The Secret to Potty Training

I have it.  Are you ready?  Are you ready for this revolutionary information?  READY?!?!?!

Here it is:  Your kid will be potty trained when s/he is good and damn ready.  The end.

I know.  Shit, fuck, goddamnit, that's what all the other books and doctors and Google were saying.  I THOUGHT YOU WERE DIFFERENT!!!!

Well, friend, so did I.  Until I had kids of my own.  And tried to potty train them.  And they had other plans.  And it turns out some of my friends' kids had other plans, too.  And then I went, "Well, shit.  This is not going at all as planned.  It's as though these little bastards have minds of their own!"

And they do.  They so, so do.  And, while you'd think that they wouldn't have such rock solid control over their bodily functions and how not to use them, they so, so do.

And so... potty training doesn't always go like you thought it would.  Sometimes it does!!!  (And to those people, I say congratulations!  And pppppffftttttppt.)  But very often it doesn't.  And then we, the parents, feel like giant failures who have failed our kids and failed ourselves and fail, fail, fail.
(Oh.  You don't feel that way?  Well, then you are remarkably reasonable.  Congratulations.  I FAILED.)


There are a billion and one methods and a billion and one philosophies and all of them work.  On the right kid at the right time.  You can pick and choose whatever you like.  Best of luck to ya.  But, apart from the actual potty training method itself, there are a great many other parts to this equation.  And we can not leave these out.

Here are the top 4:

#1. Parents.
Parents can be trained.  Parents can be trained really, really well.  Parents can be trained to take their kid to the potty every 30 minutes, or to begin putting their child on the potty at 6 months, or to recognize that look and rush them to the toilet in the middle of chopping raw chicken.  Or to precisely follow the directions in any potty training book on the planet.  And all of that is super great and awesome and uber-effective.  Except that training ourselves doesn't equal a trained child who can recognize the need to go and then go in the toilet.  Eventually it might!  But probably not right away.  So, if you're willing to be in for the long haul and be trained yourself first, do it.  All of these methods will absolutely work.  On the right kid.  At the right time.

#2. Kids.
Hey, did you know these things came with such wildly different needs and personalities?  Did you know they reached milestones in such different ways and on different time lines?  Did you know that, sometimes, they can CONTROL when they meet these milestones?  Like, they're in charge?  THEY'RE IN CHARGE?!?  We're all fucked.

#3. Fear.
Some kids are actually frightened to go to the bathroom in the potty.  Some kids feel ownership over what they "created" and are bummed about flushing it away.  Some kids don't want to stop being babies, and potty training is a clear sign o' the end of that road.  Some kids have painful poop and are frightened of the actual act of pooping... and trying to do it in a new place in a new way is just too much.  

#4. Health/Genetics/Diet.
Sometimes other things come into play.  Some kids take a little longer to recognize the actual feeling of having to go to the bathroom.  Some kids have health issues, like constipation.  Some kids diets are weird because they refuse to eat anything that grew from the ground, or will only eat white food, or hate whole grains.  The genetics and health and diet of the child play a HUGE role in potty training and all of these things can hold it up a good, long time.  Be prepared for this.  And try not to be too pissed off about it.

There's a lot that goes into this.  It's kind of a miracle anyone ever gets potty trained, actually.


Anyhoo, none of this is to say that you have to wait until they saunter up to you one day and say, in perfectly clear English, "Pardon me, Parent Dear, but I do believe I'm prepared to utilize the toilet at this juncture.  Please pass Anna Karenina. "  Cause if you're still willing to change your kid's diaper and wipe his or her butt, that day might never come.  Your kid ain't dumb, friend.  S/he knows that kind of personal service won't roll around again for a good 70 years.

Listen, if your child is developmentally ready and you are mentally prepared to take on this mighty adventure we call Potty Training, then by all means, get 'er done!  Pick your method and run with it!  It'll totally work!!!  (IF your kid is ready.)



I know.  This was no help at all.  I'm sorry.  You had high hopes.  We all did.  I failed.  AGAIN.

Look.  Here's the thing.  I jest and make fun and laugh and act all apocalyptic about potty training because potty training can be one of the most confusing, frustrating, embarrassing experiences of parenthood.  Or it can be super easy and awesome and exciting.  YOU NEVER KNOW.  Because, hey!  Guess what?!?

The kid will go when the kid is ready to go.  The end.

****

Best of luck to those beginning this Potty Journey.  Don't stop believin'.

And hang in there, comrades in Potty Hell.  We will all be done changing nasty, dumptastic diapers one day.  One day soon.  And our houses will no longer smell like feces.  Damn it.

Just To Make Things Clear...

Dear Little One,

It seems we have a bit of a misunderstanding here.  I apologize for any confusion.  Let me try to clear a few things up.

I want you to know that changing your diaper is in no way an attempt to murder or dismember you.  I am not trying to kill you, maim you, torture you, or upset you in any way.  I am merely attempting to rid the room of the foul stench you have produced, while simultaneously attempting to keep your bum happy and rash-free.

