Sunday morning. 11am service. 2′s and 3′s nursery. Snack time.

Picture eleven toddlers sitting at a horseshoe shaped table, happily munching on goldfish crackers and drinking water from little Dixie cups. Their “conversation” goes from one thing to the next at the same speed as their little feet swing and kick furiously under their chairs.

Teachuhr? Teachuhr–guess what? I don’t go potty in my bed anymo-uhr.” A little face framed with blond curls grinned up at me.

I congratulated her on this amazing and great achievement. I mean, come on, this is monumental.

But then a little dark haired three year old shook her head sadly. The bow in her hair swung back and forth, closer to falling out, with each movement.

“I still have to wear doze spesheeul panties because I still go potty in MY bed sometimes.”

And, of course, now all nine little girls and the two boys felt compelled to tell the group just how they were doing in the nighttime accident realm.

Listening to the verdict, I felt bad, bad for these poor parents…. and wasn’t sure whether to look ahead at potty training with an optimistic expectancy or with fear and trembling.

Then the other nursery worker, Mrs. Malinda spoke up, bucket of goldfish crackers under one arm and juggling cups in the other.

“Guess whaaaaat?? I still go potty in my bed sometimes!”

Every tiny head was riveted at their beloved Mrs. Malinda–beautiful, grown up, and always loads of fun. Eyes were wide. Mouths gaped open.

Then–

Wheeeeew.” A long sigh was accompanied by the little towhead tossed back in relief. “That shoo-uhr makes me feel bettuhr!”

I’m afraid our uproarious laughter burst their little bubble.

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