Noa comes pitter-pattering into the kitchen.
"Hey babe!"  I'm elbow deep in Green Apple dish soap.
"Dowa Paw-Tee, Dowa Paw-Tee.  Wight dare!  Dowa Paw-Tee!"  And she's pointing to the kids bathroom where her new Dora potty has been collecting dust since her second birthday.
"Do you have to go potty?"
"Yeah!  Dowa Paw-Tee!"  And she runs past me.
"Do you want me to help you with your pants?" I call after her.
"No!  Iye do!"
There's a shuffle and a bump.  I peak around the door.  She's sitting on the potty.  She's patting the red plastic side.  She's still wearing her overalls.
"Wight dare!  Dowa Paw-Tee...awl dun!  Mommee...poop."  When she says "poop" it's more like a whispered "POP" because she's too much of a lady to really say the word.
"Noa Riley Joy, did you just poop on the potty?"
She stands up, a hand patting her denim-clad derriere.  "Yeah.  *pop*  Dowa Paw-Tee!  Wight dare!!!"
So I change her and we celebrate with a silly dance and cheer.  She laughs at me.
"Maybe next time we can take your pants off?"  I suggest.
"No.  Iye do.  Dowa Paw-Tee."
I kiss her.  "I."
"Iye."
"Love."
"Uv."
"You."
"Ewe."
And she runs away, her little Noa feet slapping the tiles as she races into the "winwoom" (living room) to tell "Dander" all about the paw-tee.