Extreme Potty Training: A Diary
I'm carrying laundry upstairs when I hear a cry from the dining room. "Pee-pee!" I drop my basket and sprint down to find Toby, smiling, sitting on a leather chair in a puddle. As I'm soaking up the mess, I hear another cry, this time from upstairs. "Pee-pee!" I dash up to find Ian sitting contentedly on a drenched couch cushion.
"You're looking at this all wrong," Stacy tells me after I've phoned her, near tears. "Two weeks ago, the boys wouldn't even have noticed, let alone announced, that they'd peed."
She's right. How could I have missed the progress?
According to one manual I read, it's useless to say "Aw, it's okay, you'll make it next time" or "Tell Mommy when you have to go." Only five words matter: "Pee-pee goes in the potty."
I say this between practically every breath. Toby chants a condensed version: "Pee-pee potty, pee-pee potty."
We start to brave the outside world. Safeway, Costco, the park. Oddly, the boys are more eager, and less accident-prone, away from home.
Toby also seems to be suffering from poop delusions. A small pinecone by the river, a dropped falafel ball on the kitchen floor, corn dogs in the deli case at the supermarket -- "Big poo-poo!" Toby exclaims. "Big poo-poo!"
Maybe we're getting somewhere?
I'm crashed on the couch after another day of chasing the boys around with carpet cleaner. Paul is bathing them upstairs when I hear, "Holy moly!"
I fly up to the bathroom. Paul is talking a mile a minute. "Ian was in the bath, and then he said 'Poo-poo!' so I put him on the potty, and he pooped! Just like that! Ian!"
I can't decide whether I'm more thrilled or outraged. How did Paul end up with all the glory?