Sometimes, I throw my hands up in the air, and wave 'em like I just don't care...
Trouble is, I do care, but I've pretty much given up. Every time I give up, I think, I'll try just one more time, and then I give up again, and I throw my hands in the air again, and wave 'em like I just don't care... again...
It's a vicious cycle.
So what's this all about?
The process of training one's masculine offspring to urinate/defecate in the proper receptacle instead of into the offspring's own raiment, thereby promoting maturation and cultivation of the offspring, ushering him from infancy into the proper development of an older child.
In other words: potty-training.
I've lost count of the times I've thought, I think I finally did it! I think he's finally trained! And then, like an evil imp that comes back to mock its audience, he sinks back into wet jeans and wet underwear... one more time.
Sometimes, I feel like a bull-dog, sinking my teeth with stubborn tenacity into an issue that refuses to be resolved, never letting go, never seeing hope of a solution.
BIG Prizes: check.
Cleans up his own messes: check.
Alarms every hour: check.
Alarms every half an hour: check.
Privileges taken away: check.
Regular underwear: check.
I don't know. I've said it before and I'll say it now. When he moves out to go to college or wherever, he's going to start changing his own diapers.