Trying to get to the bottom (literally) of Lil’s backache complaints, we were directed to the lab for a culture.
For the record, just about every time you put a newly potty-trained three-year-old girl on the pot, they go. But put that same little girl on the potty in a lab restroom with the promise of the results being caught in a cup and you can forget it.
On the way there, she drank apple juice. Lots of apple juice. In the less-than-hygienic bathroom, we discussed waterfalls and bubble baths. Swimming pools and washing dishes in warm water. We let the faucet run and imagined it was raining and we were playing in puddles. Nothing. All while I’m saying, “Don’t touch anything.” And trying to heed my own advice as I hovered close by with that menacing cup, ready to pounce. But nothing. Nada. Nunca.
After more than a half an hour, several knocks and no success, we left–clean cup in hand–ready to attempt the collection at home. More apple juice has been consumed, her little bottom has warmed that seat numerous times but she’s just not letting go. It seems ironic to me, the months of challenges and energy spent trying to get her to stay dry and then when I need her to pee, she can hold it for hours on end and basically refuse (at least for now) to accommodate.
As I type this, Lil is napping. And now of course I’m praying that all our talk of waterfalls and warm water don’t find their way to her dreams so when she wakes up I can make a successful deposit at the lab instead of in the downstairs washing machine.