The boys want nothing to do with the potty. Rather they seem to be quite enamored with going through 3,000 diapers per year.
So we ordered books. (Because heretoforth those â€œWhat To Expectâ€ how-to guides have always served us so wellâ€¦)
Search and Destroy love them! They can recite them to us now. They toddle around the house chanting, â€œChugga-chugga POOOO-POO!â€ (Because you know youâ€™re life has peaked when youâ€™re cuddled with your children reading â€œThe Potty Train.â€)
We may as well be trying to flush them down the big boy potty. The gaping maw of the open lid must seem as overwhelming as leaning over an open-sea cliff.
We bought a tiny person seat. Cars themed! The boys writhed in apparent pain as they squirmed away from letting any part of LightningMcQueen touch their little tushies.
We have a cute little frog potty. (Is there where life has led us? Finding bathroom abodes â€œcuteâ€?) Every evening we take a bath. Every evening I suggest they sit on the froggie potty. Every evening they look at me like Iâ€™m completely crazy.
Perhaps they donâ€™t understand. Diaper technology has come so far â€“ maybe theyâ€™re just not bothered by having a wet diaper. That would certainly explain the oft-heard shrieks of, â€œNo I not stinky!â€ (When they totally are.)
We decided to try something rash. Off went the boys on a field trip with Daddy to acquire some big-boy underpants. An adventure unto itself, the trio finally found vehicle-themed briefs small enough. (This scavenger hunt did help soothe the mind. If you can only find boys under-duds in size 4T, obviously theyâ€™re not expected to master the potty until age 4 right?)
They were terrifically excited â€“ removing their pants, their little faces alight with glee over their new clothing option.
â€œOk, letâ€™s put on your new big-boy undies,â€ we said, proudly helping them step back into their pants. â€œBut remember, if youâ€™re going to wear these, you need to go pee-pee in the potty.â€
â€œNo,â€ they both replied simply.
Twenty-five seconds later I heard a wail. Already?!
Destroy stood shell-shocked and stock-still in the middle of the living room. â€œI peed. I peed on my pants. I need a diaper,â€ he sobbed. He seemed genuinely heartbroken, repeatedly shaking his head and murmuring, â€œI peed,â€ throughout lunch.
Suddenly Search began performing an introductory version of the potty dance. â€œOk, I go sit on the potty,â€ he allowed. â€œThe LITTLE potty. I only need to sit on the little potty.â€
He sat! We cheered! Nothing happened. Then we headed upstairs and he wet his pants. (At least it wasnâ€™t on me.)
Evening fell. And once again I suggested the tots use the potty. Once again, they declined.
I plopped Destroy into the tub. Ten seconds later I scooped him back out and plopped him on the potty. â€œNo! Poop in the potty! Sit here and finish pooping.â€
Yup. He pooped in the tub.
I called for Jon while profusely praising Destroy for peeing in the potty. Jon and I swapped places as I went in search of the elusive all-purpose cleaner.
â€œNo! Pee in the potty! Not on all the cabinets!â€ I heard Jon shout. Destroy began wailing again. Search proclaimed to the general public (his parents, the dogs and a toy truck) that Destroy peed. Again.
Jon and I once again traded places â€“ he to scrub the tub and I off to wipe a baby bottom. We heard the water start running â€“ I assume to rinse the offending ickiness out of the bathtub.
â€œOoh!â€ Search perked up. â€œBathtime. Finallyâ€¦â€ And off he toddled toward the scene of the crime. (Still notably wearing his diaper.)
Destroy tentatively followed after him.
â€œBy the way, the rug has a wet spot,â€ I began to explain to Jon. â€œBut itâ€™s not pee, itâ€™s just the drips from the bath toys Destroy is still holdingâ€¦No!â€
â€œBut that is pee, isnâ€™t it?â€ a decidedly resigned Jon responded as a new liquid stream soaked Jonâ€™s socks and pants. (Yes. Yes it was. At least weâ€™re now peeing in the right room?)
Significantly later than originally planned, sticky, dusty, dirty boys were immersed in a clean tub filled with soapy water. Jon was a bit thrown off by the bodily fluid curveball.
â€œI havenâ€™t cleaned the little potty yet. I havenâ€™t even gotten towels or jammies yet. I DONâ€™T EVEN HAVE PANTS!â€
â€œIs this the first tub poop youâ€™ve been home for?â€ I asked? He nodded. I laughed.
And thus concludes our potty training experiment of the day. (And likely a lot longer. Destroy really did seem a bit traumatized by the dayâ€™s events.)
I have been assured that very few children enter high school still in diapers. Theyâ€™re only two and a half. And theyâ€™re boys. Realistically, we have a few more years to combat the stubborn determination genetically flowing through their veins.
Oh Potty Gods â€“ I bequeath unto you an offering.
Today, it is the sacrifice of innocent big-boy panties. Condemned only for their ability to let toddlers experience the true experience of an â€œaccident.â€
And as a showing of sincerity, I also offer up my sanity. Condemned only in the effort to raise twins.