Bigger Picture Moment: Biting The Potty Training Bullet

Warning: This post contains such terrifying topics as toddler-poop and mama-avoidance.  I apologize in advance.

You know what I've been dreading for months now?  The task I've been ignoring and putting off and placing on the back burner due to my own reluctance?  My own laziness? 

Potty training. 

Yes, I've already successfully navigated this slippery, treacherous slope with one child, but that's what's been scaring me so much: last time was not easy.  There were battles of will, disgustingly sloppy accidents, and...um...more disgustingly sloppy accidents. 

I don't want to clean poo.  I just don't want to. 

But this time around, with Lauren, potty training has been an entirely different experience.  For one thing, she's pretty much initiated the process herself.  One day several weeks ago, she refused to wear clothes, stripping down to her bare skin -- no diaper.  Since she demanded nakedness, I sat her down and had a talk with her.  (As much of a talk as one can carry on with a 2-year-old.)  I told her that if she wasn't going to wear a diaper, she had to make sure she didn't pee on the floor.  She walked around naked for days repeating the mantra of "We DON'T pee-pee on the floor!" and shaking her head with gusto.  For the most part, she did well.  There was one spectacular afternoon in which I found her standing on a kitchen chair, concerned and curious about the pile of (ugh) poo at her feet, but those instances of extra-diaperial evacuation have been rare.

Furthermore, she's excited to use the potty.  She watches her sister and wants to be part of that club so badly that she'll simply follow her into the bathroom for a marathon session of pooping/playing.  (For the record, I'm completely fine with being excluded from this club.  I prefer...fresher...venues for meetings.)  She knows the ropes, and it's not a frightening process like it was for Mia.  Mia was the trailblazer, so Lauren walks on a blazed trail.  She's immune to the potty-fear that overcame her big sister. 

But most of all, what I've discovered with Lauren's foray into the great culture of Potty Land is that there is a difference in me.  Yes, I've avoided potty training.  Still, I do know what I'm doing this time.  (Sort of.)  I know what rewards will motivate my child to use the potty when she's otherwise invested in playing right through all her body's cues.  I've learned that I can't expect her to tell me she needs to use the potty -- I have to mandate regular potty breaks.  I understand how to pick up a pile of poop without letting any part of it touch my fingers lest I be forced to cut off my own hand.  (I've learned how to make inappropriate jokes about fecal matter.) 

And most importantly, I've learned that potty training isn't something to fear.  It's something to plow through when my child is ready (absolutely no sooner).  It's something exciting.  Especially when it's over, which it almost is in our house.  Lauren has been mostly clean and dry for more than a week.  (Party on potty people.)

What I didn't consider at the outset of this process is that potty training is different with every child.  The same way everything is different with every child.  I'm glad for the reminder, yet again.


Link up your own Bigger Picture Moment this week with Hyacynth at Undercover Mother.  We'd love to hear about the moments -- big or small -- that led you to focus on the important things in life: The Bigger Picture.

This Is So, So Gross

It's been an unrealistic fear, hidden in the recesses of my mind, that something like this would happen one day.

And now the day has come. The fearsome thing has happened.

It goes like this:

When Mia was in diapers, we used a Diaper Genie to hide her beastly productions. We shoved that thing full of all manner of nastiness, knowing we'd have to empty it later, but enduring the task for a lack of better options. And when we'd open it to be emptied later, well, it wasn't a fun job. It was the most malodorous, stinking heap of wadded up plastic and balled up diapers you could ever hope (or NOT hope) to encounter. I think I withered a few brain cells trying to empty it while holding my breath, choosing the more pleasant way to dizzy myself: from asphyxiation rather than odoriferocity (I'm sure that's a word, right?). Plus, the liners required to make the gadget work seemed far too expensive.

So, I wasn't a fan of the Diaper Genie.

When Lauren came along, I banned the Genie from the nursery. I preferred to walk to the garage and place the dirty diaper directly into the trash bin, a practice that became a contentious point between Justin and I. Because I became lazy about it. I'd toss the wadded-up, taped-down diaper down the garage steps or down to the garage doors where the trash bin waited, being too lazy or BUSY with the business of motherhood to walk all the way to the bin, lift the lid, and throw the diaper in.

Sometimes, though, a wayward fantastical nightmare scenario would flit across my consciousness about the possible downfall of my chosen diaper removal method. In scenario A, the diaper would be flying down the length of the garage, on its way to the floor beside the trash bin, when the tapes would inexplicably come loose, unleashing the contents of the heavily soiled diaper all over our car, our recycling bins, and our lawn chairs, before entirely exploding when it landed on the floor. Horrific to imagine. Improbable, but horrific. I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario.

In scenario B, a diaper would be flung down to the trash bin end of the garage by my admittedly bad throwing arm, landing under the back of our vehicle instead of in its intended resting place, and be forgotten about until it was run over by the back wheel of our SUV, SPLOOFing its smashed contents on the cement floor before being smudged all over our tires or dragged across our garage. And while I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario as well, I also underestimated my ability to remember when I'd mis-thrown a diaper.

Which happened the other morning. There was a hidden diaper, fouled and filled, languishing directly behind our rear tire.

