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 “What To Expect” how-to guides have always served us so well…)
Search and Destroy love them! They can recite them to us now. They toddle around the house chanting, “Chugga-chugga POOOO-POO!” (Because you know you’re life has peaked when you’re cuddled with your children reading “The Potty Train.”)
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 “cute”?) Every evening we take a bath. Every evening I suggest they sit on the froggie potty. Every evening they look at me like I’m completely crazy.
Perhaps they don’t understand. Diaper technology has come so far – maybe they’re just not bothered by having a wet diaper. That would certainly explain the oft-heard shrieks of, “No I not stinky!” (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 they’re not expected to master the potty until age 4 right?)
They were terrifically excited – removing their pants, their little faces alight with glee over their new clothing option.
“Ok, let’s put on your new big-boy undies,” we said, proudly helping them step back into their pants. “But remember, if you’re going to wear these, you need to go pee-pee in the potty.”
“No,” 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. “I peed. I peed on my pants. I need a diaper,” he sobbed. He seemed genuinely heartbroken, repeatedly shaking his head and murmuring, “I peed,” throughout lunch.
Suddenly Search began performing an introductory version of the potty dance. “Ok, I go sit on the potty,” he allowed. “The LITTLE potty. I only need to sit on the little potty.”
He sat! We cheered! Nothing happened. Then we headed upstairs and he wet his pants. (At least it wasn’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. “No! Poop in the potty! Sit here and finish pooping.”
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.
“No! Pee in the potty! Not on all the cabinets!” 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 – he to scrub the tub and I off to wipe a baby bottom. We heard the water start running – I assume to rinse the offending ickiness out of the bathtub.
“Ooh!” Search perked up. “Bathtime. Finally…” And off he toddled toward the scene of the crime. (Still notably wearing his diaper.)
Destroy tentatively followed after him.
“By the way, the rug has a wet spot,” I began to explain to Jon. “But it’s not pee, it’s just the drips from the bath toys Destroy is still holding…No!”
“But that is pee, isn’t it?” a decidedly resigned Jon responded as a new liquid stream soaked Jon’s socks and pants. (Yes. Yes it was. At least we’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.
“I haven’t cleaned the little potty yet. I haven’t even gotten towels or jammies yet. I DON’T EVEN HAVE PANTS!”
“Is this the first tub poop you’ve been home for?” 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 day’s events.)
I have been assured that very few children enter high school still in diapers. They’re only two and a half. And they’re boys. Realistically, we have a few more years to combat the stubborn determination genetically flowing through their veins.
Oh Potty Gods – 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 “accident.”
And as a showing of sincerity, I also offer up my sanity. Condemned only in the effort to raise twins.