Welcome to our bathroom again. This is where it all happens.
Yesterday, Madeleine was using her potty.
Side note: I tried phasing out the pink princess potty because I’m getting really tired of emptying its contents 7000 times per day – as much as I enjoy having poop or pee splash onto me and let’s not forget the inviting aroma it comes along with, similar to a barnyard. I know, Yay! Madeleine is potty trained! Yay! But when she attempted to use the grown-up permanent commode, she fell in. You can laugh. It was freakin’ hilarious. The pink princess potty stays, at least for now.
“Are you finished, Mad?” I asked.
“No. Go away, Mama. I need privacy.”
“I think you’re done. Let me wipe you.”
“Not yet. Where is thumbkin, where is thumbkin….” she sang.
“I’m trying to wash the dishes. Come on!”
“How are you today, Sir? Very well, I thank you….”
I happened to be half undressed when I was cleaning her up.
Her eyes were fixed on my lady parts, “I see your pink, Mama.”
That’s not what I taught her to call it. Around here it’s either a vagina or a pussading. I know the latter is an oddball word, but it’s what my grandmother used to call it. She was raised speaking italian and I guess it’s slang or something, although she told me it means “baby bird”. Bizarre, I know. Everything gets lost in translation, doesn’t it?
“Oh, yup. We have the same.”
Her eyes widened, “I have that, too?”
“Sure, you have a vagina, too.”
She looked down and furrowed her thick, brown eyebrows, “I don’t see it.”
“Yours is smaller.”
“Oh,” she said, this time looking at mine more carefully. (From a distance, of course. I wasn’t about to make an anatomy lesson out of this.) “Mama? Does yours have spikes?”
For my husband’s sake, I hope not.