Regression Regrets

            Life has been cruising along at a decent clip over the past couple of weeks. There have been ENT appointments (she’s fine), the end of speech pathology (she is rocking her L word sounds), Kindergarten orientation (she walked in like she owned the place) and a graduation (not mine). Through all of this, my little wad of chaos has been having zero potty drama. Until Monday.

            We had a playdate with a lovely set of twins. There was much playing, a dance party and two princesses and a dragon. Once we bid adieu to the twins, she continued to play. Then it happened. She ran to the bathroom, which is not unusual. But this time she called me because she had caused a large lake of urine on the floor. We dealt with it and moved on with normal toilet habits. Until yesterday.

            I was in the middle of looking over a paper my friend had written and again, she ran off to the bathroom. I heard some gentle banging around in there and thought nothing of it. But the vacancy rate of zero in that bathroom was taking an awfully long time to resolve. Sighing, because I was only half way through the paper, I reluctantly went to check on what was going on. I knocked on the door and entered. No child. Instead there was at least half of a double roll of toilet paper on the floor. One side of the tangle was soaked in what I can only imagine was urine. The other end was mercifully dry. The plot thickened on the mysterious disappearance of the child.

            “Adriana!” No answer. I walked out of the bathroom to the front entry of the house. I shouted up toward her room. No answer. The gate had not been moved. Feeling particularly dim, I went back into the bathroom and checked to see if she had wedged herself between the counter and toilet or toilet and plunger. Satisfied that she wasn’t hiding in there, I called her again. This time I heard a faint response.

            “I’m in here.”

            “Where?”

            “Here.” I was still moderately confused but I opened the laundry room door since I hadn’t checked in there yet. There she was, wedged between the hard-working washer and the wall.

            “What are you doing in here?”

            “Something.”

            “Come out of there. Did you forget to go potty?”

            “Yes.” She was expecting a lecture. She had the glazed look in her eyes in preparation.

            “Do you want me to remind you?”

            “Yes.” Given all of the clothing drama I have dealt with in the past four and a half years, I made her put her clothes in the washer and then when they were clean, into the dryer. Now we’ve gone back to reminding her that she needs to heed the carnal screams of her bladder wall stretch receptors. Otherwise; LAKE OF PISS.