I am very very very superstitious. I was busy knocking on wood the other night—I think Kevin deigned to mention something about Sophia being healthy, and I started thumping away, ready to put my fist through the table to counteract the ill effects of his positive words.
Kevin, whose grown accustomed to such peccadilloes (and usually ignores them), looked at me with mild interest and said something intelligent about ancient pagan rituals surviving modern faiths. People still do engage in them, even if it’s contrary to what they now believe.
(I was sure that knocking on wood was a Jewish thing to do. But it turns out grim, fatalistic, magical thinking actually predates the Jews. We wikipediaed it.)
Thing is, if Kevin’s theory is correct, I’m an outlier. I really believe this stuff. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, terrified of saying something good, acknowledging the good things in life for fear that tragedy will immediately befall. And because I have this mindset…I actively exercise “confirmatory bias.” That is, I look for evidence that supports my way of thinking, and ignore evidence to the contrary, thus solidifying my position.
Bad things come in threes.
Step on a crack, break your mama’s back.
Knock wood.
So, you can imagine how hesitant I am to commit what I am about to say to paper. And I’m trying to see if I can simultaneously knock on wood and type at the same time.
Sophia has pooped in the potty for nine consecutive days. Notice, I didn’t say Sophia is toilet trained. That would be far too audacious, inviting the wrath of the gods. No. I am simply stating the facts. I realize our winning streak is subject to change at any moment. I am prepared for accidents at all times. And I do all that I can to prevent them.
I am the gnat in her ear: “Do you need to go potty?”
I am the PR director, “Sophie, tell grandpa the BIG NEWS!”
I am Miss Manners, “We don’t poop on princesses….”
I a cheerleader, “Mommy is SO PROUD that you are pooping in the potty like a big girl! Go SOPHIE!”
Here’s how I finally did it. Fed up with the pull-ups, I got rid of them. I told Sophie (much as a friend had suggested at least a month ago) that we were done with diapers. From here on in, it would only be big girl underwear. My neighbor sagely suggested buying lots of cheap underwear and treating them as disposable. (Hence the princesses panties.) Granted, I had some misgivings of how not green that was. (But neither are pull-ups or constantly laundering underwear.) And after just two accidents (the Discovery Museum incident) a bed-wetting fiasco that was completely my fault (forgot to toilet her before the nap, gave her a ton to drink, didn’t pick her up the minute I heard her stir because I was too busy chatting it up with my friend Elisa) and a lot of mortification on Sophia’s part (oh how she cried at the shame of having wet the bed), she’s been clean and dry.
What it simply boiled down to was: she was ready. Physically, emotionally and intellectually ready. And when she was, she basically trained herself.
So now I’ve done it. Tomorrow, I am sure, I will wake up to find my baby distraught, her bed soaked with urine (she insisted she didn’t have to go before bed), and the gods laughing at me, because I had the hubris to announce to the world that Sophia is done with diapers.
Perhaps some sort of burnt offering will appease them. Is it illegal to burn Pampers in your backyard?
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
We Don't Poop on Princesses
Who is responsible for the invention of pull-ups? Wherever you are, I have a bone to pick with you. These objects of modern convenience are the bane of my existence. They are the limbo of toilet learning—not quite diaper, not quite big girl underwear, they do nothing to promote pooping in the potty.
The fantasy:
1. That pull-ups would allow Sophia to be more independent as she learned to toilet—pulling them up and
down herself
2. I would avoid the unpleasantness of “accidents.”
The reality:
1. It is much much harder to clean a child who has pooped in a pull-up than one who has pooped in a diaper. It has to do with removing and containing the hazardous waste. In fact, I am contemplating writing up a step-by-step process to post for first timers as a public service.
2. A friend related this story, which basically sums up my main beef with pull-ups. Her two-year-old daughter, who is quite verbal, would ask before she eliminated: “Am I wearing a pull up or underwear?”
