Why I've decided that today is a good day to start potty-training, I have no idea.
Maybe it's because we're going to NYC in a couple weeks. Helping a newly trained toddler figure out how to go potty in airports, on planes, and who-knows-where-else in the city sounds delightful.
Maybe it's because we're about to be exiled to a hotel as our kitchen gets ripped out, asbestos and all. After we came back from Austin and found that the floor had been soaking in overflowing dishwasher water the entire week we were gone, destroyed down to the subflooring, had contractor after contractor come in and go, "Aw, hell. This whole floor's gonna hafta come up. These cabinets aren't gonna make it. And that wall's probably gonna hafta go, too," we're very thankful for homeowner's insurance.
Maybe it's the fact that it's the middle of the week, so there's no husband around to help me clean up the puddles.
Whatever the brilliant reasoning that led me to the conclusion that today is the day, the end result is the same: my leg has been peed on. The floor has been peed on. But the potty has also been peed in, a little bit, and I'm not holding down a screaming toddler trying to slap a diaper on her, so maybe it could be worse.