The time had come.
Yesterday, I attempted to potty train Boo.
I had his training pants. With ‘Choo Choos’ on them. From the last time we tried.
I had a small vat o’Smarties tucked away in the cupboard for pee pee treats.
At this point, I’d promise to let him drive the truck if it meant we could ditch the diapers, but Wolf is a bit of a stick in the mud, and won’t agree.
I’ve done this with four other kids, you’d think that it would be an easy sell for me by now.
Not so much. Each kid had their own way of doing things, and Boo is no exception to that rule. If anything, he’s more stubborn than all the ones before him, and considering Diva, that’s saying something.
So, the day began.
“C’mon Boo! Let’s go potty!” I trill, smiling maniacally. Treating potty training as an exciting, happy thing is the key. I feel like Glinda, the Good Witch on meth. But with far less fashion sense.
“C’mon…you go potty, and you get a TREAT!” I say, shaking a container of Smarties at him. (For the record, ‘Smarties’ in Canada are candy coated chocolatey goodness. Not that chalky sour candy crud in the U.S. We call those ‘Rockets’ here, and they’re the cheap candy on Hallowe’en.)
HIs eyes light up, and off we go to the bathroom. I’m thinking, “Yes! This is gonna happen!”
He sits on the potty, for about 30 seconds, looking like there may be a bomb attached to the seat, a la Lethal Weapon 2, before announcing he’s done.
He does agree to put the ‘Choo Choo’ pants on, so I figure that’s another win.
Set the timer, to repeat this all in 20 minutes.
And it does. Complete with the “Nooooo!”
This time, however, he refuses to put on the pants. Or a diaper. And runs around bare butt for a while. At this point, I’m resigned. He’s not the first kid that prefered to run around half-naked while potty training. Until Daddy comes along, and then he decides that he’ll allow Daddy to put a diaper on him.
And yeah, that was pretty much about the end of potty training for the day.
There’s a lot you can do with an uncooperative child, but potty training just isn’t one of them.
Frankly, I’d rather douse myself in honey, and climb into a sack of angry, hungry, rabid wet weasels, and try to teach them to play Twister.
Sooner or later, Wolf’s going to track me down by the graham cracker crumbs from the cheesecake, and find me cowering under the bed, and refusing to come out.
Ok, that’s not actually going to happen, but only because 1) I can’t fit under the bed, and would likely be in the closet and 2) The kids wouldn’t leave me alone for long enough for me to actually need to be tracked down. A simple, “Where’s Mom?” would result in, “She’s whimpering in the back of your closet. She has cheesecake, and won’t share.”
I was planning to restart potty training today, but puke happened. Repeatedly. Which prompted me to make this and post it on the blog’s Facebook wall:
I know, in my head, that when he’s ready, he’ll train. In my heart, I’m afraid of getting a sobbing call from a future daughter-in-law, demanding to know how I could foist an unpotty trained husband upon her.