Parenthood and the Serenity Prayer
'God, grant me the patience to potty-train a three-year-old ...'
I'm practicing my breathing exercises. Inhale. Exhale. Try to count to five. This is to ensure that I won't end up on the front page of the Annapolis Capital. Today is Day One of potty training.
"Wait until he's ready," experts advised me. I waited and waited until I realized everyone else in three-year-old David's preschool class was wearing underwear--except for my son.
So this morning I pose the regular question. "Would you like to wear big boy underwear like Dad's or diapers that babies wear?" I ask. Silly question. Never let a toddler dictate the course of your day, some would logically argue.
"Underwear like Dad," my naked boy replies. I freeze. Uh oh. Right answer, bad timing. I have way too many things to do today to clean up umpteen messes and process the impending frustration. Of course I've read everything ever written about the process of potty training. But how does one actually do it?
"We have to go through it at some point," my husband tells me as I give him a blank stare, not knowing what to do next.
"Easy for you to say," I respond to the man of the house, who's looking for a yellow tie to match his blue oxford shirt. "You get to eat a nice lunch with clients today while I get to clean up poop."
"I'll help this weekend," he says reassuringly, but I1m not easily consoled. The weekend is more than 52 hours away. It might not get here at all.
The first accident occurs as my kids and I scarf down three low-carb blueberry muffins on the edge of the City Dock in downtown Annapolis. A puddle expands around David, and I realize that he hasn't spilled his milk. Approximately three seconds later, his monumental temper tantrum provides entertainment for a few Naval Academy families in town for commissioning week. Eight-month-old Katharine follows suit. I forget about our muffins and pack the screaming kids into the sedan.
A half hour later, the second accident occurs with all the drama of the first, possibly more. I try desperately to teach my emotional three-year-old the connection between a wonderful device called "the potty" and the uncomfortable pee running down his leg. By the third accident, there are more tears and distress but still no obvious connection being made between bladder, brain, and potty.