A small voice makes its way through the dark room:

“Poop in potty.”

What?! I nearly jump out of my skin in response. I quickly scoop her up and think, here it is, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The moment where, on her own volition, my two year old truly begins to use the toilet. Forget that it’s bedtime on this sweltering summer night, forget that I’m tired and anxious to pop a movie in the DVD player, forget that homemade blueberry ice cream that awaits me downstairs. We’ve got a kid ready to go poop here!

We leave the quiet room and head for the bright lights of the bathroom. The little potty awaits like a miniature throne in the corner.

She sits.

And sits.

And sits some more.

My quick-draw pooper is sitting and I’m doing all the encouraging things I can. I hold her hands, I sing a few lyrics to the Poopsmith song, I grimace my face in ways only a potty-training mother would dare.

Could it be? Oh no, surely it can’t be. And yet, there she sits still.

The first bedtime stall tactic. Argh.