Yes, pull-ups allow our children to wallow in their own filth as long as they please, which, in the case of my daughter is “until I’m three,” as she announced yesterday. Once again, I assert, if a child can tell you when she is planning on being toilet trained, he/she is perfectly capable of doing it.
So, I bit the bullet. I went to Target, and—against my better judgment and all my principles—I bought the damn princess panties. I am very tempted to go into a princesses rant here, but I’ll save it for another day. Suffice it to say that I have nothing against royalty in general, I do have an issue with Disney marketing their products to my daughter from infancy and that she, along with every other girl I know, is able to recognize the brand pre-lingually. But I digress. She carried her precious princess panties all the way to the register and set them down gently on the conveyor belt. The whole time I babbled alongside her, “Now Sophia. On Wednesday we are DONE with diapers. That’s it. No more pull-ups. You are going to wear your princess panties from here on in. And there is a rule associated with wearing princess panties: We don’t pee or poop on princesses!” I was rather proud of myself. This seemed fairly straightforward and sensible. Sophie repeated what I said, internalizing the rule: “No Pooping on Princesses!” “That’s right,” I reinforced. “Very good. Starting Wednesday, we are just going to pee and poop in the potty.” “I will do my poops in the potty like a big gurl!” Sophie declared.
If this does the trick, it will be worth the sacrifice.
Of course, she wanted to put them on right away when we got home. I thought it was wise to build the suspense a little. “Nope.” I said, “we’ll start on Wednesday.” A tantrum ensued. “I want my princesses!” “Wednesday,” I repeated. “You know what you have to do.”
The next morning, she woke up dry, peed in the potty, and told me, “Mommy, no pull-ups. I’m done with pull-ups.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes!” She said. “I want my princess panties.”
“Okay,” I relented. Pulled them out of their hiding place. She chose Cinderella. The blue-eyed blond. I felt another pang of liberal guilt.
Sophia donned the panties. She stayed clean and dry throughout the morning, her nap and her time at the babysitters, gleefully whipping her pants down to display her hidden treasure for anyone with a pulse.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
I picked her up from her babysitter and announced that we were going to the Discovery Museum. “Hooray!” she said. I reminded her that no matter what we were doing, if she felt the urge to go, she needed to tell me. “There will be plenty of time to play, but we also have to make time for the potty.” “Okay,” she old me.
I tried when we got there. She obliged, but she didn’t have to go. I checked in with her at multiple points. Each time she insisted, “I don’t have to.” We were in the diner and I was serving her a strawberry milkshake when she assumed sumo position.
“SOPHIA!” I shouted. “WE DON’T POOP ON PRINCESSES!” Oh yes. I did.
But it was too late. There was no stopping her now. “I’m pooping! I’m pooping!” she cried, as I lifted her, still in squatting position, and ran with her to the girls room. As I pulled down her pants, one errant poo dropped down and rolled across the floor.
“Damn it!” Whoops. Did I say that aloud? I did my best to contain the mess and myself. I silently cleaned her up. Sometimes, it’s best not to say anything at all. Still anti-pull-up, Sophia went commando.
As with all things, there are many roads to the same goal. I suppose I could keep her in pull-ups until she turns the magic number of three. I could allow her to soil the princesses, one by one and then tell her that’s it, there are none left. (And then improvise, because I have no plan for what would happen next.) My plan should be based on the function of the non-pooping in the potty behavior. Only, the function eludes me.
Is it a control issue? Is it a fear? Does she want to keep herself a baby a little bit longer? She’s clearly uncomfortable when she does it. She talks about wanting to be a big gurl.
Someone said to me that there comes a time when it feels wrong to be changing your child’s diaper. For me that time has come. Perhaps what it boils down to is Sophia has to feel it too.
The fantasy:
1. That pull-ups would allow Sophia to be more independent as she learned to toilet—pulling them up and
down herself
2. I would avoid the unpleasantness of “accidents.”
The reality:
1. It is much much harder to clean a child who has pooped in a pull-up than one who has pooped in a diaper. It has to do with removing and containing the hazardous waste. In fact, I am contemplating writing up a step-by-step process to post for first timers as a public service.
