My baby is rounding the corner on three-and-a-half. RB identifies as a big kid who sleeps in a crib and poops in a diaper.

She’s quick to tell you diapers and cribs are for babies. But like everyone, she is very willing to make an exception for herself.

She’s holding onto the diapers and I’m holding onto the crib.

Once, a couple months ago, she half-heartedly asked for a bed. She demands a bowl of cereal with more attitude than the bed ask.

I told her,

“When you poop in the potty, you’ll be a big kid ready for a big bed.”

“And I still get the bag of gummy bears?”

Many months ago I promised her a giant bag of gummy bears if she pooped in the potty. I thought for sure that would do it. Nope.

But she didn’t forget about them either.

Sure. A big kid bed and a lifetime of gummies. Whatever it takes kid.

As I wipe up a giant 3-year-old poop butt, I question all my parenting choices. How did I end up with both my kids at 3, wearing underwear all day, and then putting on their own diaper when they need to poop?

I blame Captain.

He asks me,

“What do you remember about pooping in a diaper?”

“I DON’T!”

I remember the week I potty trained. I was two-and-a-half and in Disney World. I never looked back. I have no memory of pooping in a diaper.

With a smile, Captain reminisced about his days in diapers.

He described the leather easy chair in the living room, the coffee table and lamp straight off a pirate ship. He remembered his favorite snack, cheerios and raisins, eaten from a little pumpkin cup. Best of all, he can picture the space between the chair and the pirate table where he liked to stand, eat his snack and poop.

The details folks! The details! I can’t say for sure that my in-laws had pirate furniture, but I can say for sure that if Captain can remember all that, then he was at least 3-years-old, pooping in a diaper.

I blame genetics. My kiddos didn’t stand a chance. Nor did I.

As our romantic, dinnertime poop discussion continued, new details emerged. At some point Captain started pooping in the potty. Praise be. But instead of an adult checking his wiping job, he had a magnifying makeup mirror on the floor and he bent over in front of it.

I assumed he bent over in front of it to check himself, but no, he bent over in front of it to wipe. He now regrets the bits of wet toilet paper he remembers leaving on the floor after that.

Proof that there are many strategies to clean our kids and no one seems to be winning.

So I buy another box of diapers. Bigger and bigger diapers.

Every morning I pick RB up out of her crib, snuggle her close and every part of me wants to say,

‘How’s my baby?’

Instead, after months of being screamed at, I cuddle her up and say,

“How’s my big kid?!”

“I’ve got a wiggly diaper.”

Yes. Yes you do.