Porcelain Truth

Here's a story I wrote as Alison was going through the final stages of potty training. Proceed at your own risk...

There was a movie I saw once where a local guide gave directions to the adventuring hero. He described the treasure awaiting him in great detail, and then told him that along the way there might be some “difficulties.” One of those “difficulties” he glossed over was a pit of slithering snakes. Parenthood is kind of like that. Those who have already made the journey are free with details about things like birthday parties and swimming lessons, but when it comes to the important stuff -- the slithering snakes -- they tend to be a bit tight lipped.

Case in point -- potty training. And by the way, I’ve noticed that many experts now call this “toilet teaching,” perhaps because the phrase “potty training” sounds too barbaric and conjures up images of a big top and a lion tamer. It’s clearly nothing more than a euphemism; the process is barbaric, and when you’re finally done, I guarantee you that you’ll feel like you just tamed a lion. A big lion.

Let me tell you about our lion. Her name is Alison. We had talked about potty training for months, occasionally letting her wear big girl underwear for a few hours. (Here, a few hours means: until she wet her pants.) We finally got serious a few days after Christmas, and the first day or so was rough. She went through more wardrobe changes than Madonna, but we kept our spirits up and never went back on our promise never to put another diaper on her again. Eventually, things started looking up. There were consecutive accident-free days, and even a daring trip to Disneyland. A few dry weeks passed, and we stupidly began bragging to friends and family that the deed was done.

Apparently Alison overheard us. The relapse started innocently enough. An accident while hiding with a friend in the closet, easily explained away: she was having too much fun to stop for the toilet. Next, an accident in the bathroom, easily explained away: she just couldn’t get her pants off in time. But then, the pee pee came fast and furious, and no room in the house was spared. And the pee pee wasn’t the worst of it.

Years from now, when Alison is asking us how to potty train her first child, much of this will be forgotten, but one moment will be permanently seared into my memory. Valentine’s Day. My parents had come over to baby-sit so that I could take my wife out to dinner and a movie, and we were scrambling to get ready. I remember standing in the kitchen talking to my parents when I realized that the house was strangely quiet, and Alison was nowhere to be seen. My Spidey-sense tingling, I raced to her room only to find the door closed.

I called my daughter’s name, and she responded loudly: “No Daddy! No you come in!” I turned the knob and felt her thirty-two pounds pushing against the door. “No Daddy!” My 200 pounds gently pushed the door open, and I smelled what I feared. Alison with full pants.

This is why it’s tempting to keep your child in diapers. No matter how old she is, no matter how messy it is, you can just wrap up the diaper and throw it all away. Things are different when she’s wearing her favorite pair of Dora the Explorer big girl underwear. You can’t throw it all away.

So I lifted her up and carried her to the bathroom, holding her at arm’s length the entire way. You’ve probably seen movies where some poor guy discovers a bomb and radios to the bomb squad expert outside, looking for help. The expert says, “Don’t worry, all you have to do is cut the red wire.” The poor guy tells the expert that the bomb has no red wires, only blue and white wires. The expert says that he’s never heard of any bomb with blue and white wires and tells the poor guy that he’s on his own. That’s pretty much how I felt in that bathroom. After peeling off her jeans and inspecting the underwear, I realized that there were no red wires anywhere.

The first maneuver was the most important. Somehow I had to slowly pull the underwear down while gently cradling the “payload,” preventing a disastrous spill. Remember the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana Jones is trying to switch the bag of sand for the golden idol? Kind of like that. Anyway, I managed to get the underwear off and get Alison cleaned up, but the fun was far from over.
After dropping what I could into the toilet and flushing it down, I was still left with an incredibly soiled pair of underwear, and I realized that I couldn’t just toss them into the laundry basket, feigning male ignorance. I had to rinse them out. In the toilet. At first I was tentative, gently dipping them in the water, somehow hoping that they’d magically come clean. Of course this didn’t work, so I had to do some scrubbing. With two hands. In the toilet.

And here’s where something amazing happened. Certain things become clear when you’re down on your knees in front of a toilet. I had experienced a truth-revealing moment like this a few minutes past midnight during the first week of my freshman year of college, but this epiphany was perhaps even more powerful. As I knelt on the tile floor with both my hands in the murky, brown, toilet water, I suddenly realized I was no longer gritting my teeth. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to eat finger food again, but at that moment I didn’t mind. I realized that my fatherhood wasn’t really defined by the dust gathering on my golf clubs or the mini-van in the driveway. Being a father means dealing with the slithering snakes I’ve already slain (late night feedings, the emergency room, potty training) and preparing for the snakes to come (boys, cars, more boys).

Certainly, Indiana Jones bagged more than his share of ancient golden artifacts, but did he ever save a beloved pair of Dora the Explorer underwear? I think not.

Comments

[Sweetie Pie]

And as I'm reading this very post, as if on cue, Alison has just shouted, "Henry just peed his pants."

Ahem....we have more slithery snakes. Will they ever go away?

[Nicole]

Classic! Having no children I'd be gritting my teeth. Great story and definitely one to bring out when she turns 18! ;)

[Brent]

As I am reading this, I am reminded of my own similar experiences with "toilet teaching." Although, I was blindly holding on to the old adage, "Time heals all wounds" until I read your accounts and then the images, aromas, and feelings came flooding back. Yes, I've peeled my share of soiled big girl undies off my girls....and even better, was forced to do so for another child we were baby sitting. However, a couple pairs of the big girl undies didn't fair so well. For the friend we were babysitting, yes, I thrusted my hands deep in the toilet, swished it around, then as quickly as possible stuffed them into several plastic grocery bags. But, for my girls, their favortie undies met with a differet fate. Let me preface this by stating for the record, that I will deny all this if questioned by any legal authority, or more importantly, if ever asked the question, "Daddy, where are my Tinker Bell undies?" To the best of my fading recollection, the following alludes to the whereabouts of several soiled unmentionables: triple bagged and tossed in the dumpster; inadvertantly flushed down the toilet. The toilet flushing incident occured in a panic when attempting to return the bathroom fragrance to that of anything other than that of its present state as the paint was about start peeling off the walls. I do agree....it's dealing with the snakes that makes a man a DAD!