2. A friend related this story, which basically sums up my main beef with pull-ups. Her two-year-old daughter, who is quite verbal, would ask before she eliminated: “Am I wearing a pull up or underwear?”
Yes, pull-ups allow our children to wallow in their own filth as long as they please, which, in the case of my daughter is “until I’m three,” as she announced yesterday. Once again, I assert, if a child can tell you when she is planning on being toilet trained, he/she is perfectly capable of doing it.
So, I bit the bullet. I went to Target, and—against my better judgment and all my principles—I bought the damn princess panties. I am very tempted to go into a princesses rant here, but I’ll save it for another day. Suffice it to say that I have nothing against royalty in general, I do have an issue with Disney marketing their products to my daughter from infancy and that she, along with every other girl I know, is able to recognize the brand pre-lingually. But I digress. She carried her precious princess panties all the way to the register and set them down gently on the conveyor belt. The whole time I babbled alongside her, “Now Sophia. On Wednesday we are DONE with diapers. That’s it. No more pull-ups. You are going to wear your princess panties from here on in. And there is a rule associated with wearing princess panties: We don’t pee or poop on princesses!” I was rather proud of myself. This seemed fairly straightforward and sensible. Sophie repeated what I said, internalizing the rule: “No Pooping on Princesses!” “That’s right,” I reinforced. “Very good. Starting Wednesday, we are just going to pee and poop in the potty.” “I will do my poops in the potty like a big gurl!” Sophie declared.
If this does the trick, it will be worth the sacrifice.
Of course, she wanted to put them on right away when we got home. I thought it was wise to build the suspense a little. “Nope.” I said, “we’ll start on Wednesday.” A tantrum ensued. “I want my princesses!” “Wednesday,” I repeated. “You know what you have to do.”
The next morning, she woke up dry, peed in the potty, and told me, “Mommy, no pull-ups. I’m done with pull-ups.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes!” She said. “I want my princess panties.”
“Okay,” I relented. Pulled them out of their hiding place. She chose Cinderella. The blue-eyed blond. I felt another pang of liberal guilt.
Sophia donned the panties. She stayed clean and dry throughout the morning, her nap and her time at the babysitters, gleefully whipping her pants down to display her hidden treasure for anyone with a pulse.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
I picked her up from her babysitter and announced that we were going to the Discovery Museum. “Hooray!” she said. I reminded her that no matter what we were doing, if she felt the urge to go, she needed to tell me. “There will be plenty of time to play, but we also have to make time for the potty.” “Okay,” she old me.
I tried when we got there. She obliged, but she didn’t have to go. I checked in with her at multiple points. Each time she insisted, “I don’t have to.” We were in the diner and I was serving her a strawberry milkshake when she assumed sumo position.
“SOPHIA!” I shouted. “WE DON’T POOP ON PRINCESSES!” Oh yes. I did.
But it was too late. There was no stopping her now. “I’m pooping! I’m pooping!” she cried, as I lifted her, still in squatting position, and ran with her to the girls room. As I pulled down her pants, one errant poo dropped down and rolled across the floor.
“Damn it!” Whoops. Did I say that aloud? I did my best to contain the mess and myself. I silently cleaned her up. Sometimes, it’s best not to say anything at all. Still anti-pull-up, Sophia went commando.
As with all things, there are many roads to the same goal. I suppose I could keep her in pull-ups until she turns the magic number of three. I could allow her to soil the princesses, one by one and then tell her that’s it, there are none left. (And then improvise, because I have no plan for what would happen next.) My plan should be based on the function of the non-pooping in the potty behavior. Only, the function eludes me.
Is it a control issue? Is it a fear? Does she want to keep herself a baby a little bit longer? She’s clearly uncomfortable when she does it. She talks about wanting to be a big gurl.
