Last week I decided it was time to potty-train the girl-child. She’ll be two-and-a-half in a few weeks, though this doesn’t really have anything to do with her age. We’ve I’ve been half-assed about this whole deal since Christmastime, what with the wetting and the mess… Summer weather is ideal for this kind of thing – no snowsuits to contend with. (Can you imagine shit inside a snowsuit? Oh crap, indeed.) and I just thought it was time to get consistent. Time to shit or get off the pot, if you will. (Heh.)
I bought her big-girl panties months ago, and often times, I’d pull them out of the drawer to show her the lovely Easter-coloured things, trying to entice her with the “big-girlness” of it all. “Well, if you go to the potty every time, you can wear a big-girl panty like Fran! Or like Anna! Or like Nyla!” (All of these girls are years older than she is, and she adores each one of them – loves getting their attention too.) I’d ask her now and again if she’d like to try sitting on the big-girl potty, and then try wearing a big-girl panty after… she’d say, “No t’anks, mummy.”
I showed her the big bag of mini marshmallows I’d bought just for her. Even if she tried, just tried sitting on the potty for a few minutes, she would get one marshmallow, and she could stick a star sticker on her chart. Won’t that be nice? Would you like to try now?!
“No, t’anks.”
She had piddled in the plastic bowl a few times in the past. We made a huge hairy deal out of it, naturally, but it didn’t seem to do anything for her. If I asked, she flat out refused. I insisted that she sit for at least one whole minute before getting into the bath… she’d make a swishing sound with her mouth, and then cry, “Yay Ada Stah-dett! Now ha mar-maddow!!” And I’d shake my head and say, “Uh-uh, Miss… you have to have a pee-pee first. But you get one for sitting. That’s a good girl!” I’d hand it to her, and she’d snatch it out of my hand, and pop it into her mouth. Then I’d stand her in the bathtub, and within a nanosecond, she’d pee, standing right there, laughing her fool head off.
I’d turn my head and leave the bathroom, saying nothing. There was no question in my mind that that clever monkey was toying with me but I will not react.
Le sigh. It’s been like this for months.
To complicate things, she’s at a kinder-camp in the afternoons, and though they might have a rest period at some point, I know she’s not napping. And trying to be consistent with potty-training gets tricky when the trainee isn’t with you for part of the day.
But I was determined to try anyway. I thought, if we can get this thing licked over the next couple of months, we’ll be golden. Now is the time.
Monday, I put her in panties all morning before camp, and she wet about four pairs in the span of two hours, which is to be expected. I somehow managed to keep her off the couches – only the floors got wet. But she had a few successes too – including a couple of poops – which was more than I was hoping for! In the evening, she took off her diaper by herself, and peed three times successfully. Yay! Marshmallows and stickers abound.
Tuesday morning she woke up with a dry diaper (good sign!) and she went the the potty six times without any prompting from me… she’s just come squealing, “Mummy, lowt!! I ha a pee-pee!!” And I’d come running, and she’d open her eyes and her mouth WIDE in amazement, and leap into my arms… we’d run and get marshmallows and stickers. Great job! I’d put a pull-up on her for camp, and try panties again at home that evening. When I picked her up from camp that day, she was in a soaking wet swim-diaper (they went to the sprinklers) so I striped her, put her shorts back on, and said, “Please try not to pee-pee in the stroller. We’re going straight home now.”
Yeah, right.
Not only did she soak the stroller about mid-way home, when she needed to get out and run with her brother, she suddenly stopped and peed in the grass – in her already wet shorts, down her legs, and into her shoes. She laughed her fool head off. So did Oliver.
“Oliver! You’re totally not helping, man! Stop laughing.”
Which of course made him laugh harder. Any time I say the word “man” at the end of things, they start roaring. As in, Fuckballs, man.
So the moment we got home, I deconstructed the stroller enough to get the cushy-lining off of it, and put it to wash. With the shoes.
Wednesday morning went very well – she’d go by herself, and then tell me afterward. No accidents! After camp, we went to the pool for the first time this year, and though she came thisclose to drowning (a story for another time) she asked me for the potty twice – one pee, and one poop… the latter was a little bit “loose” and I was glad she asked to go. It was the sort that could have a pool shut down for cleaning, had anything escaped that swim-diaper. I was impressed that she asked me to go at all! After a good amount of swimming under that wicked sun, she fell asleep in the stroller on the way home… wearing a panty. I raced to get home before things could go foul, and I won! Still sleeping, I put her on the couch, vowing to move her the minute I had dinner going on the stove. Minutes, I tell you…
Of course, by then it was too late. She’d peed an enormous amount. And some of those loose stools made a second debut too. Holyshitwhatafuckingmess doesn’t quite cover it. Martin was home, and got her into the bath right away, and I stripped the couch and put it to wash. With the skirt and panties. (This is a perfect example of why Craigslist and Ikea make for ideal furniture shopping during these pee/poop/vomit years. I will not buy a $3000 couch right now. Will. Not. Under no circumstances.)
