Welcome to Whimsical Wednesday, where laughter gets us through the week!
Yesterday, my daughter changed her own diaper.
It occurs to me that this is a sign of her readiness to potty train, and yet I cringe at the very thought of it.
I am no good at potty training. Why do I say I am not good at it? Because I know that I am not good at it.
For instance, we tried the immersion method with Squeaker (our daughter) once before. We bought her underwear of her choice and announced the special day that would be potty training day.
Squeaker proudly wore her underwear and sat on the potty every 20 minutes for about two hours with no success. Considering all the juice she had been drinking, I knew we would need to “go” at any minute so I was trying to watch her closely. But, the minutes ticked by and I got distracted.
Squeaker climbed into a dinette chair and sat down for lunch. She took a bite of her food and released her bladder all in one simultaneous motion. I yelled, “Squeak, you’re wet.”
With a bit of sandwich hanging out of her mouth, she climbed out of her chair, swooshed her hand across the seat spraying pee all over the floor, shook her hand off, climbed back into the chair and resumed eating.
After we washed everything, the diapers came back into being.
Now, this in itself is not enough to scare me out of potty training. No, this is a small blip on the radar. The real root of fear was planted with our first born.
Enter Bug, our son.
At 2 years of age, we tried everything with him. Nothing worked. He simply did not want to go on the potty, so I let it go.
One day, I took Squeaker (who was still in an infant carrier) and Bug to meet a friend and her kids at the library. As we walked into the lobby, Bug announced his immediate need to use the potty.
I was speechless. I looked at my friend for guidance.
“Well, you have to take him.” She said.
“But, I don’t have the diaper bag.”
So, leaving Squeaker with her, I ran Bug to the nearest restroom yelling all the way, “Hold it son, hold it, we’re almost there, hold it!”
Into the restroom and into a stall we went. Now mind you, I had to carefully remove the diaper so we could reuse it as I had nothing with me. Careful not to touch the inside of the diaper to the dirty floor, I laid it on the ground. And of course I’m yelling all the while “Hold it son, no don’t touch that…no, don’t put your hand in the water….Son! Just wait on me.”
Finally, I get the boy on the potty and he says, “Oh, I don’t have to go.”
You don’t have to go? Boy, you better squeeze something out.
Trying to win the good mommy of the year award, I bite my tongue….lift Bug carefully off the potty seat, replace old diaper and re-dress him. It was sometime during this process that a strange image flashed across my mind. What was that weird thing on the wall by the sinks.
That’s when it hit me. That’s right. It was a urinal.
Okay, I say to myself, this is a bad dream. That wasn’t a urinal. We really are in the right restroom. Just in case we’ll sneak…….
Nope. No sneaking. At this point someone turned on the water and started to wash their hands. I was cornered and Bug was getting antsy.
Out of the stall we walk only to be caught like a deer in headlights in the glare of a man whose expression could only be described as “Oh dear Lord, I am going to jail!”
The worst part is, he started looking around to make sure he wasn’t in the wrong restroom.
Now, you would think I would quickly slink out of the restroom, leave the library and never step foot in there again. But, you have to understand that I am very OCD and my 2 year old had just touched a toilet. We had to wash our hands. So, standing at the sink, next to the man, I wash my son’s hands and apologize profusely trying to plead my case.
“He had to go.” I said.
The man finished washing his hands and backed his way out of the restroom, never taking his eyes off of us.
With head bowed in disgrace, I exited the restroom to the sounds of my friend’s hysterical laughter.
So yes, potty training is terrifying and with child #2 ready to take the potty plunge, I grit my teeth and pray that at least part of my dignity remains intact after the ensuing battle.