A magical paste, a Genie and a Mason jar-- the end of an era

There are few things I’d sell my vital organs for or consider selling all my worldly possessions just so I could get “it.”
Really. I’m pretty happy.

But there is one thing I’m willing to pull out all the stops, break open all the piggy banks and even pray to God, Allah, Hashem, Jehovah, Buddah and any other godly figures just to make it happen--- The End of the Diaper Era.

Yes, I’ve spent the last eight years swiping butts, wondering if it is my kid emitting that foul-smelling sulfurous odor at every family gathering and chasing little swirming baby behinds that want to smear (or worse yet fingerpaint) all over the changing table, walls and bathroom floor.

My purse has at times resembled a large suitcase. My trunk-- a portable closet. My trash-- toxic waste.

I have tried it all-- M&M bribery, award posters, going cold turkey, feel and learn pull-ups, pull-ups with designs that fade when the “deed” is done, pull-ups that get cold, singing potty chairs, boring potty chairs, stickers, toy prizes and the promise of puppies, kittens and love birds (if only they’d stop doing “it”).

I even once offered one of my daughter $5 if she’d just go No. 2 in the potty-- just once. She did-- and then she put her pull-ups on, bought some obnoxious toy and gave up the potty chair “forever.”

I just don’t get it. I don’t. Really. It’s disgusting. Who would want to be that way?

Apparently some residents who at one time or another were 3-feet or less and who reside in my house.

Long ago, I got a clue to this problem when one of my daughters said “I like diapers.”

Another one of my daughters said, “I’m baby.” Plus, she didn’t want to go to preschool “not ever. I want to stay with ‘chew’ mommy,” and so she’d hold “it” until she got her baby pants on and then let it all out. She was also afraid of the potty.

But the biggest hair scrunching problem was the daughter who would go in the right place-- if and only if she was naked.

I’m tired of rubber sheets and diaper genies.

And so, a few weeks ago, I decided we’d all have a competition. I was going to pay for potty. Yes, in my household, you get a penny for No. 1, a nickel for No. 2 and 25 cents for a dry night.

We’ve lined up the Mason jars and are filling them up quickly. I’m sure the Costco executives are starting to sweat because one day soon we will not be one of the ones piling up our carts with two sizes of pull-ups and cases of wipers. I won’t be searching for soothing creams and powders so I can make the all-healing paste. We will be paste-free.

My diaper days will be over.

But first it’s going to cost me as one my one they catch on to what will make them go the most. Gallons of water are being drank. What once took one trip now takes six. And a little stomach flu is revered as a blessing.

I can be patient. I can pay up. There are not limits to my pennies. Nobody wants them. If need be, I can take up a collection.

Yes, send your pennies and send them quick so one day--
My trunk will once again do what it was made to do-- carry shoes from Gigi’s Shoe Parlor, City Shoes and Heel and Sol.

But until that magical day arrives (and it is oh so very close), I will get the honor of listening to the the words that are more delightful than a Shakespeare sonnet and yes, I think at this point in my life-- even more delightful than “I do.”

The words come complete with a smile and little legs with overalls around the ankles jumping up and down.

“I did IT!” a voice calls with inflections only comparable to angels singing in heaven.

“I did IT!” Oh, the excitement. I run to give a high five and a penny or better yet a nickel.

“I went poo,” she says as she peaks out the bathroom door.

Oh it’s pay day in the Sitter household.

And then I am reminded of the consequences of “Pennies for Potty.”

“You wanna see?” she says.

Oh yes, what mother wouldn’t want to see the end of the Diaper Era swirling down, down, down the drain?