One of the exciting events that occurred over the past few months: potty training. Or, potty learning, in the parlance of our local overly earnest parenting discussion list. Training is now oppressive and crushes childrens' spirits, shames them into compliance, engenders psychosexual hangups, and inevitably means they will vote Republican when they grow up. We can't have that, so we learned but did not train. To my inexperienced eyes the processes looked remarkably identical, but I am after all a neophyte at this.
Our potty learning process was guided largely by the fact that we are lazy. We do not enjoy cleaning up "accidents," as they are so euphemistically termed. Plus, diapers are easy. Child does his business in the diaper, we make a joint trip into the bathroom, and we're done. I think I had it down to a few minutes per change. Underwear-wearing prior to the acquisition of solid potty skills is, in contrast, a messy and time-consuming process. So, lazy, but that gave me the ability to say to the local playground busybody, with a credibly straight face, that we deeply believe in child-led potty learning. I believe I may have batted my eyelashes.
Two days after Christmas, Nathaniel woke up and asked for underwear. By Twelfth Night, he was in underwear fulltime. It was a quick and easy process once he decided that the time had come. Hurray for parental laziness child-led potty learning.
The entrance into big-boy underwear has come with a great deal of previously unknown challenges. Nathaniel is currently strongly opinionated in his fashion choices. His shirts must feature a wheeled vehicle of some sort. The addition of underwear provided an additional fashion consideration. He is happiest when he leaves the house matching: concrete-mixer shirt paired with construction themed underwear, fire truck shirt paired with snazzy fire truck briefs featured bright orange fireballs.
The challenges are not just for Nathaniel. I also recently faced a hitherto unexpected challenge about a month back. On a walk, regrettably far from any plumbing, I was asked to explain the mechanics of the "standing-up pee." I successfully negotiated step one: the pulling down of the pants. But as it turns out, there are multiple steps to this process.
"Okay, now you hold it and pee, sweetie."
Nathaniel paused, looking up at me expectantly. "Where I hold it? Here?" He demonstrated. "Or down here?"
Now, I ask those of you not in possession of the ability to pee on a tree standing up: do you know the answer to that question? Have you ever studied the mechanics of the art? I had no idea there were even holding options available.
"Um, hold it where you can aim."
That was not enough detail. Time for a different tactic. I picked him up and held him horizontally up in the air, face down, so that the aiming question would not be an issue. This was also rejected as "not how Daddy does it." It is true that Daddy does not pee while somebody hovers him three feet horizontally above the ground. I could not argue with his logic.
In the end, he declined to pee, a direct reflection on my shoddy abilities to explain the process. Nathaniel, the child of two engineers, likes clear direction, and I had not met his expectations. He sighed. "Mama, it is better if you call Daddy to get us. I pee at home."
Recognizing the wisdom of surrender, I gave in and called my husband. He came and we hurried a now-dancing Nathaniel into the car and back home, where he sequestered himself in the bathroom for a discussion of the mechanics of the entire endeavor with somebody who actually knows something. Unlike, say, me.
