Operation: Diaper Elimination

A Veteran Recounts Tales from the Front Lines of the War on Soiled Undergarments

I called my mom the other day to seek her advice on potty training, more specifically, I wanted to know how she handled my personal training regimen during her tenure as a young mother in the late ‘70s.  I cut right to the chase, no small talk.  I imagine this is standard procedure for any healthy 33 year old guy.  Her response was inconclusive and far from helpful:  “You did great, honey.”  While I appreciated the accolades, what I was really looking for is sage wisdom, maybe a cheat code...ideally, The Holy Grail.  While she couldn’t recall a single trick of the trade, she did share an anecdote or two.  Evidently, while sitting on Mom’s lap during a viewing of The Princess Bride at our local Cineplex, my sister opted to wet her pants instead of missing the part where Wesley reveals his identity.  Can’t say I blame her...great film, still holds up.  

According to research done by yours truly (an official Harvard study is pending), my amazing mother is not alone.  It seems that people who survive the rigors of potty training a child have virtually nothing to offer in the realm of helpful advice.  Once they’ve made it through the whole process, they’re like WWII Veterans - details from the experience seem to get blocked out by some sort of post-traumatic stress related defense mechanism, while other battle stories, vivid memories of pee soaked clothes, tears and frustration, are too painful to recap. 

That being said, there are some shell-shocked potty training veterans out there that do enjoy sharing their war stories and unsolicited advice.  Take the nice lady working the checkout line at the grocery store, for example.  We’ll call her Colombo, due to her inquisitive nature and sage ability to dissect a case.  As Colombo scrutinized the items I placed on the conveyor belt (diapers, wipes, baby yogurt, Elmo sticker books, diaper cream, lots of beer, Tylenol, etc.), she asked, “You got kids?”  I felt like saying, “Not yet…just getting the baby room ready in case I meet a nice lady who’s willing to procreate with me.”  But I was kind and opted to settle in for an interview.  “Yeah, I’ve got two little boys under the age of 3.”  “Twins?” she asked.  “Nope, just two dudes who aren’t quite three yet.  One’s teething; the other guy’s potty training.”  Colombo’s face lit up.  “And how’s that going?” (Note: At this point, she’s essentially taken herself off the clock.  She’s not ringing up any of my beer or diaper cream or anything.  She wants to chat.  A longer line of people started to form behind me and they seemed pretty irritated.  It was as if they didn’t even care about my kids.) “Well, teething’s going fine.  Potty training is a little bit tough.  We may have started a little too early.  I don’t know…” 

Jeez, WHY did I go into all that detail???  I could’ve simply said, “It’s going great.  I’ve got coupons.”  But NO, I didn’t.  It really is true what they say – everyone wants to tell their story.  And Colombo knows this, like any good detective would.  “Oh, C’mon!” she crowed.  She took off her glasses, leaned forward, and whispered: “Listen up, honey….”  The woman in line behind me (who was wearing a pretty amazing purple velour jumpsuit) rolled her eyes in such dramatic fashion that it could actually be heard.  Colombo didn’t care.  She continued along in an unnecessary whisper, intent on making her point.  “Kids KNOW when they’re ready, ya see?  It’s up to them.  So don’t you PUSH.” 

 

Well, easy for HER to say!  How rude!  I thought, “Lady, just give me my damn queso dip so I can get home and clean my pee soaked rugs, couches, stuffed animals, bath mats, and electronic devices.” Then I realized I said that out loud and I haven’t been back to that grocery store since.

Now, I wouldn’t say my wife and I were guilty of “pushing”.  At first, that is.  Our son initiated potty training by telling us, in so many words, that his diaper wouldn’t do and that it was high time he peed on a potty.  With that, we went from zero to 60 in a nanosecond and the over-encouraging began.  “Yes yes!!  DO go on the potty!  Diapers are for babies and really old people!  GREAT idea, buddy - pure genius.” 

We thought it would be easy.  I mean, the guy is telling us he’s ready; he’s practically begging.  We went out that day and bought what we thought were the necessary tools of the trade: cartoon-themed underwear, plastic underwear covers, 2 plastic kiddy toilets for upstairs and downstairs (One frog-shaped noise-making potty that praises the child for the conversion, and one stoic and silent European-looking Baby Bjorn model), and a sticker rewards chart (Elmo, a less-than-anatomically correct monster, gives your kid a thumbs up and a sticker for not wetting his pants).