Someone said to me that there comes a time when it feels wrong to be changing your child’s diaper. For me that time has come. Perhaps what it boils down to is Sophia has to feel it too.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Course of Potty Training Ne'er Did Run Smooth
We are driving up to my mothers. Looking up at the rearview mirror, I glance at Sophie who is wearing a thoughtful look on her face.
“Does grandma have a pink potty just for me?”
I try to remain casual. Any investment on my part in tone or facial expression is enough to incite rebellion, “Why, yes. Yes, I believe she does.”
“I think I want to go pee pee on that pink potty.”
I try to sound bored. “That sounds like a good idea.” And it was. An excellent idea, really. The best idea I had heard all day. The problem was, we were still about a half hour away from grandma’s. “The thing is, Sophie, you have to hold in your pee until we get to grandma’s house.”
“I will hold it,” Sophia is quick to assure me.
The word of a two year old is not enough for me. She needs some coaching on this one. I explain, “You’ve got to squeeze your muscles that hold in the pee.”
Sophie clenches her fists and squinches up her face real tight. “That’s it.” I tell her. “Keep doing that. Hold it in.”
A half an hour later, we pull into my mother’s driveway. My mom greets us at the car. My poker face belies the great yellow hope I am holding onto. “Mom,” I say, Buddha-like in demeanor, “it’s not a national emergency, but Sophia told me that she’d like to pee in your pink potty.” My mother catches my drift. She helps Sophie out of the car and up to the bathroom while I get our gear and follow them in. I can hear the thin stream hit the bottom of the plastic bowl before I see them. My mother is beaming. Sophie looks surprised.
“I did it!”
“You did!” My mother and I explode in unison. “Let’s do a potty dance!” I suggest, and we pony around the bathroom as Sophie watches, bewildered. I get the sense that this is an insufficient reward. So, we clap and congratulate her and marvel at the product of her efforts. Mom wipes her, pours the urine into the toilet and Sophie flushes it with great élan.
Let’s pause to take stock of what happened here:
• She knew she had to go to the bathroom
• She communicated that she had to go to the bathroom before she went
• She held it in for 30 minutes
• She peed in the toilet and appeared to feel proud of her accomplishment
Seems to me, the kid gets it. What more is there to grasp, really?
But then, she refuses to go the rest of the weekend.
A week passes, and though I routinely suggest the potty, I am routinely rebuffed. I decide that, perhaps, it’s time to pull out the big guns and get some Big Girl Underwear. So, on a night that Kevin has to work late, Sophie and I head over to the mall for a shopping expedition. We find the holy grail of panties. They are pink (“Pink and blue are my favorite colors!”) and they have a picture of a kitty on the front. (“I love little kitties!”) Not Hello Kitty! But some generic pussy cat strategically curled up you-know-where. A little inappropriate, I admit, but high fashion in the eyes of my toddler. We got a matching lunchbox and sweater, because you need to match your panties to your clothing and accessories when you are two. Damn Gymboree and their Gymbucks.
The next day, we are both jazzed about the panties. They are all the rage over breakfast. We talk about how we’ll try them out this afternoon (we were seeing a play that morning—not the venue I wanted to take Sophie for a diaper-free test drive) and we’ll show them to Daddy that night.
We see the play and stop off at a florist on the way home. Sophie announces, “I’ve got to go to the potty. Do they have a potty here?” The florist emerges from the backroom. She has a young child. She understands the import and time-sensitivity of this request. “You can use the bathroom upstairs,” she tells me. Again, I remind Sophie to hold it until we make it up to the bathroom. She takes off her diaper, and it’s dry as a bone. I hold her over the toilet, and to my great surprise, she pees. Once we are back downstairs she shares her success with the florist, who gives her a flower to celebrate the event.