Justin started the car...the girls were buckled safely into their carseats...I was nestled happily into the passenger side...Justin backed the car out of the garage...

SPLOOF.

Contents. Smashed on the cement floor. Shot out both sides of a day-old diaper.

And away we drove. Never again to return.

Except, we had to return. We did rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to clean up the mess.

The winner (loser!?) is still rocking himself in the fetal position, trying to eradicate the nightmares from his delicate mind.

Potty training should probably now be amped up to full throttle.

Peace be with you.

This Is The Thanks I Get?

We've been pretty lucky on the potty training front. (I can't believe I just said that out loud! Quick - throw some salt over your shoulder!) (What?) Mia's been trained for close to a year now, and we've only had a handful of accidents. They've cropped up when she's been too excited to take time away from the fun, or when I haven't been diligent in asking if she needs to go. Very rarely, she's had an accident in the middle of the night.

Such as last night.

After calming her cries and assuring her that this was no big deal, I stripped off her wet jammies, getting myself soaked in the process. I wiped her down with a warm washcloth and dressed her in dry jammies, laying her on a pillow on the floor while I worked. I quickly changed her sheets, switched out the blankets, and tried not to notice the pee that had gotten on my own pajamas. I'd have to change, too. I piled the wet clothes and bedding in the bathroom to be dealt with in the morning, and scrubbed my own hands free of the urine smell they'd absorbed. Then, I tucked her back into a clean, soft bed. I leaned down and kissed her face, snuggling for just a moment before saying goodnight.

So grateful was she for my midnight service that she looked up at me with sleepy eyes and mumbled:

"Someone has the yucky! It's not me, mama, it must be you! You need to go brush your teeth, OK?"

I just nodded on my way out the door, and went to change my clothes. Clothes that were soaked through with my precious baby's urine. I walked past the pile of stinking bedding, wondering how lucky one mom can be.

I get to have urine-interrupted sleep, followed by midnight insults.

Woo.

But how weird am I, that I love this pee-soaked, nighttime crying, morning-breathed life?

Don't answer that.

Kids Are Awesome

As we were walking out of the food court from our fabulous trip to the mall last week, there was a busload of kids tromping through the place, headed for the restrooms. 50 or so adolescents waited in a raucous line for their turns in the lav. (This is totally a blind estimate; I'm so bad at estimating that it may as well have been 300 kids for all I know. So to sum up, there were pre-teens...they were rowdy...there were more than 10 of them...they stunned me into a lack of estimating ability. Carry on.)

Mia chose this moment to let me in on a secret. Well, me and the thousands of school kids around us. (Bad estimates are giving way to blatant exaggeration. Proceed.)

"Mama, I need to go pee-pee!" she yelled to me over all the hubbub.

Staring at the mulling crowd of kids, I could see no possibility of waiting in the back of that line for a few minutes of toilet time.

"We need to wait until we get home sweetie, do you think you can hold it for that long?"

In following with the amazingly good behavior she'd been using that day, she told me very nicely that, yes, she could hold it. I looked down to smile at her polite tone of voice (I try to encourage this tone since it's sometimes hard to come by...), and that's when I noticed how literally she'd taken my words.

She was, in fact, holding herself. Carefully covering her privates with her free hand, she looked up at me proudly. I tried to convince her that she didn't need to actually hold on, but she insisted that she'd do exactly what I'd asked of her. Plus, I couldn't get my point across right, what with all the adolescents listening in. I didn't want to start speaking biologically correct in those surroundings, so I sounded something like this..."No, I don't mean you have to hold yourself, just hold in your pee-pee. Wait, don't hold your pee-pee, just HOLD it. Like, wait to let it out. Oh, for the love of pity, just...never mind. You can hold it. Let's go FASTER. NO! Don't GO, just WALK, I mean."

And so we walked, in the midst of approximately ONE MEELLION pre-teen youth. (This is really getting out of hand. But my estimator is jammed with silly baby stories, and I can't stop it's unbelievable output.) Three girls: one kicked back in a stroller, one holding her pee-pee parts, and one pink cheeked mama, all dodging an entire universe of students blocking our path.

A conversation...

that could be overheard in the busy greeting card section of Target this morning:

Me: Mia, stay close to me, sweetie.

Mia: 'I'm singing...singing...I don't know...it's just trouble...nahneenahnee...I think I am...'

Me: Mia, do you like this card for your friend?

Mia: 'Nahnee...tea...a drop of olden some....'

Me: Mia, stop singing for a minute and answer my question please.

Mia: Mama, I....I NEED TO GO POO POO!

Me: (Hustling her away from the stares.) Where did your daddy go?

It's on her mind lately

Last night when Justin got home from work, Mia was so excited that she immediately began outlining the fun things she wanted him to do with her. This is normal.

Apparently, I'm not rambunctious enough. Which is fine with me, but poor Justin gets bombarded with games the second he walks through the door. Only last night was even more urgent because he had been sick all weekend, so the hyper playing had been missing for several days.

Before he even got thru the door, Mia was yelling all the games she wanted to play: stand on your hand, throw you, chase you, pillows. Justin said, "OK, OK! But I need to go to the bathroom first, and I have to go NOW!"

Mia called after him, "Don't go pee in your pants Daddy!"

Ever helpful, that one.