With that, the campaign began.  And guess what?  It wasn’t easy AT ALL!  NO!  Turns out his request to start potty training was just a whim.  It was as if the guy hadn’t even thought things through.  Sorta irresponsible on his part, if you think about it.  No game plan?  No consideration of the hard work that goes into this sort of endeavor?  Bush league.  He needed constant reminders to visit the potty, or else wet pants were imminent.  When he did have an accident, he couldn’t have cared less.  Soaking himself just meant he got to put on new Spiderman underwear!  Hooray!  The plastic underwear covers?  He said, “No, thank you (read: screamed, refused to put them on.  I understood completely).”  The Elmo sticker chart?  He didn’t get into that at all, and we were probably bad about remembering to dish out the stickers since we were constantly busy cleaning up pee and running the washing machine.  Anyway, he already had sticker books to play with/destroy.  New underpants, featuring Toy Story characters or maybe even Batman and Robin, far outweighed the joy of receiving yet another sticker.  Anything that was remotely interesting, i.e. doing a puzzle, kicking a soccer ball, staring off into space, eating a snack, watching Little Einsteins, coloring, wrestling with his brother, etc., took precedence over paying a visit to the froggy potty. 

His Montessori school/daycare, they being staunch advocates of the potty training process, helped him along and kept up with the reminders.  Still, every day when I picked him up, there were four or five pee-soaked outfits waiting for me (wrapped in grocery bags, which reminded me of Colombo), and he was usually wearing his “backup shoes”.  At times he would even run out of the clothes we brought for him and he’d be wearing emergency clothes that the school kept on hand for cases such as these (see: stained sweatpants with the school’s name written in magic marker on the butt).  His regular shoes got so disgusting that they needed to be retired after just a few weeks.  The backup shoes met a similar fate.

 

We were losing the war.

 

So, what were we doing wrong?  Did we start too early?  Have we scarred the boy for life?  I turned to the Internet.  I wondered what the history of potty training might read like.  How was it handled by the women of the Oregon Trail?  Ancient Rome?  How did Mrs. June Cleaver handle things with The Beeve?  I Googled it: “History of Potty Training”.  It has its own Wikipedia page.  It’s incredibly short, but it’s there.  I would imagine that I’m the fifth person to ever read it.  Maybe I should’ve gone to a more specialized potty training website, a site more credible and appropriate than Wikipedia, but, what can I say?  I was caught up in the moment and I was desperate; shell-shocked, Saving Private Ryan-style, with blurred vision, cold sweats and an odd ringing in my ears.  Sadly, the Wiki page read just like I thought it might.  Essentially:  “Children started and finished potty training at an earlier age at the turn of the century.  That caused pretty nasty psychological issues.  Nowadays, it all does down between the ages of two and three.  Hang in there.  Sincerely, Wikipedia.org.”

Five months have passed now; a trail of tears, endless loads of laundry, and carpet cleaner.  That’s probably a long time, but I’m not sure.  Wikipedia didn’t say.  We’ve been hanging in there and he now seems to be making real progress.  What worked?  What’s changed?  Well, I don’t have much help to provide there, frankly.  You see, the war seems to be drawing to a close.  We may have won this one.  Many underpants were lost, many picnics were abandoned, and many fits of tears and rage were suffered by parent and child alike.  Honestly, I didn’t think my dude would be a 16-year old high school junior making puddles on the gym class floor, but I didn’t think it would take this long, either.  We stayed on top of things and we reminded him and reminded him again to visit the potty until he was completely annoyed with us.  That may have set us back, I don’t know.  I imagine that, eventually, the thrill of putting on new underpants wore off and the humility of creating a mess pushed him towards taking the initiative to visit the potty without reminders.  He seems to have figured it out.  He’s ready on his own terms.  Colombo was right.

As I write this, we are working on a 127 hour accident-free streak.  My wife and I are giddy.  I haven’t been this excited about a streak since…well, its sports related.  I’ll spare you.  But this is huge.  After bath time last night, as we were over-celebrating the streak, everyone high-fiving and shooting Cristal all over the place, his 18-month-old little brother plopped down on the frog potty.  No one asked him to do so, he wasn’t hounded.  He just went ahead and peed without fanfare, stood up, shrugged his shoulders, and waddled butt-naked out of the bathroom down the hallway.