First, a disclaimer: Mom, please do not read this post. I'm serious.
So tonight I was cleaning the bathroom and realized that the main reason I could never, ever offer my place as a crash pad for writer friends coming to NYC for the AWP Conference: not the postage-stamp size of our home, nor the two little imps who live there and rise at 6 a.m., nor the probable appearance of a cranky Estranged Spouse. Simply put, I am embarrassed by the way we live. Take our toilet, for instance (take our toilet, please). If I used the bathroom at someone's house and it was as disgusting as ours was a few hours ago, I would be completely grossed out. As I scrubbed the neglected toilet I remembered that Bobby had two friends over yesterday for a playdate, and hoped for their sakes that the most egregious, er, deposits were very recent.
(Mom, if you're still reading, you really need to stop now.)
I was also reminded of the perils of potty training Stella and the utterly inadequate capacity of pull-ups at her age. During a visit to Grandma's, Stella woke up early and wandered downstairs only to make a poopie mess. My kindly mother went to get Stella first and, horrified, revealed that she had found feces on the kitchen floor. She actually pronounced it "Feece-us," and I was reminded of her grandmother, my Great-Grandma Gladys who used to call that instrument with black and white keys a "pie-anna."
(You can't say I didn't warn you, Mom.)
This is all to say that when you're faced with a crappy situation, the best way to deal with it is with humor. That, and a good pair of rubber gloves, and some strong disinfectant.
And on a more serious note, I hereby put out a second request for any advice about potty training from parents in T21-land! Tara, are you listening?