cold turkey

I always thought quitting something cold turkey just meant that you gave it up abruptly.  And it does mean that, but according to Wikipedia, the phrase was originally coined for drug addicts and alcoholics.

I'm (obviously) not talking about either of those.

Each of my girls, however, gave up something abruptly in the past week.  Audrey nursed for the last time on Friday night, and that was that.  No warning, no easing into it like I had planned.  Nope.  She just refused, then refused again, then again, and finally I stopped offering.  Honestly, I wasn't terribly sad.  My goal had been to nurse exclusively for a year, and we did.  (As an aside:  because of the trouble I had with Julia, I vowed to never give Audrey a bottle.  And I didn't.  Girl's only had breastmilk straight from the source or water [and whole milk after her 1st birthday] from a sippy cup. I am super proud of that.)

I was planning on weaning her soon anyway.  She just gave up a little sooner than I had hoped.  Man, though, quitting cold turkey like that was seriously painful... but I'll spare you gory the details.  Let's just say ice packs, a tight-fitting sports bra, and a bottle of Ibuprofen were my friends.  Dear, dear friends.  It is only Tuesday though, and I can already see the light at the end of the tunnel, so all in all it's not so terrible.  (I probably would've had a different opinion yesterday, though).

And today, Julia gave up her Pull-Ups.  Cold turkey.  When she woke this morning they had "magically" disappeared.  Go big or go home, right?


No, seriously, this was the last straw in my arsenal of potty-training.  Whoever said girls are supposed to be easy lied.  A big, fat, ugly, mocking lie.  Because my very smart little girl is three months past her third birthday and still never used the toilet.  Ever.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.

Because I know you were just dying to see a picture of our toilet.

We changed that today.

She put on big girl panties.  We set the oven timer to go off every 15 minutes.  And I pretended like sitting on the toilet was the most exciting, riveting thing in the world.  (I've been trying that for over a year now.  She's still not buying it.)  I named every single person (real or imaginary) I could think of that also uses the potty.  One time I even bribed her with a few M&M's while she sat, just for climbing up there.

She peed on the floor.  Twice.  (The first time it happened, there were 26 seconds left on the timer.  26!!)  She asked for a Pull-Up on multiple occasions.  And I admit, I was a little discouraged.  But we pressed on.  Every 15 minutes that obnoxious timer would go off and we'd both high-tail it to the bathroom.

Finally, finally, it happened.  6:28 pm.  I was washing the dinner dishes in the kitchen, the girls were playing together in the living room.  There was ample time left before the next trek to the bathroom.  Julia walked past me casually and announced, "I meed to go potty."  I didn't expect much, because she'd done that several times already today (today?  Who am I kidding?  Several times over the past year, too!).  But I followed her in.

Wouldn't you know it, that girl walked in, pulled down her panties, sat on the toilet, and peed.  Like it was no big deal.  As if she'd done it a hundred times before.

And I whooped and hollered and squealed like someone just handed me a million bucks.  We called Daddy in and she proudly showed him what she had done.  We called Nana.  Audrey clapped for Big Sister and gave out high-fives to celebrate.

My big girl.  She did it.  She finally, finally did it.  And this Mama is so very proud.