Explanations and Potty Chairs in the Desert.

Every day I think about blogging. I think of funny, sad or introspective things to say (at least I think they are funny, sad or introspective, which is all that matters I suppose), but I'm on a self-imposed exile from personal computer use for awhile. Mostly because I like going without it. After 3 years of constant attachment to a laptop, up-to-the-minute content, responsibility over messaging and conversations and brands and so forth ... I'm tired.

And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.

The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.

At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.

The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.

In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait.

Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.

Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).

I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).

30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.

As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"

I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"

Um yes, I think we can handle that.