We both leave, happy. I tell Sophie that she did a great job telling me she had to go to the bathroom and holding it until we got there. I tell her I think she is ready for the pink kitty underwear. We are giddy with excitement. We get home, tear off the (still dry) diaper, and Sophie dons the panties. She lifts her dress so I can get a photographic record of this great leap for Sophie-kind. We text Daddy the photo. I remind her that if she needs to pee, all she has to do is let me know, and I’ll take her to the potty. She nods.
I decide to make a picnic lunch, figuring if she has an accident, at least it will be outside. We have a lovely time and after Sophie has eaten her salmon salad sandwich and about forty grapes she stands up, half way.
Wait a second. Is she squatting?
Her face turns red. Her eyes get watery. And then she sports a beatific smile. “I made a poop in my panties.”
“Does grandma have a pink potty just for me?”
I try to remain casual. Any investment on my part in tone or facial expression is enough to incite rebellion, “Why, yes. Yes, I believe she does.”
“I think I want to go pee pee on that pink potty.”
I try to sound bored. “That sounds like a good idea.” And it was. An excellent idea, really. The best idea I had heard all day. The problem was, we were still about a half hour away from grandma’s. “The thing is, Sophie, you have to hold in your pee until we get to grandma’s house.”
“I will hold it,” Sophia is quick to assure me.
The word of a two year old is not enough for me. She needs some coaching on this one. I explain, “You’ve got to squeeze your muscles that hold in the pee.”
Sophie clenches her fists and squinches up her face real tight. “That’s it.” I tell her. “Keep doing that. Hold it in.”
A half an hour later, we pull into my mother’s driveway. My mom greets us at the car. My poker face belies the great yellow hope I am holding onto. “Mom,” I say, Buddha-like in demeanor, “it’s not a national emergency, but Sophia told me that she’d like to pee in your pink potty.” My mother catches my drift. She helps Sophie out of the car and up to the bathroom while I get our gear and follow them in. I can hear the thin stream hit the bottom of the plastic bowl before I see them. My mother is beaming. Sophie looks surprised.
“I did it!”
“You did!” My mother and I explode in unison. “Let’s do a potty dance!” I suggest, and we pony around the bathroom as Sophie watches, bewildered. I get the sense that this is an insufficient reward. So, we clap and congratulate her and marvel at the product of her efforts. Mom wipes her, pours the urine into the toilet and Sophie flushes it with great élan.
Let’s pause to take stock of what happened here:
• She knew she had to go to the bathroom
• She communicated that she had to go to the bathroom before she went
• She held it in for 30 minutes
• She peed in the toilet and appeared to feel proud of her accomplishment
Seems to me, the kid gets it. What more is there to grasp, really?
But then, she refuses to go the rest of the weekend.
A week passes, and though I routinely suggest the potty, I am routinely rebuffed. I decide that, perhaps, it’s time to pull out the big guns and get some Big Girl Underwear. So, on a night that Kevin has to work late, Sophie and I head over to the mall for a shopping expedition. We find the holy grail of panties. They are pink (“Pink and blue are my favorite colors!”) and they have a picture of a kitty on the front. (“I love little kitties!”) Not Hello Kitty! But some generic pussy cat strategically curled up you-know-where. A little inappropriate, I admit, but high fashion in the eyes of my toddler. We got a matching lunchbox and sweater, because you need to match your panties to your clothing and accessories when you are two. Damn Gymboree and their Gymbucks.
The next day, we are both jazzed about the panties. They are all the rage over breakfast. We talk about how we’ll try them out this afternoon (we were seeing a play that morning—not the venue I wanted to take Sophie for a diaper-free test drive) and we’ll show them to Daddy that night.
We see the play and stop off at a florist on the way home. Sophie announces, “I’ve got to go to the potty. Do they have a potty here?” The florist emerges from the backroom. She has a young child. She understands the import and time-sensitivity of this request. “You can use the bathroom upstairs,” she tells me. Again, I remind Sophie to hold it until we make it up to the bathroom. She takes off her diaper, and it’s dry as a bone. I hold her over the toilet, and to my great surprise, she pees. Once we are back downstairs she shares her success with the florist, who gives her a flower to celebrate the event.
