mortified

"Mommy," her voice wavered from her room at the end of her nap.

"Mommy!"

I got there first.

She was standing in front of her crib. There was a large wet spot covering her mattress.

"Daddy, daddy I peepee!" she said and burst into tears.

I gathered her up as her mother appeared in the doorway.

"I peepee my Pato!" she cried and–this was a tipping point–gave herself over to great wrenching sobs of despair. (Pato being her stuffed duck).

And, I mean, it's not even like we've been all that strict with the potty training, her mother and I. We're pretty easygoing. It's been all positive reinforcement when things work out and "oh well, let's try to remember the potty next time" when it doesn't. And here was my girl absolutely devastated over a little accident.

I was halfway to laughter, it was such a little thing. But I stopped. It broke my heart to see my little girl's heart a-breaking.

"Oh sweetie, oh honey, it's okay!"

We stripped the bed, stripped the girl. And held her and reassured her until she started smiling again.