an ode to my friends who are mothers

Gone are onesies, wet wipes, rash,

We're adding pull-ups to that stash

Or so we hope.

In comes big boy underpants,

frilly panties or dinosaurs that dance,

We dream of progress.

Methods come, endless advice;

Our children have their own device.

Training's not their choice.

Some kids go upon command,

others require a more firm hand.

Or just won't go.

Targets for the boys to hit;

Girls who scream and throw a fit;

Or sit terrified.

It seems they'll poop in every place

Except the spot reserved with space.

And then go hide.

Every country, every tongue

Has a way it must be done.

To train a child to properly

Do what does come naturally.

I've been thinking about you and praying for all of you these last few weeks!