Walking in My Parent's Bare Feet as They Step on a Sharp Toy in the Middle of The Hallway

I complain a lot about my parents and how I wish they had done things differently like I'm some kind of parenting whiz. I am not.

This morning, Stella got up before Hank and I were out of bed, used the potty, came into our room and said, "Mama, I used the potty all by myself. Are you proud of me?"

I smiled groggily and said, "Yes, I'm very proud of my big girl."

Then Stella asked, "And you're not mad at me because I didn't have an accident?"

My heart sunk. A few times, maybe three or four, I blew my cool and yelled at Stella for having an accident. Me the "la la la everyone makes mistakes" fauxhemian. I know. It's like the worst psychological damage a parent can inflict on their child. Yay me.

One of the times she had removed the contents of her diaper and decided to paint the living room furniture with her feces, and although I'm a big fan of artistic expression, I am not a big fan of e-coli or the smell of shit in my living room. So I yelled at her. I tried not to. Which probably made it worse, more confusing.

"Mommy just wants you to be a big girl and use the potty all the time GODDAMNIT IT'S BETWEEN MY FINGERNAILS it's ok honey I don't mean to yell I'm just feeling very frustrated now YOU KNOW I ALWAYS LOVE YOU EVEN WHEN I'M YELLING AT YOU."

I have a piggy bank I absolutely do not raid to pay for eye brow waxes or massages that I drop coins into every time I think "Dang, she'll have to talk that one over with her psychologist when she grows up." The day I yelled at her for painting our furniture with her poop, I added $20 to the piggy bank. I'd like to market a piggy bank-style porcelain bank to use for saving for your kid's future therapy. With Freud's face on it. Wouldn't that be great? Until then, I just use a piggy bank. Pretty much every day.

After experiencing two solid years of accidents, and after reading Dr. Alphie Kohn's book Unconditional Parenting, I realize yelling at a child when they poop their pants and explore this play-doh like substance is like yelling at a baby for shaking a rattle or yelling at a kid for falling down when she's just learning how to walk. Pooping pants and playing with it is disgusting, but it's also completely normal and not something to be yelling at a two year old at for doing.

So when Stella came into our room this morning fishing for our potty praises, asking if I was "not mad at (her) because (she) didn't have an accident" I said as seriously as I could, "No, Sweetie. I should have never gotten mad at you for having an accident. Accidents are part of growing up and it wasn't right of me to get mad at you for that. I used to have accidents when I was learning. Daddy did too. Everybody does. Please don't feel like this is your fault."

Stella squeezed my neck and smiled so hard I thought her cheeks might pop, "Thanks, Mama."

I held her hand as she crawled into bed with us and waited for her to get settled between Hank and me before I continued the discussion, "See, we're both learning. You're learning to use the potty all by yourself and I'm learning to be a better a more understanding mom." Stella rolled over, kissed my cheek and said, "Mom, I'm so proud of you."