After months of prep work, endless pep talks, and countless readings of those delightful lift-the-flap books that make silly noises, I think my son might finally be getting the hang of potty training. With a mountain of rewards, a river of tears, and a small fortune spent on tiny underwear that have mysteriously ended up in the trash instead of the laundry basket, I’m cautiously optimistic. It seems like we’ve cracked the code: “urge = big boy chair!” He practically sprints to the bathroom when nature calls, ready to perform the expected routine of a little one mastering independent toileting.
But here’s where we hit a wall: technique and follow-through. It’s like watching a kid try to make a basketball shot during the championship game with just half a second left. Spoiler alert: there’s no perfect form, and he never scores. Better luck next time, or the next, or the next after that. Miss after miss, it’s like watching air balls fly left and right. “Sorry buddy, but you’re benched for the season,” I joke. “No offense, but you’re not exactly an all-star.”
My son is determined to emulate his dad’s “stand up routine.” It’s adorable, but given his short stature, he just can’t seem to pull it off. He’s committed to this method, refusing to sit on the chair designed specifically to contain his little manhood. That $40 chair? It’s now a permanent fixture beside the toilet, clean and untouched—ironically the only thing in the bathroom that doesn’t end up splattered thanks to my son’s aim.
When it comes to teaching aim, well, let’s just say I’m at a disadvantage. As a girl, I sit, and it’s a lot easier. We wipe everything down and go on with our lives. Standing to pee? It’s a disaster waiting to happen. The pee never quite makes it where it’s supposed to go. It’s messy, and honestly, I’d prefer if the boys in my life would just head to the nearest tree instead of making me break out my stash of rubber gloves and disinfecting wipes again. “Sorry, neighbors! Not my problem anymore!”
We’ve tried all sorts of strategies. Credit goes to my husband for coming up with “target practice.” The idea is to toss something into the bowl and cheer, “Hit it!” Whether it’s a square of toilet paper, a marshmallow, or a floating Cheerio, the enthusiasm is there: “You got this, buddy!” But alas, it’s like a fire hose with no one to direct the flow. “The house is on fire, buddy! Redirect!” Forget being a fireman; he might just end up as an abstract artist throwing paint from across the room—at least he’ll be creative!
Regardless of what he grows up to be, as long as he’s not one of those guys who doesn’t lift the seat and clean up after himself, I’ll be proud. All bets are off if that happens!
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Summary:
In this lighthearted account of potty training, Jamie shares the trials and tribulations of teaching her son to use the toilet. With a mix of humor and relatable struggles, she reflects on the challenges of aim and technique, while also celebrating the small victories and the adorable eagerness of her little one.