T-minus 14 days Have acquired potty training operations manual from local library. Book helpfully explained myriad ways in which I have sabotaged myself by waiting until almost age 3 to begin potty training. Threw book angrily onto coffee table next to random collection of five plastic baby spoons and one mutilated Cube-Bot. That book isn't the boss of me. It can't tell me what to do. Target identified. T-minus 12 days Dropped off toddler's preschool registration documents, which clearly state that said toddler's attendance is contingent upon ability to use a toilet successfully without assistance. Retrieved discarded potty training manual from table where it was concealed beneath December issue of Thomas & Friends magazine.   T-minus 9 days Procured book for toddler referencing one Daniel Tiger and his urination proclivities. Features not-at-all-realistic sounding toilet flush when button is pressed. Toddler seems to enjoy pressing button, but refuses ...

So here we are. My hometown: a few square miles of Southeast Texas known for rice elevators, ill-timed trains, a Sam's distribution center, and a couple of state prisons. It's probably been 10 years since I was last here, and I didn't picture coming back. Some say you can never go home again. I can't seem to leave. South of town, about 2 miles past the old high school with the wrong-colored tiles, there will be a street on the left. It used to be called Oak Lane and was gravel, but now it's paved and goes by a different name -- as most things do when they've been upgraded. This house on the left at the dead end, this white brick one, is where I moved the summer before 2nd grade. That's the spot on the street where I fell off my bike on my 7th birthday and got stitches in my head. Right there by the trees is where we buried our Siamese cat. This is where I first learned about utility bills, and how the city could shut off your electricity in the middl...