Don't sit on my leather couch

Right after I posted about my precious son and his quirky desire to resist potty training (see below), my husband emailed me a link to a doctor's website. Upon these pages there was a Q and A session where a grandmother posted a short lament about her grandson, aged 4 years, and his absolute refusal to potty train (and in this case refuse to do anything that the parents suggest, including eat).

The doctor's response to this grandmother was that any child of this age who is otherwise healthy and able is simply in a power struggle with his parents and will not desist until said struggle goes away. I cringed as I read this - because if ever there was a potential case of parent asserting the ominous "control" simply because she can, it is I. I confess.

Let's be real... life with my kids is crazy. Mayhem I say! I have to be a warden... right? (yes, you say) But the truth is that the minute I relax on my "rules" so too do the children, and pretty soon we are all whistling as the blue birds tweet on our shoulders. OK, it is not at all so pretty, but you get my point. I think I can be objective about myself as a parent - and I now have to admit what I think I have known all along: I am the problem here.

In brief, the doctor's advice to get this kid to use the potty is to stop making it such a big deal. Transfer the power to the child, and leave it totally alone. I laugh, because I cannot count how many times I have doled out that same advice; that you cannot have a tug of war when you have dropped the rope, so let it go already. Well - I have let it go.

Prince Liam the Urine Stained woke on Saturday and was promptly told about the regime change. Dubious, he was dressed in some spiderman underpants, cotton shorts, and told the new plan. Borrowing from the helpful script that the kindly doctor provided, we began the one-sided role play:

"Your poop and pee pee belong to you. They are yours and it is your job to make sure they go in the potty. It is your responsibility to listen to your body and make sure that you put all of your poop and pee pee into the potty and not into your clothes. The potty is there for you, and you know what to do. I will help you if you need me, but I am not going to ask you about it any more."

And off he goes. He promptly wets his pants, and waddles over to share his dilemma. "Oh, ok" I say as though he asked if I would hand him a crayon. "Well, go into the laundry room and take off your wet stuff, here are some new clothes for you. Put your wet things into the washing pile please." Shockingly, he does this and we move along. About two hours later, and thoroughly tired of having to change himself over and again, he has peed three more times but did not ask for a change. He then has a bowel movement and isn't really sure what to do. Dying inside, I wait him out... he is not comfortable (I am visualizing bacterial infections and pink eye) but he is afraid to state the obvious. Eventually:

"Mama, do we have more pants? I made a poo poo and a pee pee in these."
"Sure thing, honey. Go get the wipes and come here to the laundry room (with the linoleum floor)." I tell him to take his pants off, and he looks at me - "Do I have to do it?" Nonchalant, I reply that of course he does, and drop the bomb that he will need to take them off so he can clean himself. He groans, and I am secretly thanking my new BFF and mentor: the website doc, because my son shares with me the borderline OCD revulsion to having dirty hands.

After a laborious and imperfect cleanse, my son is back in some new duds and I am starting a super-heated sanitize laundry of his entire summer wardrobe.

By Sunday night, I am in bed reading my book when Mike enters. My hands are raw from repeated washing and disinfecting them, I have done another load of just Liam's things and I start to complain to Mike that I am now a prisoner - I can't take Liam anywhere, what if he craps in his pants and we are among people? The kindly doctor doesn't cover this on his website, the bastard - what the hell does he know?

But, the doc promises results in less than a week (maybe even a few days!)... and so I muddle through.

And now it is Monday. I bring the clan to drop the elder two off to school and make it home without a drop of wetness on his clothes. We then spend the morning at home, eat lunch, and the little boys hung out playing. Liam is soaked by 11am. We watched a movie (Scooby Doo) before picking up the kids. Liam was dressed in very absorbent cargo shorts, and shorts-brief style hulk underpants in my attempt to cover him with as much fabric as possible for a summer day. He did not ask to be changed all day, but continued to pee as needed in his clothing.

By three o'clock, I can smell his clothing. I say nothing and announce it is time to get the kids. Pick-up at school is done via a drive-up lane, so we don't have to get out of the car. He gets into his seat and announces that he is going to get his booster seat wet. That's ok, I reply. And off we go. After we pick up the kids, I have two errands planned. I tell the kids that we are going to the store to buy sneakers for C and R, and Liam starts yelling from the back.

"Mama, I can't get out at the store, people will see my pee pee" (He is wearing rust colored pants and it is glaringly obvious they are wet.) "I am sorry honey, but it is your job to make sure to pee pee in the potty." He has a rather funny little tantrum to himself, which in itself is a feat because I think he realizes that I have stopped caring about his freak-outs. I smell victory on the horizon.

We arrive a the store, and he has to be removed from the car. We shop without incident, although I am petrified that he will pee again and drip in the store. He doesn't. We bring C to baseball practice and Liam plays with his siblings in the playground for the hour-long session. He is wet, and keeps grabbing himself. I tell him that there is a potty right here (about 5 feet away) and he says, where is it? I say it is here, and ask if he needs to go pee pee. *drumroll* He says yes! This is a first.

With glee, I walk over with him and open the door. It is a very clean one-man bathroom, and he says he doesn't like it. Not one to cause problems now, I say "Me neither, let's go at home." and he continues to play. About 15 minutes later, he is unable to move on the slide. His wet pants have him stuck at the top. I smile and say nothing, sipping my iced mocha and praying to the god of potty hygiene.

Homeward bound... I smell something, and it ain't sweet victory.

We arrive home and the kids join Mike in the yard chipping golf balls. It is one of the sweetest things to see at our house, they all love to golf. My friend Jen stops by and I am chatting with her when Liam runs by in his underpants.

M: "Liam, where are your shorts?"
L: "In the bathroom"
M: "OK, well go get them and put them on, you're outside."
L: "OK" and he walks to the door.

Jen - aware of my plight asks, "Is that poop running down his leg?"

*Sigh* Sure enough. I tell Liam he has to clean himself, and we meet up in the laundry room. While he is wiping his ankle, he explains that he got the poop on that part of his anatomy when it "rolled into my shorts, and down my underpants, and down to my knee and then here (touches his ankle) and onto the grass." I am reminded of the old song about the meatball all covered with cheese and its adventures when somebody sneezed.

Not sure what the protocol is for pooping on the lawn, I put a robe on him and give him a plastic shopping bag. As we descend the stairs, he says to me. "Won't the Poo Crew clean it for me?"

(Don't judge! At $10 a week for my two 80 lb. dogs, this is my one diva indulgence.)
I reply, "They don't come until Thursday."