She took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen for breakfast. He ate his oatmeal thoughtfully, thinking about what she had said about him being difficult to potty train. If she was right, and he had no doubts that she was, he’d have to be extra careful to run and tell her whenever he had the slightest urge to pee. Otherwise, he’d end up wetting his training pants. The thought of being dependent on his mother to help him go to the potty was depressing. If she was busy, he’d be forced to wait until she had time to take him to the bathroom. He could picture himself standing at her side doing the pee-pee dance while she finished her chore. The idea of being so dependent and helpless frightened him to the depths of his soul. He’d be forced to beg for her help to go to the potty like he was a little boy. She’d probably pat him on the head and tell him to be patient.

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