The Little Blue Potty

"I can do it all by myself," said Mia, and she marched down the hall in her pajamas.

She wore one striped sock and one dotted sock. The socks had swapped partners in the night, like they always did, and nobody minded. Mia wanted one thing today. She wanted to use her little blue potty, just like her big cousin did.

She sat down. The potty was cold. Mia waited.

"Not yet," she whispered. "Not yet."

Pepper the cat padded in and curled up on the bath mat. He had only come for his morning nap. He closed his eyes and did not look at the potty at all.

Mia wiggled. She kicked her socks. She waited some more, and nothing happened.

"Come on, potty," she said. "Hurry up!"

Nothing.

So Mia tried something different. She stood up and sat down again, with a big bounce. The potty went squeak. Pepper opened one eye.

"That was you, potty," Mia giggled. "Not me."

She sat very still, but her tummy felt tight, like a fist. The harder she tried, the less happened.

Then she heard something. Plink, plink, plink. It was the bathroom tap, dripping into the sink. Plink. Plink. It was slow and soft, like a tiny song.

Mia stopped squeezing. Her shoulders went down. She let her hands go floppy, like noodles. She listened to the drip, and her tummy slowly came loose.

Tinkle, tinkle.

Mia's eyes went round. "Pepper!" she whispered. "Pepper, I'm doing it!"

Pepper did not wake up. But his tail gave one small flick.

Mia sat there, grinning, her striped sock and her dotted sock tapping together. The tap went plink, plink, plink. Pepper began to purr, low and warm, and the whole bathroom hummed along with him.