It's my potty and I'll cry if I want to.

Have I ever mentioned that I hate potty-training? Well I do. I detest it. I am angry with myself because in December, when Georgie was dry and accident free for four days, I did not throw away all his diapers. I had him exactly where I wanted him, but then Christmas came along with all its chaos. I strapped a diaper back on him to get us through the holidays, and thus the days of the potty have become a distant memory.

We're working on it again, but it's hard for me to be enthusiastic this time. I find myself counting from one to ninety-two in order to keep my cool when accidents arise. I am trying to stay on top of him to make sure he makes a trip to the bathroom at least once per hour, but if anyone knows me, I lose track of time like a doped rat. But I'd say the worst part of training a boy is - misfire.

Where is that nanny I've been relentlessly praying for? Now would be a fabulous time for her to magically appear. Any volunteers?