[Author’s Note: DO NOT read this story if you have a weak stomach.]
I’ve heard the recommendation that, for the three-day-potty-training method, it’s ideal to time the process for a long weekend. That way, one or both parents can constantly attend to their potty-training toddler, thus easing the burden on all involved parties.
Apparently, Taylor had *not* heard that recommendation, because this past Sunday afternoon, I walked outside to find my son, buck naked, playing in our backyard.
“We’re just gonna do it!” Taylor announced grandly. “Get onboard, Wifey!”
Reluctantly, I proceeded to “get onboard”. After all, I would love for our twenty-eight-month-old Borealis to be done with diapers — but if that’s ever going to happen, we have to rip off the metaphorical bandaid (i.e. actually commit).
We finally decided to cave and follow a legitimate plan, so I rented the audiobook Oh Crap! Potty Training. Thus far, it has been an excellent, if intermittently vulgar, resource. “Winging it” is a good option in many situations, but apparently, potty training is not one of them.
So, we’re now doing our best to: 1) do all the recommended things that we haven’t done, and 2) undo all the unrecommended things that we have done.
I am sure, at some point, I will report Bo’s success in a future story. For the time being, however, we are about a week into a process for which “three days” is just the start.
Let me be clear: Borealis will eventually be potty trained. Someday I’ll write about him using the toilet without a thought of how he got to that point. Earlier this week, though, that future was nearly impossible to envision.
Let’s zoom in on Wednesday, which was the emotional climax of my week. [Note: Also, it takes forever to write these posts, so evaluating the whole week would delay this story by at least a month.] Most significantly, Wednesday was the day that my perspective shifted from “hopeless” to “hopeful”.
As usual, my phone woke me up at 8am — although, after our potty-training-induced night of poor sleep, I felt like my alarm was ringing in the dawn.
Taylor rolled out of bed and into the shower, leaving me with instructions to listen closely to the monitor. Bo was, after all, sleeping commando. He had been dry when Taylor checked at 6am, but we had a hunch that the majority of his nighttime peeing occurred right as he woke up.
About a minute after Taylor began his shower, the telltale sounds of my firstborn filtered through the monitor.
“I’m coming, buddy!” I shouted. I launched out of bed and into his room. I plucked my son from his crib, yanked down his pants, and sat him on the potty.
“Oh no!” he cried, pointing at his shirt.
Oh, no! I mentally echoed.
Sure enough, his shirt — and pants, and sheet — were damp and cool, which suggested that they had been pee-soaked for more than just a few seconds. Frankly, I was surprised that he hadn’t woken up earlier. I divested him of his moist pajamas, then stuck them and the sheet in the washing machine, pivoted into the kitchen, and quickly prepped his morning milk.
As I handed Bo his milk, I heard Australis beginning to stir. I herded a still-naked Bo into the bathroom with Taylor, then went to retrieve Australis. I expected to nurse her back down, since she typically snoozes for until around 9am.
But, not this morning. After nursing, she sat up and smiled brightly at me. I could just make out her first tooth, which she cut on Sunday. (You know, the day we started potty training.) She still has her gummy smile, but not for long.
“Az-sah!” Bo called from the door. He was now clad in shorts and a t-shirt, sans diaper.
Aza propped herself up on my chest, grinned down at Bo, and squealed, “Ga ga!”
[Note: Australis actually says “ga ga”. Honestly, I had thought that this baby-talk cliché was fake, until my daughter started employing it as her main word.]
Taylor followed Bo into our room. “Oh goodie, everyone’s awake,” he deadpanned.
And indeed, we were — and with that, the day officially started. We raced through the morning chores, and in no time, Taylor was slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and heading for the door. He paused at the strained look on my face.
Taylor: <grunts inquisitively>
I sighed piteously. “Every time you leave for work, I die a little bit on the inside.”
Taylor: <grunts in sympathy> “I’m sorry, babe. This isn’t forever.” <pause> “Well, work probably is, but potty-training isn’t.”
I chuckled softly. “Yeah, well… bye I guess.”
Taylor gave me a quick peck, then left me alone with the kiddos.
The next two hours were a complete blur of prompting Bo to sit on his potty, attempting to nurse Australis, and reading every board book in the house. To his credit, Bo obediently — if grudgingly — peed each time I asked him to go, which gave me some confidence that things were moving in the right direction.
Then, we had a setback. I was in the kitchen when Bo shrieked from the living room.
“Oh no!” Then, “Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!”
I immediately rushed over. My agitated son was pointing at a puddle on the ground — a puddle that undoubtedly had a yellow hue.
“Dang it, Bo!” I bemoaned, “You just went ten minutes ago!”
“Oh no!” he repeated.
I took a deep breath and reevaluated my approach. Of course it was not my intent to shame my son, who was already upset enough without my compounding his distress. However, there was a time-critical teaching moment here that I was determined to use.
I sloughed off Bo’s wet shorts and quickly carried him to his potty. “Pee goes in the potty, not on the floor,” I stated in what might have passed for a calm manner.
