Potty Training (The Devil’s Recess)

Two extremely poorly timed snow days, a wife that works in a world where there isn’t enough snow on the planet to keep her from going to work, and a son that needs to learn how to save his parents some money by getting out of diapers, leads to a dad that dies young. The two boys and I spent a Sunday together without mom to save any of us from each other as she worked. Then came the dreaded Texas freezing rain and sleet that would make Yankees scoff but seems to shut down the whole metroplex, with the exception of my wife’s work. So us boys had three days together all told.

Throw in potty training and by the end of the third day, I imagine my wife coming home to a scene from some bad Zombie movie. Haggard, disheveled people wandering aimlessly around the house not knowing what to do, wreckage all over the place, cleaning supplies strewn about in what was, at one time, an attempt to contain the contamination, but clearly a lost cause now. Every man for himself! It was a battle that rewarded no victor. Progress was made for sure, but it seemed like the two sides should have a called a truce long ago and avoided all the casualties. 

If I have to run to the bathroom one more time to read the same three friggin “potty” books with nothing to show for it, I’m going to write my own “potty” book called “For the Love of All Things Holy, Just Go! Daddy is Begging You.” And here’s a question for the seasoned potty trainers: How do you disrobe a small person that just destroyed the backside of his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear? It is impossible to do without needing to re-tile, install new drywall and paint the bathroom.

I can’t explain the inner thoughts of a grown adult watching another human stand in front of them and say, “Dad, I need to go potty now” as the wet spot on the front of his pants grows bigger and bigger ultimately reaching the ground and eventually leaving a small trail all the way to the bathroom. If it was gasoline, John McClane would light it on fire and it would lead to a spectacular, aerial explosion like in Die Hard 2. Watching the whole thing almost makes a person want to question every decision they’ve ever made because, at that moment, nothing makes sense. It’s mind-boggling.

We fought through it though and mom was there to pick up the pieces and we’ve all managed to survive without having to revert back to diapers, those glorified, puffy, garbage bags that, ironically, have a definite limit to what they can hold but no limit on how much money you can sink into them. I have no doubt that with a little bit more work we’ll eventually be to that awkward place where he’ll stand at the big boy urinal, in public, pants around his ankles, just to take a leak…one tiny pair of underwear at a time.