A Tale of Two Potties

How would you ever get a kid off this thing?

Yep. You guessed it. Toilet training or, in the politically correct language of today, toilet learning. My youngest son just took his first b.m. on the real toilet. The bane of my existence, the intermediary potty chair, is now a thing of the past. Oh, how I loathe that thing. In the often surreal world of parenting, saying good-bye to the potty chair is on par with winning the lottery or spiritual enlightenment (both of which would be nice). I feel lighter, as if a load’s been lifted, or, er – flushed, as it were.

My oldest son didn’t use a potty chair. When he was born, I read Diaper Free: The Gentle Wisdom of Natural Hygiene by Ingrid Bauer, a book about elimination communication. If you’re unfamiliar with the concept, it’s: “…a practice in which a caregiver uses timing, signals, cues, and intuition to address an infant’s need to eliminate waste. Caregivers try to recognize and respond to babies’ bodily needs and enable them to urinate and defecate in an appropriate place (e.g. a toilet).” This definition is straight from Wikipedia – don’t worry, I can confirm the accuracy of it because I read the book, remember?

So, like many first-time mothers, I had high aspirations – a diaper-free baby. I confess, I didn’t try too hard to catch the wet ones, but I definitely wanted to get him pooping on the potty. And I did it! Not because of the book, though, but because the poor Big Guy suffered from constipation. Although, according to the strict definition of constipation, he wasn’t really, he just didn’t go very often. Before he was even six months old, he could go two whole weeks without a b.m. However you want to define it, we had a problem. Suffice it to say that when the Big Guy had to finally go, it was pretty obvious and I had plenty of time to get him on the toilet. I barely changed any poop diapers at all.

Then the Little Guy came. It’s as if all the diapers that I would have changed with the Big Guy had accumulated in the ether and I got to change them on the Little Guy. Occasionally, I thought about elimination communication but with two little guys to take care of, quite frankly, I didn’t have the presence of mind nor the patience required for intuiting b.m. signals.

However, I had read other baby books that stress how important it is to not make a “yuck” face when changing diapers lest your precious baby interpret the “yuck” face to mean that he is yucky, not just the poop. Let’s try not to damage their self-esteem right from the get-go. Okay, check. I got that. So, I whistled, sang, and smiled my way through thousands of HazMat worthy diaper changes.

Then, when it was time, I encouraged him to get on the regular toilet with the special potty ring over the top. Nope. Not happening. I cajoled, begged and pleaded, to no avail. Mind you, I didn’t resort to bribery. It’s against my personal policy to offer anyone an M&M to do bodily functions. Let’s all take a moment to envision just where we end up with that.

Anyway, it got so that he wasn’t wearing diapers at all anymore but when he had to have a b.m., he would come and ask for one, “Can I get a diaper? I have to poo.” Um. Okay. After a while, I told him to get the diaper himself. And he did. He’d just bring it to me and say, “Can you put this on me? I have to go.” Now, of course it didn’t get to where he was actually putting on his own diaper. I promise. I broke down and got the dreaded potty chair. What does the potty chair do? For the Little Guy, it gave him confidence. For me, it was just a great big bowl of ka-ka. Turns out, the best elimination communication is when your kid says, “I have to go to the bathroom, Mom. I’ll be back in a while.”

My Mom Would Have Hated This!

Spectacular Bougainvillea

My mom passed away in August of this year. I started this blog a few weeks later in September. It was a birthday present to myself. My mom would have hated it. She would have wrinkled her nose and shook her head in distaste. She would have asked, “Why?” or “What for?” through the phone (she was in Canada and I live in California) but I wouldn’t have had to see her in person to get the look and that distinct head shake. It would have been there. I know it the way one knows their own mother.

My mother was pathologically secretive; I suspect it was something born of fear, disappointment, and unhappiness, and the walls that she built around herself were impenetrable. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and lived well past two years from her first diagnosis. This was her last big secret and she burdened her daughters with it. Of course, I told everyone I knew (“Pssst, don’t tell anyone but my mom is dying…”) but my mom carried on in her regular life as if nothing had changed at all.

She went about her daily routine, volunteer work, bingo nights, crib nights, her almost daily trips to the Legion that she lived just across the street from. To talk about her condition was taboo. In fact, the question, “How are you feeling?” would be met with an indignant response of, “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Oh. Of course. Then we would move on to a more benign discussion of the weather. I gathered as much information from my sister as I could.

I made several trips to Canada during the two years that my mom was dying and each time was a visit much like any other. Gambling (oh, I hate it so), short road trips, and talk about nothing. She never made any emotional declarations (not to me, anyway). She never told me that she loved me or that I had been a good daughter or that she was happy to have known me, but in all fairness, she also didn’t say anything to the contrary (not directly to me, at least). My attempts at a sincere farewell were quickly rebuffed.

Whatever she was feeling she kept secret, except for her impatience and general disapproval. That was never a secret. In the last weeks of her life, she went to a hospice. In a meeting with the hospice Director, I asked, “Can I expect a big emotional ending with my mother?” “Generally, people die as they lived,” was her reply. I wasn’t there when my mother took her last breath; she died quickly and suddenly. No funeral, no service, no fanfare, exactly as she wanted. And that was that.