You seem to have come to the conclusion that diaper change = attempted murder.  Let me be clear: I AM NOT TRYING TO HURT YOU.  I swear.  No harm intended.  Just want to get a clean diaper on you and wipe up any mess.  So, if you could please refrain from shrieking and writhing as though I'm jabbing you with hot pokers, I think you could save us both a lot frustration and heartbreak.  And a neighbor call to CPS.  Which would be awkward.

Thank you.
Love,
Mama

IDIOTS

There is something special about parenthood that makes even the most confident among us feel like complete idiots.  That unique something: kids.

There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out.  You've read all the books and poured over all the research.  OR you've worked with kids your entire life.  OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life.  OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day.  OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does.  You got this.  You're ready.  You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that.  Or that.  Your kids will never behave that way.  You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.

And then you have kids.

The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become.  I had seen such things and my children would never,  ever behave that way in public.  Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo.  I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist.  I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly.  One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor.  Yes, woman I've never met.  Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation.  As will teaching him fart jokes.  Thank you.

Ugh.  It was completely humiliating.  And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen.  What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening.  I was caught completely off-guard.  We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old.  Everything had been fine.  Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all.  And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.

As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding.  They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door).  I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three."  And then I smiled a great big giant smile.  Good luck, ladies!

Because I knew I couldn't warn them.  They wouldn't believe me!  Not their kids.  Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty.  Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans.  What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out.  Or until we die.  Why do we not learn?  It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation.  You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh.  Plans, schmans.  You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon.  Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.

Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet.  Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time.  The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends.  None of us are right.  We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids.  We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard.  But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner?  sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.

My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived.  I was that mother.  Whatever.

Those Days

You know how sometimes you look around and you're like, "Is this my life?" and then you realize, "Yes, this is my life," and then you want to crawl in a hole for 2 months?  Yeah.  That.

The past few days have been those kinds of days.  They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack.  Shockingly, things are not going well.

Yesterday:  Nothing went smoothly.  Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles.  All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet).  Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied.  Time outs were had.  Much whining occurred.  This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them.  Because then there's the guilt.  Why can't I handle this?  And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother.  Who then also screamed.  And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm.  Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.

Today:  A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama.  Four time outs before 10:30 a.m.  And then there were two more before lunch.  My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time.  To his baby brother.  While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning.  I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof).  I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable.  Lost on both counts.  And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour.  This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.

People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.

(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this.  You better have 'em, people.  YOU BETTER.  I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)

Pffffttt.  I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me.  All I know is that I am not a fan.  NOT.

I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons.  AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE.  I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better.  I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life.  I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore.  I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day.  I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them.  But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier.  I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything.  I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not.  But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now.  I'm tired.

Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape.  Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V.   Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.

Ahhh.... simpler times.  I'd like those.

Please tell me you have days like these.

Hands-Free Parenting

Motherhood requires a MINIMUM of two functional hands.  Or extremely dexterous feet.  Whichever.  Really, it requires nine or ten hands, but unless you are a Hindi deity, you're stuck with the usual two like the rest of us.

But then something like this happens:

And then you are fucked.

Because now you only have one hand, and one hand is NOT ENOUGH.

At first you think, "Damn.  I cut myself and may or may not need stitches, which is really a bitch since I'm home alone with sleeping children.  I'm sure I can stop the bleeding."  Forty five minutes later you think, "I'm pretty sure the bleeding is slowing down a bit, but that is a rather gaping slice on my hand.  Perhaps I should ask someone about that."  And then you try to eat something because it's now 9pm and you're bloody and hungry.

I did ask someone about that, and thanks to a kind and loving doctor friend (who said stitches might have actually been helpful), my hand is stuck back together with Steri-Strips.  After one week, it's finally, FINALLY starting to heal.  However, for future reference: getting kicked in the wound every time you change a diaper does NOT speed healing.  Good to know.  In the meantime, I've learned how to diaper, open jars, shower, carry groceries and babies and turkeys simultaneously, and generally function with only one and half hands.  It's tough and very often hurts like a bitch, but it's doable.

In the meantime, I'm steering clear of knives and practicing diapering with my feet just in case this ever happens again.  Wish me luck!

Wrastlin' Octopi!!

Ever tried to wrestle an octopus?  Me neither, but I imagine it's something like trying to change the diaper of an eight month old baby.  A baby who has recently discover locomotion and feels he should be locomoting at ALL TIMES.  (Yes, I know that's not a verb.  I'm doing it anyway.  Suck it.)  I'm pretty sure it's frowned upon to hold your baby down with your forearm whilst trying to wrench his body back down to the changing mat in order to keep poop from getting EVERYWHERE, but it happens.  It happens a lot. It might happen every day.  Like, maybe 4 or 5 times a day.  Maybe.  I'm just saying, sometimes a mommy has to do what a mommy has to do.

And sometimes that means wrestling an octopus.

Don't judge me.