Can it be possible that it's been two weeks since last we met? I haven't even been working, but the days have been full and the nights have been short. Let's hit the ground running...
They call it potty training, but what they should really call it is "Spend a solid week hoping like crazy that your toddler will somehow manage to use the toilet instead of simply letting the urine drip down his leg into a puddle on the floor, all the while hoping like crazy that the increased stress doesn't cause someone to burn the house down in frustration."
We started our journey almost two weeks ago, on my first day of vacation. When Henry woke up, I ceremoniously took off his diaper and announced that it would be the last diaper he would ever wear. He didn't seem to grasp the significance of the event, so I repeated myself: "Henry, no more diapers! You're only going to wear underwear from now on!" His response? "ME EAT! ME EAT WAFFLES!"
And so we started. Leslie had filled the house with juice boxes and salty snacks, so we dove right in immediately following breakfast. His diaper had been dry, so I knew it was only a matter of time. I mercilessly pumped him full of juice, then suggested a trip to the toilet.
"Hey Henry, let's try going potty, okay?"
"Okay, Daddy! Like a big boy!"
It was still fun at this point, so we bounced off to the bathroom, and I just knew he was gonna pee. How could he not? Leslie would wake up in a bit, and I'd casually mention our success, saying something like, "Oh, by the way, Henry's potty trained. Can I help you with anything else?"
So I sat Henry up on the potty and waited for the hissing pissing sound I knew would come. And waited. And waited. The general idea behind potty training is that since the toddler has no idea what he's doing, you have to put him on the toilet and hope to get lucky. Basically, you have to catch lightning in a potty. And so I waited some more.
After five or ten minutes Henry started to get bored, so we went back to the table and continued drinking. I sat across the table from him, going juice box for juice box, fighting the sudden urge to teach him how to bounce a quarter into a glass. I filled him with salty pretzels, salty potato chips, and salty crackers, then asked him to wash it all down with even more juice, all in the name of growing up.
"Check your pants, Henry. Are they wet or dry?"
"Dry!"
"Good boy, Henry. I like dry pants!" (What kind of nonsense is this? I like dry pants?)
Back to the bathroom. At this point I was DEFINITELY ready for a potty break, so I took the opportunity to model the expected behavior.
"See, Henry? I'm going pee-pee like a big boy! Now it's your turn!" (Why does everything end with an exclamation point?)
"My turn!"
And so I put Henry up on the toilet and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. We read a book, we talked about underwear, we analyzed the Yankees' chances of making the playoffs. Nothing.
Back to the table. At this point Henry wasn't inhaling his juice as quickly as before, probably because his bladder was ready to explode, but I kept pushing. We'd been at this for more than an hour, and I knew our moment was coming. After one last juice box, I suggested another try on the potty, but Henry wanted to put a book away in his room first. No problem, I thought.
Can you guess?
"Uh-oh, Daddy! Pee pee, Daddy!"
I raced to his room to find him standing in a puddle roughly the size of ten juice boxes, his SpongeBob underwear soaking wet. Damn. It's like missing the bus when you're already late for work, and you know there won't be another one coming by for another hour. Or, in Henry's case, twenty minutes. Missed that one, too. Damn. You live by the juice box, you die by the juice box.
And so it went for the rest of the day -- all day. Poor Henry didn't have a single success, and it wasn't until Leslie took over the next day that any pee-pee found its way into the potty. (At that point I had spent so much time cleaning up accidents that my ego wasn't bothered a bit.)
And then about five days into the journey, Henry said the most magical words. "Pee-pee coming!" Leslie took him to the potty, and he completed his first self-initiated pee, a HUGE milestone. And just like that our boy had grown up a bit, the house was still standing, and the marriage was still intact.
But with this good news comes two pieces of bad news:
1. Henry still has issues with #2, and I can't tell you how much that sucks; and
2. We get to do it all over again with Kate in two years.
Damn.
You have issues brother. "I like dry pants" is a step away from having CPS sent to your house. Consider yourself on warning! (Exclamation point)
Posted by: Brent | August 11, 2005 at 08:26 AM