The Perils of Potty-Training

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend January 21, 2008


With brilliant foresight, our youngest and eldest children were born nearly fifteen years apart. Many people congratulate us on timing things so that the babysitters are built-in. But this timing also necessitates teaching the one to drive while training the other how to use the toilet. Stop being silly. You know which kid is learning what. Either way, I live in fear that one of them might “have an accident.”


 I have potty-trained five kids. I chant this to myself like those little motivational cheers that consultants charge hundreds of thousands of dollars to teach to corporate cubicleoids. (Cubicleoid: a lifeform that dwells in cubicles, typically on weekdays, 9 to 5.) The consultant comes in. Everyone drops their meetings and schedules and whatever real work is normally accomplished in between the two. The consultant teaches everyone to hold a polished stone and meditate while releasing negative energy into it. By week’s end, that stone is holding so much negative energy that the cubicleoid is fantasizing lobbing one Sacred Soothing Stone at the unsatisfiable boss’s head or pushing it down the throat of the catty coworker who keeps stealing the credit.


So I chant this refrain, “I have potty-trained five kids.” I do not hold any stones. I do not pay $5,000. Those five have remained potty-trained. (Won’t that impress their friends at school?) Why am I having trouble with this youngest, my sixth trainee and most recent graduate of Mama Ribeiro’s Potty Training Academy?


The problem couldn’t have been the timing. He had just turned two. Ever since he was sitting up at six months old, whenever I knew he needed to go, I would hold him on the potty insert that fits right on the toilet seat. (I hate to admit it, but my husband was the one who discovered these $10-wonders years ago and came home with one for each bathroom. You would not appreciate this restraint unless you knew how gadget-happy this man is…ask him to bring bread from the store, and he brings bread AND a breadmaker. If you see him in the grocery store, you will know things are dire at home. Please feel free to reach over and remove any electronic items from the basket. I will thank you later.) Who wouldn’t want to trade bundling up a bio-hazardous diaper for a quick flush? This March, three members of our household were overcoming the flu, so we were already isolated, homebound, and contending with germs. What better time to potty-train?


Since he already knew what to do, things went very well, and within days, we were done with diapers. I got the best tips from my sister-in-law years ago. She always made sure her tots were well hydrated during the training period (not that she let them shrivel otherwise, but it is harder to get results), and she set her microwave timer for thirty minutes. Every half hour, we visited the toilet. That’s right, you might as well cancel your other plans – you are not going anywhere or getting anything else done in those 29 minutes in between.


There is a very anti-sugar contingency in mothering. Let it be known that I store all kinds of treats and bribes to get a kid to the toilet. I used to give them only as a reward, but with this latest model I found it was easier to show him an M&M and walk toward the bathroom. He could have one just for sitting there, and a couple more if he actually peed. The Pavlovian pee-pee response to seeing M&Ms is now so strong, I am afraid to take him through the grocery store checkout.


And speaking of going anywhere, those first outings are an exercise in tenuous, tension-filled brevity. Any location you visit, especially those without public restrooms, will be met with the happy announcement from your little one, “I hafta go to the bafroom.” What can you do? You are held hostage by that tiny bladder, and I have the cowardly philosophy in public: “Better safe than soggy.” You comply with every request while they wield their newfound Power of the Pee. When you walk into the store next-door just twenty seconds later, look upon the shining face of your little one. They cannot resist checking out the facilities, no matter how many times you have to plead with a clerk to find yourself scrambling over boxes of inventory to get to the Employees Only restroom.


Recently I had taken my two youngest to the play area at McDonald’s. I know we are not supposed to admit to feeding our kids there, but the French Fries do have an addictive quality and when the weather is not its best, they can still enjoy running around in the company of other children. Until Bladder Boy sounds his call, that is. Then you pick up your belongings, get the kids to locate their shoes and put them back on. Like any assemble-it-yourself project, this always sounds easier on paper. You make the dash all the way around the building to the other side (where it dawns on you that the play area must have been an afterthought) where the ladies room is.


The little one, after all that effort, produces about 5 ml of liquid. You are caught between needing to praise him for his efforts but wanting to punch him because of all yours. Don’t worry; the maternal side wins. But by the fifth trip around the building during the 90-minute stay, the maternal side is getting dangerously weaker. You find yourself yanking the other child in sock-feet through the obstacle course of yellow easels warning of the odd spill. You find yourself a little less thrilled by this teaspoonful. You find yourself packing up to go home.


All this can lead you to long to return to the Day of the Diaper, which is the philosophy behind Pull-ups, which is why I never bought them…until recently, for the convenience, I suppose. But the message that a Pull-up sends is completely contrary to the message sent by pee-pee running down the legs. I just wanted to avoid dealing with that particular broadcast message. But I have re-realized that the sooner I get rid of the Pull-ups and we end this on-again, off-again relationship, the sooner my youngest son will be totally trained. Until then, all I have to do is resume my little chant and avoid public places.