hey, I'm still working on this... I'm busy! keep coming back, it'll be done when this note disappears. And Everett turns 18. or something.
October 29, 2005 - the huge, inconceivably difficult, long, drawn-out potty training post -
We've been "working" on this potty-training thing for nearly a year now, or maybe an entire year. And I've learned a lot, it's been entirely frustrating, and it's not even over yet. I now have so firmly subscribed the the idea of potty training boot camp - I can't remember whose idea was it, maybe Jen's? or Stefania's? Either way, I'm sure we'll all be sending all future children.
We started talking about potty training when Everett was not-yet-two-and-a-half and I was hoping to get him into preschool ASAP. All the preschools I'd identified as my favorites, though, mandated potty training for their kids. While the definition of potty training varied - from "he's had one poop in the potty, once" to "mostly completely trained" - we were nowhere. Zero. Zilch.
We'd already obtained a potty, a potty seat that fits on the toilet, a potty book, and various anecdotes and stories of children potty trained at enormously young ages. Willow, his precocious friend three months his junior, had already pooped on the potty, lots. (She subsequently regressed thanks to the birth of her baby brother... but that comes in later.)
What I knew, from reading books and all those uber-helpful web sites, and from everyone who'd been there, was that potty training can't be forced. Kids just have to train when they're ready. What I also knew: stressful life events can delay potty training. Hmmm, what's stressful you ask? Maybe... a parent being gone for several months in basic training. Maybe... a pregnant mother. Maybe... a pregnant mother on bed rest. Maybe... said parent returning from training and causing a shift in the level of discipline. Maybe... a new baby being born. Etc.
So here's how it started. We began by introducing the tools (potty chair next to the toilet, penis, the promise of future Very Cool Underwear) and describing the coolness of the potty-going. We read books and told Everett how many great benefits would be associated with successful potty trainers. Preschool, with all its attendant mysteries and fun times. Unimaginable treats on a heretofore-undiscovered frequency. Special events. Bigness. Happiness of the whole family.
We read books, we made interesting little asides about his friends who were using the potty. We named all the parts appropriately (no "willy" or "weewee" or "peeper" for us, nosirree). We called the pee, pee, and the poop, poop. We worked on not assigning shame or punishment for his failure to, thus far, use that vaunted potty successfully. We worked on Not Making A Big Deal Of It. While at the same time, making a big deal of it. We did everything you're supposed to do.
And then we, essentially, waited. With frequent reminders. "Do you want to try to sit on the potty?" I'd ask, as Everett joined me in the bathroom (he's never far from me, that Everett). "Wouldn't it be fun?"
No, he didn't want to try, and no, it wouldn't be fun. From time to time, he'd go for a stint of sitting on the potty two, three days in a row. I'd take his diaper off and he'd sit. And sit, and sit, and giggle, and play with his penis (which he noticed, looked like an elephant! and it did, kind of, starting a family joke over our reluctance to use cute names for the ele- I mean, penis). This went on for months. He was never interested in buying underwear. He never peed, pooped, or otherwise deposited waste into the toilet (unless you count the occasional passing of gas, giggles all around).
At some point, I gave up, and stopped trying. Until, that is, the summer came. Truman was several weeks old. It seemed that the time was ripe. I wanted Everett in preschool. He was almost three years old. Why not go cold turkey?
Every morning for several days (this was a little while after his third birthday), I asked Everett if he'd like to just leave his diaper off. On the fourth or fifth day, he agreed. We set up the potties - the potty chair in the living room and the potty seat insert at the ready on the toilet upstairs. And do you know what? It worked.
Kind of.
He peed in his potty. Sometimes. And as long as he was kept totally naked from the waist down (and, usually, the waist up, as well). Put a pair of shorts on him, with or without the cool new underwear, and he'd pee almost as fast as the elastic hit his waist. He'd go a whole day remembering to pee in the potty, in his naked state, and I'd be so happy. And then I'd put his shorts on, we'd head somewhere - to the coffee shop, to church - and as soon as I'd gotten comfortable and stopped asking if he had to go to the potty for two minutes, there he'd be, a huge puddle of pee around his feet. And these puddles? They were gigantic. I suppose it was the easy access to the ground provided by his loose summer clothing. I also wondered if he wasn't saving up for these potty-free times. Storing up the pee for maximum shoe-soaking and mom-embarrassing ability.
And the poop?
The poop generally was deposited on the floor, much to my chagrin and expense in paper towels and disinfectant spray. He pooped on the back porch. He pooped on the living room floor. He pooped on the rug. He pooped on my quilt in the "yoga room." He pooped everywhere.
