She has an alter-ego I like to call The Urinator. The Urinator pees on everything. Couches, floors, beds. I often go into her room to put something away only to step on a pair of soggy underpants, squishing into the carpet. The tile around the toilet is damp and dark with urine at all times. I wash sheets every single day. Our entire house has that faint ammonia scent that I try to mask with Tyler Candles' Pineapple Crush.
How did this happen? Two weeks ago, we were diaper free all day and all night. No accidents. Well, not NO accidents, but they were minimal and understood...didn't make it to the potty because we were outside having too much fun, or we were at Wal Mart and the damn restroom is always furthest from where you are. But she had it. She was potty-trained. And then, for some inexplicable reason, The Urinator took over. And let me tell you something. The Urinator is mean. She is working overtime to beat me down. And she is winning.
The only thing that keeps me from throwing in the towel is this: when The Urinator is in a hurry to make her getaway without being caught, she is often hasty in donning her replacement skivvies. The waistband-as-leghole always gives her away and I know The Urinator has struck again. And as sick of pee that I am, this never fails to make me laugh.