Bo squeezed out a few more drops of pee, for which I praised him. He still looked upset, so I said, “Buddy, it is alright. Mommy is going to clean it up.”
Thankfully, Australis was otherwise occupied as I mopped up the urine, retrieved new shorts for Bo, and helped him put them on. He returned to his play, and I finally got the chance to check in with my daughter. I scooped her up and snuggled her for all of three minutes before I heard Bo again.
“Oh no!”
Well, it was fun while it lasted.
I set Australis back on the floor, scooped up Bo, and plopped him in front of the potty.
“Did you pee again!?”
Bo just looked at me with a deer-in-headlights stare. So, I pulled down his shorts, and out fell a large poop.
“Oh no!” we chorused.
My son was visibly upset, and I probably was too. However, one of us needed to be the adult, and apparently it wasn’t going to be Bo. So, I said, “Poop goes in the potty, not in your pants. Mommy will clean it up. You’re ok.”
Bo, for his part, still looked distinctly not ok. I left him on the potty, which I had placed up on our ottoman (i.e. out of Australis’s reach). The turd rested wetly on the leather.
“Ewwwww,” I moaned. Then, addressing Bo, Aza, Mache, the poop, and whoever else was listening, I commanded, “Wait here!”
Thankfully, the mess cleaned up quick (ish). It was a moment in which I was very thankful for Lysol — although I managed to refrain from injecting it. Once again, I retrieved a clean set of shorts, and once again, I helped Bo pull them on. I stuck the second soiled pair in the washer, then started a quick wash.
Then, returning to the living room, I announced, “Ok, I feel like it should be time for lunch. Or something.”
Bo shook his head and peeped, “No.”
“Borealis, you will do what I say,” I snapped.
Bo pouted as he walked to his highchair, but I ignored the look and got him situated with a cup of magically grass-fed yogurt. (How do they even get the yogurt to eat grass?) Aza was soon strapped into her highchair with some mango puree, and lunchtime began.
I had been spooning fruit slush into my daughter’s mouth for several minutes before I realized something was wrong with the washing machine. From the table, I could just see “SUD” spelled out on the washer’s digital readout.
[Note: For more information about how this washer impacts the quality of my life, check out Even Blankets Do Hard Time.]
And, indeed, the digital readout wasn’t lying. I left my kids at the table and went to examine the laundry situation, which was as I had feared: gallons of sudsy water, seemingly trapped in the drum. This had happened several times in the past week, but I had somehow written off each occurrence as a fluke. Now, I could no longer deny the truth: my washing machine had a clog.
“Dang it!” I shouted. (Actually, it was probably slightly stronger language than that.)
Normally, I would blame such mechanical misbehavior on Taylor, but since I do literally 100% of the laundry, he was inarguably innocent here. Alas, this was solely my situation to fix. I handed Bo a bottle of milk (you know, to go with his fermented milk), spooned another bite into Australis’s mouth, rolled up my sleeves, and went to make a mess.
Now, here’s a question for you: do you know where the filter is in your washing machine? If your answer is “no”, don’t feel bad — I didn’t even know washers *had* a filter until one of Bo’s newborn socks clogged ours back in 2018. (Thankfully, Taylor was not so ignorant.) However, I would advise that you locate the filter on your machine, since they are technically supposed to be emptied every few months. (Who knew?)
Here’s the problem about filters — or at least, about our filter. (I suspect this is a fairly universal problem.) Due to its location at the bottom of the machine, opening the filter almost always results in a deluge of mucky water — and, indeed, so it was this day. I had prepared with two full-sized towels, but they did little to mitigate the instant swamp that formed in my laundry room.
I had barely opened the knob, but I quickly screwed it shut when it was clear that I had bit off more than I could chew. (Ew. Gross visual. But, I’m leaving it.) In a fortuitous turn of events, though, that brief gush had been enough to dislodge the internal clog. The laundry drum quickly drained, and this time, I was able to open the filter completely.
And honestly, I kind of wished I hadn’t. An unbelievable amount of smelly detritus apparently lay in wait, and about half of it jumped onto the floor upon being discovered.
“AH!” I screamed in fear and/or surprise.
“Ah!” Bo mimicked from the dining room.
“Mean!” I shot back. (He didn’t mimic that.)
The towels were now thoroughly soaked. I wrapped them in another towel, then ran the bundle into the bathroom and dropped it in the tub. I followed that up with four soaked kitchen towels and my slime-splattered clothing.
Then, it was time to deal with the filter. I brought it to the kitchen sink and assessed the situation. Firmly wedged in the filter was one of my Bamboobies reusable nursing pads, which explained why I no longer had an even number. The pad had led to a build-up of maybe a quarter cup of small particulates. I didn’t examine them closely, but my best guess is that they were once berry seeds, and more recently were stuck to a bib or cloth diaper. (I guess that will show me to pre-rinse Aza’s diapers better.)
Let me be frank: the whole experience was viscerally revolting. I don’t have a horribly strong gag reflex, but the combination of stench and sight made me glad I hadn’t eaten much that day.