Among other things, I felt liberated. It was the opposite of what I expected. I started my blog knowing that my mother would have completely disapproved and I was quite happy that I didn’t have to face that disapproval. I felt secrets that I had kept for years falling away from me and I felt lighter, braver, and happier. I love blogging and for the short time I’ve been doing it, I’ve felt a huge sense of satisfaction and enjoyment. Such freedom!

Shortly after I started my blog, I had a dream about my mother. In my dream, I walked into my back yard to find that my mom had cut my Bougainvillea tree down to nothing. “What have you done?” I cried in distress.”It was too big, too messy.” my Mom replied. I couldn’t believe it; I was in a dream state of shock and horror to find my big, gorgeous, grand tree cut down to a stick. I woke up from the dream but my distress lingered.

I told my husband about my dream and he thought about it for a minute. “Funny you would dream of that tree, what does it matter, anyway? The thing grows like a weed.” And suddenly, just like that, my perspective changed. He was right. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It wouldn’t take long and that tree would’ve come right back, just as big, bold, and beautiful as ever. I reflected on that dream, what I know of my mom, and what I know of the Bougainvillea.

What I got from it is this: that anything I think my mother “did” to me, to cut me down or clean me up, never really stopped me from blooming and growing as big and bold as any Bougainvillea. Also, I realized that it’s okay to let others in on the “secret,” whether it’s that I’m miserable or happy or somewhere between.

In particular, I don’t have to keep happiness a secret. My propensity to look at the dark side, to deny the reality that my life is actually something pretty wonderful is a secret I keep; it’s heavily guarded for fear that someone wants to take it from me. I isolate myself with my secrets. I’m reluctant to share myself with others.

So, that’s my resolution this year, not to let it all hang out exactly (baby steps, please), but to prune away fear and secrets. In 2013, I will let go of my fear of happiness, I will be less afraid to get bigger and bolder, less afraid of the big mess, and far less afraid to be spectacular.

Thank you to my many blogging friends for your encouragement and support!

Happy New Year!

Bribery vs. Sanity

“Do you want to come with me to the hardware store?” asks Dad.

“No, thanks,” replies Big Guy. Little Guy is asleep on the couch and I seize an opportunity for alone time.

“I’ll give you some chocolate chips if you go with Dad,” I said.

“How many? A little bunch or a lot?”

“Medium bunch.”

He nods. We have a deal. Instant guilt.

“Do you know what that was – that Mommy just did? It’s called bribery – it’s not right.”

Husband rushes to my defense (and scores big points). “It’s not bribery. It’s using the resources you have available at the time to get what you want.” Yes. That sounds better.

Boobs, Blankets, and Boundaries

I just saw the Luv’s diaper commercial. It shows a woman in a restaurant breastfeeding her baby with a cover draped over her boob and her baby. Cut to a few years later: same woman, second child, no blanket, letting it all hang out.  I love the message of this commercial that the woman is proud, matter-of-fact, and unapologetic.

It triggered memories of my breastfeeding experiences. Not because I was so proud or anything. I was kind of the opposite actually. I breastfed each of my kids for 18 months and 17 months, respectively. In some circles it’s hardly a blip on the radar but for me, it was a miracle; trophy material.

The anxiety and pressure I felt was so great I couldn’t even consider throwing a blanket over my shoulder. No time for that. My boob was half out of my shirt at the Big Guy’s first cry or whimper and my mind was frantically screaming, “This baby needs to EAT!!!!” He loved it. Me: not so much. I think a lot of people may have seen more of me than they wanted to see. I was too crazed to care.

My original goal was to breastfeed for 6 months. I remember being three months into it and thinking that six months was impossible. The relentlessness of it, the constant attachment, and sheer physicality of it was hard for my isolate nature to handle. Suddenly it got easier and six months came and went. He started eating real food and I set a new goal. I could breastfeed until his first birthday. That milestone came but he still looked so little to me. Cutting him off seemed unnecessary and downright mean considering how much he loved it. He loved it enough for both of us, right? My already tepid enthusiasm waned some more but I soldiered on. Every couple of months I would entertain the idea of stopping. I started talking about it to all the other moms I knew. Most of them had already stopped. They all had good ideas for weaning but I never really latched on to any of them (pun intended).

Finally, someone told me I had a boundary issue. That really clicked and I finally admitted to myself what had been mostly true from the start: that I was not into this anymore. It’s not working for ME! And suddenly, it was over. It didn’t take too long. I had empathy for my son throughout his transition but I was happy and relieved to let it go.

When my Little Guy came it was much easier. I didn’t need a lactation consultant. I didn’t need a support group and I didn’t pull my boob out willy-nilly. I was much calmer but definitely not saner. Actually, I became expert at feeding my son lying down. That way I could kill two birds with one stone. Feed my baby and get a little rest. The only blanket I used was the one to cozy into while I was trying to get some sleep. I would have been happy to stop at a year but my boundary issue popped up again disguised as guilt. How could I cut the Little Guy off at a year when I breastfed the Big Guy for 18 months? Well, I wrestled with the guilt for five months and then that was over too. We all made another successful transition from one kind of relentlessness to another.

The very essence of parenting; walking the tightrope between meeting the needs of my children and meeting my own. The only thing I’ve proven so far is that I’d never make it in a circus. I have respect for all mothers who feed their children with breasts or otherwise and their journey in doing it. One thing we all have in common: who cares what the waiter thinks?