Pooh Pooh To The Potty Party

Well, it’s happened. My baby has grown into a toddler. I think it’s “official” when they hit the 2’s, even though the word toddle describes their first Franken-steps perfectly. The only problem is what follows, that dreaded next phase: Potty Training.

Yeah, I know, most people are thrilled to reach this milestone. The milestone that makes their child into an actual little people-ish person instead of a baby. The milestone that marks the end of buying those expensive poop holders.  An exciting milestone that marks the growth of your precious little darling.

These people are clearly imbeciles and never leave their houses.

If these people ever DID leave their houses, they would understand my extreme reluctance to move into the toilet training stage. They would know that diapering is just so much easier and that at this stage in my life, I love easier. Easier is my best friend. I would marry easier if it didn’t mean an expensive, messy divorce from the love of my life. I will gladly pay the money for those butt covers just to know that I’m not spending extra time and money cleaning clothes that have had messes, car seats that have seen accidents and bedding that didn’t survive nap time unscathed. Heiny hiders mean I don’t have to invest in bleach by the gallon for those Clorox commercial type of moments. (And for those of you who don’t know me, yes, I DO need to have bleach-clean bathrooms. It’s not the slightest, teensiest bit optional.)

Even if I was okay with adding an exorbitant task list of laundry and cleaning, it’s the time investment that also kills you. When you’re potty training, you have to ask your kid every 4 minutes if they have to go to the bathroom. Of course they’re going to say no, those contrary creatures, which means every tenth time you ask you have to plop their uncooperative butt on that plastic, portable potty seat and give them 73 books to try and convince them to go to the bathroom “on the pot”. After 30 minutes, you’ll put them back into their “big boy underwear” (so named to try and get them to muster up the required enthusiasm to potty train because even they know diapers are easier) only to have them have an accident five minutes later.

Sigh.

Yeah, I know, it sounds like I have a little bit of potty training PTSD. The traumatic experiences of the children that have come before have caused a feeling of terror at the thought of ditching the diapies. It’s not even all my children that have traumatized me, just the boys. I barely even remember the process with my daughter. I’m pretty sure she trained in like 5 minutes. Or so it feels in comparison to my sons who were completely ok with not being a big boy if it meant they could keep their diapers. I was so discouraged with the first child that I was convinced I’d have the only kindergartener with training pants in the tri-county area. But then the daughter came next and was so easy-peasy that I was convinced the first kid was just a pain in the ass. (Which frankly, most kids are. It’s in their job descriptions.)

Until number 3 had the same issues and made me have horrible flashbacks of number 1 not going number 2. Shudder. Although there was a lot less panic with him (kid #3 after all), it still left some fresh wounds.

So you can see why the thought of going through it again is less than appealing.

I will say, however, that as a fourth time mom, I’m more relaxed about the process. No, it’s not the Prozac and wine I’m guzzling to get me through these dark times. It’s the knowledge that I’ve never actually heard of a kid who wasn’t completely housebroken by the time they started school. Sure, it’s probably happened. But I haven’t heard about it so that makes everything peachy keen in my rosy little corner of the world. (Don’t try to disabuse me of this notion. Prozac only gets a chick so far.)

So it’s coming. Like a terrible Sy Fy sequel  that you can’t believe anyone actually wants, (Hello Sharknado!) it’ll be here before you know it. Until then, I’m just going to bury my head in the sand, snuggle with my not-a-big-boy-yet, and buy another box of Pampers.