The rest of the evening was fine, though. She went as often as she needed to, and you’d be none the wiser, but for hearing her trying to empty the plastic vessel into the porcelain bowl on her own. NOOOOOOO!! Let mummy help you… A few splishy-splashes on the floor. The bleach and the rags and I have become well acquainted in recent days.
Thursday morning was another splendid day of doing. And doo-dooing. No problems except for wanting to wipe herself… that’s completely disastrous. And I’m trying to teach my thumb-sucker to please not touch the seat so much. And to not wear the vinyl seat around her neck, either. We’re just asking for a roaring case of gastro with a side of pink-eye this way.
We went to the pool after camp again, but this time she asked me to go to the washroom about 400 times. Okay, maybe it was only 8 times, but we did go EVERY time (because you have to go if they ask, you know?) And public pool washrooms? Um… nast. Besides always being leaky and damp on the floors, there’s wadded up paper in corners, pulpy puddles everywhere, and one toilet is always blocked and nearly overflowing… in short, they’re totally gross. They smell bad too. Feels like rain forest in there. You can practically hear the bacteria growing, not to mention feel it in the warm wetness of pool-yuck under your feet (whether you’re wearing flip-flops or not.) And the last thing I want is to be in there every 10 minutes with a small child, trying to squeak a wetsuit-like diaper off her chubby behind, so she can giggle and say,”Uh-oh… no pee-pee!” again and again and again.
And I’m trying keeping her thumb out of her mouth the whole time too. Because, ew. Super gross.
But we were successful! And we got home with a dry diaper (I remembered to pack one this time) so the clothes AND the stroller were intact. I put her on the potty when we got home, and she had a joyous pee right away. Oh my god, this is awesome!! She got marshmallows and stars, and went running away.
I forgot to get a fresh panty for her.
A few minutes later, I hear Oliver stammering at me, “Mummy! She… she’s not… mummy! She POOPED!!” I go flying, off to find them in the house somewhere. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. You could ruin everything…
I find her in her bed, sitting on the duvet (which had no cover on it today) in her Stella McCartney dress she wore for the first time ever, with a little brown schmutz everywhere – duvet, sheet, pillowcase – and a nugget of poop in one hand. She looked a little bit stunned. “Lowt, mummy! I ha poop!”
Everything needs washing. (This is a perfect example of how the baby Jesus hates me.)
“Oh, Ava Scarlett… what happened?! We have to go on the potty every time! Awwwwww…” I pick her up and survey the damage. Fuuuuuuuuck!!! I march her to the bathtub to put her in, but there are too many solids, so I have to put her on the big toilet first. She has poop on her hands. I put the dress in the sink. I run the bath water.
I burst into tears.
I was so tired, from the day, from the week. And PMS probably too. But this deal is exhausting, no matter how you slice it. The watchfulness… the mindfulness of it all is very fatiguing.
Oliver came into the bathroom and rubbed my back as I was hunched over the side of the tub. “It’s okay mummy. I’ll help you with the laundry. I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”
Ava Scarlett said, “I sorry mummy.”
And I suddenly feel like a gigantic asshole.
“No, no. It’s okay, I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired. It’s so hot today… let’s just clean up.” I tried to smile at them. “Oliver, don’t touch anything, okay? Ava Scarlett, let me wipe your bum…”
And after that, she used the potty for the rest of the evening.
Friday, she wore a panty all morning, without incident. Apparently she used the toilet at day camp, and she came home with a dry pull-up at the end of the day. We skipped the pool that day – had a friend over to play instead. She wore a panty the whole time. No accidents.
This weekend has been much the same, I’m happy to say. I expect that there will be accidents sometimes. She may even regress once or twice – maybe months from now. It may be years before she’s dry at night, if her brother is any indication… but all told, I think we’re kinda done! She’s got the concept – now we just have to be consistent about it all.
Well done Ava Scarlett!! I’m very proud of you, poppet!! And my goodness, but your bum looks to teeny without a diaper on it… cheeky thing.
G.G.
