While our granddaughter, the Little Princess, is perfect in every other way, it appears she needs to acquire a certain skill set not currently in her arsenal. In short, she needs to be, to put it delicately, housebroken.

She's well on her way to accomplishing that task. In fact, the only drawback appears to be that she insists on having a book to look at while she, well, ah, uses her own personal child-sized version of the facilities. I, for one, see nothing wrong with that. However, it will be interesting to observe what happens the first time she wants to finish the article and her leg falls asleep. Not that I would know anything about that.

Since the Little Princess must have a duplicate of whatever she has at her home at her Vacation Getaway (also known as her grandparents' house), we are now the proud (-ish) owners of a pint-sized (perhaps literally) plastic frog potty. Why a frog, you ask? Why not?

And since there are only so many places you can store something like that (oh, I don't know, in a bathroom springs to mind), we also have one more thing we can add to the long, long list of items I can stumble over in the middle of the night.

Now, just because we own a tiny little, frog-themed commode doesn't mean I actually have to be involved in the educational process that surrounds it. Four kids; I've more than done my time. I mean, dude, I've seen some ... ya, you know.

But Tiny Throne's presence in my house (and, at about 5 a.m., my way) reminds me of all the "fun" elements of child-rearing I do not and will not miss.

For instance, I do not miss "sharing" with a toddler. Because there is no "sharing" with a toddler. Or there is, but only in the sense that Hitler "shared" Poland with its residents. Toddlers don't "share." They take. And let's be honest: After she's taken a bite and promptly dropped the ice cream cone, did you really want it back?

Along those lines, I do not miss being significantly involved in the feeding of a toddler. Because, while adults are clear that actually taking a bite of something pretty much ends the public elements of that particular food transaction, toddlers are, well, not so sure. Which is to say, if they don't like it, you're getting it back. Catch.

I don't miss the pink stuff, the purple stuff, the white stuff and the red stuff, all of which may not actually cure anything, but make for an interesting and long-lasting stain on a pair of dress pants. And not just because of that (though, it doesn't help). There is nothing worse than a sick child, and children operate in (and are) a virtual petri dish. So, you hate that they are sick. And, in just a little bit, you're going to hate that they made you sick. More of that "sharing."

I don't miss the mindless, endless, relentless repetition. I can, with uncanny accuracy, recite, verbatim, "Where the Wild Things Are," complete with a pretty mean version of the Wild Rumpus dance (a dance of my own creation. Think of a cross between the Mashed Potato and Twerking. Or, better yet, don't.). The Little Princess has seen "Frozen" more than the folks at Disney Studios. Despite the fact that, when you're young, it's a big, wide, wonderful world out there, why open yourself to new experiences when you can see a singing snowman for the 6,000th time or get your dad to dance while chanting "Rumpus, Rumpus, Rumpus."

I do not miss Tired Child. Because the shortest amount of time in nature are the milliseconds between "happy, bouncy playful baby," and "sleep-deprived tyrant." And let's not kid ourselves. Children are tyrants. Cute, cuddly, can't imagine a world without them tyrants, but tyrants nonetheless. Couple this with the fact that they as flexible as a steel beam and adaptable as your average dinosaur and even the slightest change in their schedule turns them from Light of Your Life to Grendel.

But there are a few things I do miss. The tiny hugs. The way they fit in your lap so nicely. The wonder. The joy. The carrying to bed and watching while they sleep. Heck, even sharing the S'mores. And the beauty of all that is, I get to do it again.

There's a tiny, frog-shaped potty in my bathroom. And you know what, maybe it doesn't look so bad in there.

GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.