One of my proudest moments in parenthood — ok, in life — was when I realized that Sophie was potty trained.
Not at night, she still wears a diaper at night, and I’m not saying she doesn’t have the occasional accident, but as soon as we really decided to set her free in panties, she rose to the occasion (or rather, squatted to it).
Yes, she was almost 5. Still. Let me have my moment.
Ray won’t. He, too, is thrilled that Sophie pees and poops in the potty, but doesn’t like some of my techniques. Of course, I question them, too. (My M.O. for all things big and small, whether he believes that or not.) The whole thing’s too much to get into — I have 11 minutes to wrap this up, that’s when my mother in law’s birthday corn muffins should be done (don’t be impressed, I used the “Jiffy” mix) — but here’s one example:
Yesterday morning, I plopped Sophie on the potty (she’s still to small to get on and off easily) and said, “OK, Sophie, pee!”
She was in ball buster mode, so I did what I often do, and turned on the sink.
“Ahh, Listen to the water. Doesn’t that make you have to go?”
This is one of my own mother’s oldest tricks. It almost always works for Sophie, too. Trouble is, Ray was in the room as well. (We have a bathroom shortage in our house.)
“Don’t do that,” he said, and turned the water off.
“She’ll pee every time she hears running water.”
I sniffed. “Well, mother did that to get me to go when I was Sophie’s age, and I don’t pee when I hear running water.”
“But you don’t have Down syndrome.”