Training Day(s)

The phrase “potty training” drives me up a wall. The word “potty” bothers me. “Toilet training” sounds too clinical.

Jack’s still wearing diapers. He’s 3.75 years old. I know that horrifies some of the people in our world but it’s the fact of the matter.

In defense of Jack (and me) he can’t be bribed/cajoled/pleaded into using the bathroom. I’m hoping this will put him in good stead when, 13 years down the road he is the voice of independent thinking when the rest of his friends think, “Hey! Let’s surf on top of cars on the highway!” So far he’s immune to peer pressure: he could care less if he’s the only kid standing in the choir (sitting) circle; he used to shun my lap at library storytime in favor of jumping off the steps and listening to the neat, deep sound it made when he landed; and just try to see what he’ll do when you offer him candy or ice-cream. Ha! If I had a nickle for everytime someone’s said, “Try using m&ms– ” I’d be a rich woman. (And when did m&ms cease to be a choking hazard?) Jack doesn’t eat m&ms. He likes lollypops but gave up those weeks ago when we told him he needed to use the potty to have one. “I no want lollypops,” he shrugged– and he hasn’t asked for one since.

Last weekend we buckled down to try to get him to make the switch to Big Boy Underpants. (Big Boy meaning little cotton briefs– not the creepy iconic spokesman for the old Elias Brothers chain of restaurants.) His grandparents joined in the cajoling and pleading and bribing. I’m Good Cop on this one– I put my foot down at the idea of making him feel ashamed or inadequate– and stayed out of the fray for the most part so he’d still have a safe corner. And, frankly, I’m not too worried. Eventually something will click and he’ll go about his business (bad pun, that). He’s not going to go off to college in a diaper. Fussing and stewing isn’t going to help– if anything I think it hinders.

The problem is that he’ll sit on the toilet– for hours if you want him to. He just refuses to do anything while he’s there. And the end result from last weekend is that all week he’s had, what we call in this family, “bad poo” (diarhea is another word I don’t really like the sound of). Poor kid.

The other night at Target we went vaccum cleaner shopping– (wow. Grown up life is so much fun!) and while Robby carefully compared this model to that one [incidentally why are the Dyson machines 3x the cost of the others? Does that nice British man come with it? Do I get my own Mr. French if we choose that one?] Jack and I wondered over 5 aisles to the toys. The box of Cars that Jack has had his eye on for the last 6 months was marked down to half-off. We took it back to Robby (now lugging a vaccum glumly down the center aisle looking for his family) and negotiated a deal that we’d buy the cars but wouldn’t open the cars till Jack “goes poo poo on the potty.”

Two days later and he hasn’t let the box out of his sight. He’s tried “breaking” the box open (throwing himself on it, jumping on it) and it’s been taped and retaped. (Luckily, the packaging of most toys is so ridiculously over done that a 3 year old is physically incapable of opening a toy on his own. (For that matter, without the aid of box cutters and other sharp implements, neither are we.)

For all of you out there with two-year-olds-out-of-diapers I salute you.