Family Friday
Although other children reportedly approach potty-training with gusto, some from a very early age, my two older kids never displayed a warm and instantaneous rapport with the toilet. So understandably, my husband and I have not rushed gladly into the third and final round of potty-training we now face.
To add another layer of angst, my environmentally-conscious husband has agonized about the Pampers we have consumed over the years. So when our third child was born, he ordered some diaper-like product with a flushable component, a reusable vinyl liner, and an adorable cloth outer layer. On my first day home from the hospital, my mother and I watched as my husband demonstrated its correct use.
Standing over the toilet, he tossed in the yucky part, then, like an Arctic seal hunter, began to poke it with a specially designed stick:
"OK, now you (stab, stab) just have to put it in there like this (stab, stab), then use this (stab, stab), break it apart (stab, stab), then make sure you've got all the pieces separated (stab, stab), then what you do…"
By avoiding eye contact, my mom and I managed to get through this without giggles. Nevertheless, the procedure did not catch on, and our youngest child ended up as Pampered as the other two.
Now, with our carbon footprints deepening each day, my husband and I (and even the older two!) have repeatedly approached our little guy, armed with Thomas the Tank Engine underwear and an enormous bag of M&Ms, and talked up the joys of toilet mastery. All conversations, however, have deviated little from the following:
"Danny, do you want to wear big-boy underwear?"
"Yes!"
“Do you like M&Ms?”
"Yes! Yes! My favorite!"
"OK, then let's sit on the potty."
"Noooooo!"
Clearly ready for some progress (especially now that I've eaten most of the M&Ms), my husband has purchased a product called "Tinkle Targets," available in sports, construction, and transportation themes.
"What? No Disney princesses?" I exclaim.
"Since when do you aim?" my husband retorts.
The package issues a rather stern warning, emphasizing that Tinkle Targets are teaching tools, not toys. Only a competent adult, it adds, should even consider plopping one of these in the toilet.
Obviously, this is all serious business. And I'm sure our drop-dead date of September, when Danny starts Little Montessori Preschool in the Suburbs, will approach faster than expected. Many other moms from his older siblings' classes have suggested sending him to the school's summer camp just prior to the school year. "Just give him a week with Miss Gertrude," they say. "That's all he needs – problem solved! She's amazing!"
Miss Gertrude? Miss Gertrude? Seriously? Miss Gertrude is The Enforcer, the one who strides forward when you are late for afternoon pickup ($1 fine per minute). "Four dollars!" she snaps, and even the most Type-A Washington power parents wordlessly whip out their wallets. In short – Miss Gertrude scares the crap out of the parents (and even some of the staff). But maybe that's the point.
And let's view this from Danny's perspective: would I want Miss Gertrude staring at me in that situation? What does she do? What does she say? ("Do it! Now!") No one seems to know – it's almost as if the end justifies the means, whatever those means may be.
To be fair, however, Miss Gertrude doesn't frighten any of the kids, even the real boo-hoo-ers (of which Little Montessori Preschool in the Suburbs has no shortage). And if her methods truly instilled any lasting potty complexes, we undoubtedly would have heard about it by now.
Still, I did learn something from my older two kids, and that is...they'll start when they're good and ready, and not a moment sooner. Ultimately, M&Ms, Thomas underwear, and my child's own internal readiness will surely trump any need for Potty Boot Camp with Miss Gertrude.
When the giant diaper boxes, misplaced coupons, and environmentally toxic stink-bombs are out of our lives for good, my husband will breathe easier. On one level, of course, I will too. But at the same time, I know I'll feel a slight tug on my heartstrings, as I realize that I will never, ever be mother to a baby again. Ouch!
Where are those M&Ms, anyway?
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