So, I didn’t vomit, but I did cry. Everything just felt so overwhelming, all at once. I scooped up the particulates with a paper towel and stuck them in Bo’s now-pointless Diaper Genie. Then, I returned to the kitchen and began to soap up the washing machine filter — and as I did, I found myself thinking, God, what are You trying to teach me here? I feel inundated with filth.
And, as though He had spoken into my very soul, I felt the answer, The filth you’re worried about is outside of you, but I want to clean out the filth you accumulate inside your soul.
I was *immediately* convicted. How could I not be? For the past week especially, I’ve been short — even harsh — with my son, my daughter, my husband, my dog, etc. I suddenly had the terrified thought, Oh my gosh, what if it’s too late for me? What if I’ll always be this horrible?
As soon as I thought the question, Philippians 1:6 sprang to mind: “…He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Which is to say, it’s not too late for me — or anyone who asks for God’s help.
Don’t give up on me, Lord, I prayed silently. Please keep working on me.
And with that, I felt that a weight had been lifted. I realized that, foolishly, I hadn’t yet prayed for any help with potty training — which was a ridiculous oversight on my part. If I pray for my marriage, and my family’s safe travels, and my friends’ souls, why would I gloss over such a critical part of parenting?
But, I digress. I snapped out of my reverie to discover that both kids were crying for my attention from the dining room — except, my hands were still covered in mystery grime, and so was the laundry room floor.
Trying to hold onto the peace I had just received, I shouted, “I’m working on it! Mommy’s coming! Please be patient!” as I Lysoled off the floor, removed the defiled towels from the bath, shuttled them into the washing machine, and began a new wash cycle. I washed my hands for the quickest twenty seconds ever, then finally returned to the dining room.
I went immediately to Australis and shoveled a big scoop of mango puree into her waiting maw. After she stopped wailing. I turned to address Bo. To my surprise, I discovered he had dripped nearly his entire milk bottle into his yogurt and onto his tray.
“BOREALIS!” I bellowed. “Do not intentionally spill your milk!”
Bo made a surprised/scared grimace at me — an expression which, under different circumstances, always makes me laugh.
In a *slightly* more reasonable register, I explained, “You made a mess, which makes Mommy sad. Whenever you drip your milk on purpose, you will lose your milk.”
I grabbed the almost-empty bottle and stowed it in the refrigerator. Then, taking a deep breath, I returned to the dining room and faced Bo again.
“I’m sorry for yelling. I was angry that you made a mess, but I should have been calmer about it. Will you forgive me?”
Borealis tipped his head to the side, then said, “Yah.”
I’m not certain he knew to what he was agreeing, but his acceptance was comforting nonetheless. The episode was just another reminder that I am not “finished” by any stretch of the imagination.
But, I didn’t really have time to ruminate on my completeness (or lack thereof). Instead, I scooped another spoonful of baby food into Australis’s mouth, dashed into the laundry room to grab a washcloth, wet it on my way back through the kitchen, and finally wiped off Bo’s yogurt-y face and hands. His clothes, unfortunately, were another matter.
“You know what? Let’s do some more naked time,” I decided.
Thankfully, Bo didn’t contest my announcement, so I was able to undress him, then finish feeding Australis.
After that, it was back to the grind. We read books. We sat on the potty. We cried — but not too much. (Oh, and I put clothes on again, at some point.) Australis went down for her nap around 12:45pm, which was such a relief. It’s much easier to potty train when only the toddler is awake.
As soon as Australis was asleep, Bo pointed to the back door.
“You want to go outside?” I clarified.
“Yah!” was his spirited response — and so, we went.
Bo loves our backyard, and I love that he loves our backyard. During the summer, we have a canopy erected over our patio, so even the midday sun is [mostly] tolerable. The patio itself is home to a water table, a half dozen potted plants, a wrought iron patio set, and (as of this week) a potty. As Bo played with the water table, I perched on one of the chairs and tried not to get tetanus.
Then, after about twenty minutes, Bo ran over to the potty and gestured for me to open the lid.
I rushed to comply, then queried, “Do you need to go pee-pee?”
In answer, Bo sat down and released a small poop into the toilet.
I was elated. It was his first completely self-initiated potty poop, and I could suddenly imagine that this process might actually have an end. If he could poop in the potty once, then surely he could learn to poop in the potty every time.
Counterintuitively, the cleanup from this bowel movement took longer than had the cleanup from Bo’s earlier accident. The main reason for the disparity was his excitement with and insistence upon bringing the potty to the big toilet. (He walks kinda slow.) It was sweet to hear him marvel, “Whoa!” as his turd turned one last spiral before vanishing into the great unknown.
Afterward, we returned outside — only this time, Bo wanted to hang out in the front yard. I was [now] in a good mood, so I readily agreed. And as he was strolling along the front walk —
“Uh-oh!”
— another poop fell out.
Well, you can’t win them all.
[Author’s Note: At the time of this writing, we are still actively engaged in potty training. Not surprisingly, poop has been the sticking point. (Pardon the pun.) Borealis *will* get this… it’s just a matter of when.
But, with that said, prayers and gift cards are always appreciated.]
