D-day (or the day the diapers died)

Bye, bye, Miss Poopy Diaper!
Wiped my last hiney for my little toddler!
And sweet baby is full of juice and water!
And singing today's the day the diapers die!
Today's the day the diapers die!

Or I do, which might very well be the end result of my latest experiment.
Three day potty training booty camp.
From first thing Saturday morning until last thing Monday night, Punk and I are Siamese twins with one goal in mind.
Ditch the diapers.
A lofty goal, but one I have been deluded into believing in thanks to a guru who pro-ports three day potty training.
It worked for a friend, and a friend of a friend, so it has to work for us, right?
I have bought the supplies--panties, salty snacks, juice, rewards.
I have enlisted help with the boys.
And I have told The Man we are doing this and he'd better hop on the potty training throne with us.
I oh so sweetly told him the plan, his job, the boys job, my job, and then reminded him what would happen if he let me down.
If he fails me, I'll flush him like the floater he is.
Starting first thing Saturday, before Punk wakes, I will be up and showered and watching her little butt like a hawk for signs of stirring.
We have to kick off this adventure together.
And then for the next three days, I will stalk her better than any obsessed fan. I will ask her with every other breath to tell me if she has to go. I will celebrate successes and deal with failures.
I will spend more time contemplating her pees and poops than any sane person should ever have to.
Because, after five plus years and over $5000 worth of money, I want to be free.
I want my life to be free from demon diapers.
DEMON! BE GONE!
And may the gods have mercy on my soul.
I'm gonna need it.