Noa comes pitter-pattering into the kitchen.
"Hey babe!" I'm elbow deep in Green Apple dish soap.
"Dowa Paw-Tee, Dowa Paw-Tee. Wight dare! Dowa Paw-Tee!" And she's pointing to the kids bathroom where her new Dora potty has been collecting dust since her second birthday.
"Do you have to go potty?"
"Yeah! Dowa Paw-Tee!" And she runs past me.
"Do you want me to help you with your pants?" I call after her.
"No! Iye do!"
There's a shuffle and a bump. I peak around the door. She's sitting on the potty. She's patting the red plastic side. She's still wearing her overalls.
"Wight dare! Dowa Paw-Tee...awl dun! Mommee...poop." When she says "poop" it's more like a whispered "POP" because she's too much of a lady to really say the word.
"Noa Riley Joy, did you just poop on the potty?"
She stands up, a hand patting her denim-clad derriere. "Yeah. *pop* Dowa Paw-Tee! Wight dare!!!"
So I change her and we celebrate with a silly dance and cheer. She laughs at me.
"Maybe next time we can take your pants off?" I suggest.
"No. Iye do. Dowa Paw-Tee."
I kiss her. "I."
And she runs away, her little Noa feet slapping the tiles as she races into the "winwoom" (living room) to tell "Dander" all about the paw-tee.