The big toilet roars like a dragon
and gulps down whole afternoons.
I do not trust it.
But this one—
this little plastic throne the color of sherbet—
waits for me
like it knows my name.
Mama says I’m growing.
Daddy says I’m brave.
I say I am busy
building towers
and teaching Bear to read.
They say, “Do you have to go?”
I say, “No.”
Then I freeze
like a statue in the museum
we do not go to.
There is a whisper in my belly.
A wiggle in my knees.
A hurry-up feeling
that tickles and knocks
and will not be ignored.
I march to the bathroom
like a soldier
with very important business.
Step-stool.
Turn.
Sit.
The world waits.
I study the tiles.
I hold my breath.
I tell my knees to behave.
And then—
a tiny tinkle,
like rain testing the roof.
I did it.
Mama claps like I won a medal.
Daddy cheers like fireworks.
Bear looks impressed.
I grin so wide
my cheeks almost touch.
Flush? No dragon here.
Just a quiet swirl
and a sticker shaped like a star.
I am small,
but I am mighty.
Tomorrow I will build taller towers.
Tomorrow I will teach Bear to spell.
Today
I put
pee pee
in the potty.