We both leave, happy. I tell Sophie that she did a great job telling me she had to go to the bathroom and holding it until we got there. I tell her I think she is ready for the pink kitty underwear. We are giddy with excitement. We get home, tear off the (still dry) diaper, and Sophie dons the panties. She lifts her dress so I can get a photographic record of this great leap for Sophie-kind. We text Daddy the photo. I remind her that if she needs to pee, all she has to do is let me know, and I’ll take her to the potty. She nods.
I decide to make a picnic lunch, figuring if she has an accident, at least it will be outside. We have a lovely time and after Sophie has eaten her salmon salad sandwich and about forty grapes she stands up, half way.
Wait a second. Is she squatting?
Her face turns red. Her eyes get watery. And then she sports a beatific smile. “I made a poop in my panties.”
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Diapers are Forever
I think that any two-and-a-half-year-old who knows the sound each letter makes and can decode 3-letter words should be able to pee in a toilet. Alas. Turns out one can develop reading skills before mastering bladder control. Apparently the former is not a prerequisite for the latter. Who knew?
So, although she is academically ready to attend school, Sophia is barred from the local preschool program. I got the call from the director two days ago while aimlessly wandering the streets of Target.
The call took me by surprise. A month ago the director told me that the school had been filled since last January. I had only half-heartedly placed Sophia on the waiting list, figuring we'd just have to wait until next year.
I could feel her smiling through the phone. “We’re pleased to let you know that we have an opening, and Sophia was the next one up!” This is a school that is several blocks from my house. One that has really flexible scheduling options. One the neighbors have been raving about.
Sophia was dismantling a display of sun block. “Really? That’s wonderful!” I shot Sophie a look and mouthed PUT THEM BACK.
“So, as long as she’s toilet trained by September….” And then lightening flashed across the ceiling and it started to rain. Right there in Target. I think someone was playing an organ over the loudspeaker.
Six months ago...
It had all started out so promising. We bought her a potty. There was a picture of a girl on the box who looked very much like one of her friends, a bigger girl she looked up to. Sophie nicknamed it the “Callie Potty.” She sat on it. Put her dollies on it. Even made realistic sounds as she pantomimed their toileting behavior. Then, while we were out to dinner one night, the babysitter called, ecstatic, “She peed on the toilet.” We cheered in the restaurant, called my mother and almost missed our movie.
She went again, once or twice, and then…nothing. Worse than nothing. Flat out refusal. If I casually suggested that she sit on the toilet before a bath, she’d screw up her face so that her lips stuck way out and her eyes got all squinty and she’d shout, “No. I. Don’t. Want. To!”
I adopted a “just ask, don’t push” policy, hoping that when she was ready, she’d go. But secretly, I worried that I missed my window of opportunity. Now, her heels firmly dug into her general oppositional 2-year-old stance, she declares, “I do not want to pee on the toilet. I want to go in my diaper like a little baby.”
Again, if you can articulate that…shouldn’t you be able to sit on a toilet and do your business? I am convinced it is not a matter of skill, but of will.
And without the will, she won’t. Regardless of how much one can spend in pursuit of potty training.
For those who are not there yet (and others who were in my shoes many years ago) you will not be surprised to learn that potty training, like all other aspects of child development, is an industry. There are small, free-standing receptacles children “go” in that you have to empty into the real toilet and clean, adaptive rings that you can set atop the real deal so tiny tushies don’t fall in, and folding travel seats that have been known to pinch babies’ butts. There are potties that praise, cheer and sing. There are toileting books, videos and dolls. There are how-to manuals and charts and stickers.
And the programs. Oh the programs. Three-day Potty Training. Potty Training Boot Camp. The No-Cry Potty Training Solution. Early Start Potty Training. And yes, even Toilet Training in Less than a Day.
