaper! No problem! It'll be a bonding experience! Like getting wasted together and holding back your roommate's hair as she pukes. I will send care packages of Desitin and cookies! Mother-of-the-God-damn-Year, I tell you. I was not one to force it.

But then yesterday happened, and the enemy suddenly stumbled from the cave, blinking in the bright sunlight of a pair of rainbow-festooned Hello Kitty undies. It was a fluke, really. The panties had been pushed to the back of Zoey's drawer, like a box of tampons in a pregnant woman's cabinet. They must have fallen out somehow while I was doing laundry, and Zoey pounced on them immediately. Are these mine? My big girl panties? Of my very own? As if I hadn't given them to her months ago, as if I were somehow squealching her development, My Sweet Audrina without the creepy subtext. And with that she took off her diaper and stepped into them, demanding more, more panties, more Hello Kitty, more rainbows, more underwaries! And so I got them all out, and after she peed in her potty she bundled her underwear in her arms and slept with them in her crib, a lovey of underpinnings.

This morning she opted for a pair emblazoned with Dora, her rump practically non-existent without the cushion of a diaper. And I am left to wonder: could it be this easy? Mission Accomplished from an aircraft carrier, thumbs up in a flight suit and bombs away? Or will there be yet more guerilla warfare, covert and rife with casualties?

"We do not know the day of final victory, but we have seen the turning of the tide." --Dubya Bush.

And yes, I did just quote George Bush in my blog. But let it be known it is a post about poo.

Good luck, and God-speed, though I never understood what that meant.

All images from Man Babies. Yes, poo, Bush and Man Babies. The End.