The Fairy Princess Castle is gathering dust. K.Lo is fully aware of the incentive program at stake, and I’m quite confident that she will earn her reward eventually, like before Kindergarten, so I don’t really care. Except that I really, really do.

I’m afraid she’s going to end up in therapy for real by the time all is said and done. Or else I’m going to be in therapy. I have tried to be as patient as possible, as kind as possible, about the issue. I’ve dutifully ignored the problem for weeks, months at a stretch, figuring that she would come around eventually. Especially if it was evident that I didn’t care one way or the other. I guess I’m not very good at pretending.

I’ve bought a few funny, friendly books. We have Elmo’s Potty Time so drilled into our brains that I hum the score in my sleep. We get the concept, people, we get it all too well.

I’ve also tried, on more than one occasion, calling K.Lo into my office and just asking her (in the most non-threatening way imaginable) what is the problem—because I fully expect a two-year employee to come up with a viable answer? I realize it’s a long-shot. But I had to try.

We’ve tried varying degrees of “pressy,” and hand-holding.

I have *almost,* but not quite, gotten mean. Although if denying permission to poop in her panties is mean, then maybe I’m there.

In response to various training approaches, I have gotten everything from long periods of sitting on the potty with no action, high-drama moments of screaming and rolling around on the floor (her, not me), and waiting until 6AM to mess her night-time Pull-Up. All in this past week. See? Therapy. We are on the fast-track.

I’m trying too hard at this point. I’m not keeping my cards close enough to my chest. I get that.

But dammit, WHY CAN’T SHE POOP ON THE POTTY LIKE A NORMAL CHILD. WHAT IS THE BIG. FREAKING. DEAL?!

I will be accepting all donations for future psychiatry bills, thank you in advance for your patronage.