But, according to research (and, anecdotally, parents I know) you can push and cajole and praise and reward and work at it. Or you can wait. Apparently, left to their own devices, children will train themselves. Free of pressure and expectations they typically wake up one day and decide, that’s it. No more diapers for me. This usually happens around three years of age—give or take. I have even had parents of these children tell me that their kid never had an accident…and they never looked back.
This method (or lack thereof) is really appealing to me. No confrontations. No M&Ms. No props. No programs. No sweat.
But it also means…no local nursery school. At least not this one; not for now. Well, so be it. I was prepared to wait another year anyhow. Let's just hope it isn't that long before Sophia decides she's ready to ditch the diapers.
So, although she is academically ready to attend school, Sophia is barred from the local preschool program. I got the call from the director two days ago while aimlessly wandering the streets of Target.
The call took me by surprise. A month ago the director told me that the school had been filled since last January. I had only half-heartedly placed Sophia on the waiting list, figuring we'd just have to wait until next year.
I could feel her smiling through the phone. “We’re pleased to let you know that we have an opening, and Sophia was the next one up!” This is a school that is several blocks from my house. One that has really flexible scheduling options. One the neighbors have been raving about.
Sophia was dismantling a display of sun block. “Really? That’s wonderful!” I shot Sophie a look and mouthed PUT THEM BACK.
“So, as long as she’s toilet trained by September….” And then lightening flashed across the ceiling and it started to rain. Right there in Target. I think someone was playing an organ over the loudspeaker.
Six months ago...
It had all started out so promising. We bought her a potty. There was a picture of a girl on the box who looked very much like one of her friends, a bigger girl she looked up to. Sophie nicknamed it the “Callie Potty.” She sat on it. Put her dollies on it. Even made realistic sounds as she pantomimed their toileting behavior. Then, while we were out to dinner one night, the babysitter called, ecstatic, “She peed on the toilet.” We cheered in the restaurant, called my mother and almost missed our movie.
She went again, once or twice, and then…nothing. Worse than nothing. Flat out refusal. If I casually suggested that she sit on the toilet before a bath, she’d screw up her face so that her lips stuck way out and her eyes got all squinty and she’d shout, “No. I. Don’t. Want. To!”
I adopted a “just ask, don’t push” policy, hoping that when she was ready, she’d go. But secretly, I worried that I missed my window of opportunity. Now, her heels firmly dug into her general oppositional 2-year-old stance, she declares, “I do not want to pee on the toilet. I want to go in my diaper like a little baby.”
Again, if you can articulate that…shouldn’t you be able to sit on a toilet and do your business? I am convinced it is not a matter of skill, but of will.
And without the will, she won’t. Regardless of how much one can spend in pursuit of potty training.
For those who are not there yet (and others who were in my shoes many years ago) you will not be surprised to learn that potty training, like all other aspects of child development, is an industry. There are small, free-standing receptacles children “go” in that you have to empty into the real toilet and clean, adaptive rings that you can set atop the real deal so tiny tushies don’t fall in, and folding travel seats that have been known to pinch babies’ butts. There are potties that praise, cheer and sing. There are toileting books, videos and dolls. There are how-to manuals and charts and stickers.
And the programs. Oh the programs. Three-day Potty Training. Potty Training Boot Camp. The No-Cry Potty Training Solution. Early Start Potty Training. And yes, even Toilet Training in Less than a Day.
But, according to research (and, anecdotally, parents I know) you can push and cajole and praise and reward and work at it. Or you can wait. Apparently, left to their own devices, children will train themselves. Free of pressure and expectations they typically wake up one day and decide, that’s it. No more diapers for me. This usually happens around three years of age—give or take. I have even had parents of these children tell me that their kid never had an accident…and they never looked back.
This method (or lack thereof) is really appealing to me. No confrontations. No M&Ms. No props. No programs. No sweat.
But it also means…no local nursery school. At least not this one; not for now. Well, so be it. I was prepared to wait another year anyhow. Let's just hope it isn't that long before Sophia decides she's ready to ditch the diapers.
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