The good news is that Dubsie is well on her way to being potty trained. The downside is that this requires more time and vigilance than the days when toilet management meant changing a full diaper. We must get her to the baño regularly, every 90 minutes or so, whether or not she wants to, or has any particular business to attend to.
The sessions can be lengthy. Dubsie enjoys sitting, and when on the throne she has the additional bonus of an adult’s undivided attention. In order not to spend all afternoon sitting on the bathroom floor, we have learned certain ways to, um, move things along.
If we think she’s on the way to a #1, we whisper to her a soft pssst pssst pssst. If it seems more like a #2, we mimic what she does when she is pushing one out. Look her in the eye, hold your breath, strain your face until it’s purple, and make little grunting noises. Which mostly Dubsie just thinks is funny (“Make the potty face!” she’ll say), but other times it leads to the successful, and strangely fascinating, passage of poop into the toilet.
At which point I’m ready to move on. “All done?” I say, and reach for her armpits to hoist her down. “No, there’s more!” she says and waves my hands off. She smiles at me and kicks her legs in an amused way, and I resume my position sitting on the cold tile floor, with no way of knowing if I am facilitating an important skill, or if I am being played.
Ah yes, the classic Valsalva maneuver.