I'm a bloody amateur - go on, ask about it

Keira's face balloons up in front of me. "You happy, mum?" she asks, forehead crinkling slightly. "Sure, I'm fine" I said quickly. In fact, I had been silently contemplating the turn of events in my daughter's life during the past week. The toilet training (and I was so sure we'd gone past that stage) has been abysmal. She still has the odd 'leak' which she's able to shut off - sure - but no, this week its been complete gushers. Better still, it's called for changes of clothes, shoes, dignities, and treading the delicate line between patience and forbearance and frustration and questioning. Then, this morning....... Complete fecal decimation. She comes to me holding up a pair of undies that look like they've been dragged from the sewer. "Mum. Dirty." Rigghhtttt... So after I scrub the clothes, the carpet (don't ask), the toilet bowl, I go outside for a moment to refresh the nasal palate. And so when she appears before me, I look at her and try to smile. This is the same girl who has voluntarily used the potty since 18 months old. And yet this is the same girl who saturates one, sometimes two, nappies of a nighttime when other kids her same age are beginning to grow out of nighttime nappies altogether. I know, I know, I shouldn't let it bother me. I've heard "Oh, its just a phase; a natural regression" a tonne of times now. I guess I'm still stuck between the region of when I remember her vividly as a baby; now, I don't know which way to lead her or how to react to different situations. Times like this I'm reminded of a great t-shirt I should print up for myself: "I'M A BLOODY AMATEUR" and on the back it'll say, "GO ON - ASK ABOUT IT." It's with these thoughts of incompetence in mind that I reach out and give my girl a hug - because it's about as close as I can get to getting something right. And with the ferocity in which it is returned, do I hope that I am.