Monday:
Gonna potty train the Cakers.
Big Girl Undies? Check (Bob Bob Bay Pants, even)
Potty Chair? Check
Case of M&M's? Check
Bladder of Steele? Double Check
Willing Participant? Uh, no.

The Cakers is thrilled with her new undies and wears them with pride. But when she has to pee, she asks for a diaper. That's when the fun begins.

Before getting the diaper, I bribe her to the potty chair with an M&M and a little poem (One piece for sitting and two for....peeing).

Once she's on the potty chair, I ply her with more M&M's, read her books, serve tall cups of water, run the faucet (oops, did I spill some on your leg?) and even tandem pee (hey, what's a girl to do with all that water running?). After 10 minutes (no pee), she abruptly stands, grabs her neveryoumind and demands a diaper, which I promise to fetch.

On the way to the diaper tree, I'm distracted. I check my email, empty the dishwasher, hava cuppa joe an read War and Pees.

Finally she yells, Momma! Diaper!

Here I come! I yell back. And show up with another book.

Read a book? I ask, donning the smile of a preacher's wife. The Cakers looks pained and her knees are clenched together. But she agrees.

Chocolate milk? Okay.

Giddy with confidence, I'm sure we'll soon be whizzing past all previoius expectations.

Alas, she starts twisting and writhing. She is no longer curious about George and whether or not he pees in the toilet or in the tree, or in the yellow hat.

She wants her diaper and she wants it now. I gotta pee!!! She cries from her potty chair, hands tucked below.

So I put the diaper on her (no need to traumatize, yet) and she skadiddles to the playroom. Two minutes later she hands the diaper back, wrapped tight and still steaming. Five pounder, I'm guessin'. Bladder of Steele. That'll serve us well, someday.

Tuesday: See Monday

Wednesday:
Senior Pictures.
First of all, my son approached my inquiry about senior pictures the same as he does questions about ACT applications, cleaning his room and current English grade: Huh?

Next came the argument:
Do I have to?.
Rite of Passage, says I.
Exasperated sigh. So you're telling me I can't be a senior without a senior picture?
Yes, that's what I'm telling you.
(I've only myself to blame. He wasn't pottied until 9th grade).

Then he was assigned to find a photographer.
How do I do that?
Have any of your friends had their pictures taken?
Huh?
Friends...pictures....have they?
Mom. ::insert OMG look:: We don't talk about stuff like that. Like "Dude, I had my senior pictures taken today, it was sweet."

He finally came up with a photographer and I made the appointment. Then came the outrage and disgust that this event was to suck up two hours of his precious sleep life. You'd think I'd asked him to look through his undie drawer, in search of my misplaced sani-thong.

Then came the argument about what to wear. Remarkably, he was able to pull a couple decent outfits from some dark, stinky place. But only after I threatened to take him shopping.

Overall, the shoot went better than I expected. The photographer was well-versed in methods of hooking the adolescent ego, without being schmaltzy. He even convinced Cam to walk to a nearby park, taking shots all the way down the busy street.

Thursday: I gained 10 pounds. (In all fairness, it took all day... )

Friday:
To husband, I say: I'm fat.
Says Husband, in return: But you try so hard not to be.

Saturday:
I cry.