October 15, 2010
“No way, the potty is closed!” Zach cries as he runs into the living room, my middle-aged ass trying desperately to catch up to him. “No hon, it’s open for your business” I yell at his retreating back, moments before I finally manage to corner him between the couch and the chair. “BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO ON THE POTTY!!!!” he informs me in no uncertain terms, and I realize if we’re to keep true to our “every half-hour potty training protocol” I’m going to have to carry him bodily to the toilet, kicking and screaming as we go. This is not exactly how I envisioned our two-hour break between pre-school and nap to go today, but since I’ve already been through this once with the other kid, the one who took over a year to train, I find myself oddly unmoved by his pleas. Sadly, for Zach, I used up all of my “potty empathy” on his older brother. He’s just going to have to suck it up.
They say all kids are different, and this adage is certainly holding true when it comes to my sons and their spectrum issues, even down to good old pee pee on the potty. When Jeff and I went through this years ago with Justin he showed no fear of releasing his waste to the porcelain god, just an utter disdain at the thought that he was required to make any kind of effort in the removal of his bodily fluids. Frankly, he would have been perfectly happy to have me wipe his ass for the remainder of his life, and there was a period of time when I thought that was exactly what was going to happen. Justin’s issues with the bathroom centered around pure laziness, an unwillingness to relinquish a toy or a moment with his DVD player that he could never get back. He was simply being stubborn about learning a new skill.
Can’t imagine where he picked that up.
My youngest, on the other hand, seems to be terrified of the entire concept. And yes, we read Elmo Goes on the Potty beforehand. We’ve had him cheer for Justin’s peepees and poopies for the last year, even allowed him to flush them away, a treat which satisfies him to this very day. He has a reward system of his choosing in place, one in which the child only has to sprinkle the pristine surface of the toilet water on three separate occasions to get his coveted prize, a new Halloween book (yup, he’s my son). We’ve already aborted this mission once in the spring when he had just turned three (and his poor pre-school teacher was changing sodden clothes five times a day), and I am determined that this time we will stick it out, AS GOD IS MY WITNESS. So far, he’s emulated his brother completely, staying completely dry at school, urinating once in the toilet just to show off, then returning home.
Yes, home, where for the last week I’ve run through three detergent bottles in as many days. I’m so thrilled to put the children of Tide’s employees through college this fall.
I have to admit, when we did this with Justin we had moments of real despair, knowing that although it’s the exception and not the rule, there are adults with autism still in diapers. Apparently, mastering the art of the potty has nothing to do with how intelligent they are, so the fact that Justin was reading at three was no clear predictor of whether or not he’d require Depends. It took thirteen months (but who’s counting) to get him to a semi-independent place in the bathroom, and I have never been more relieved than when his clean clothes finally began to outnumber his dirty on a daily basis. I believe I actually did a happy dance.
No, you will not see it on YouTube.
The truth is I’m much more inured to Zach’s angst because we’ve been successful once before, he is fairly easy to cajole out of terror, and because I’m pretty certain the allure of a Tyrannosaurus Rex Halloween book will outweigh his fears eventually. That, coupled with the fact that I’m also certain he has a thing for blonds and won’t want to be dating in diapers, gives me hope that this child will conquer this skill too, and hopefully before Halloween 2011. Perhaps I’m being premature, but I swear I saw a slight grin through his tantrum the other day when he thought I wasn’t looking, and the giant smile he sported when he finally did tinkle in the appropriate receptacle could not have been faked. I may be going out on a limb here, but I believe, OH I BELIEVE, my diaper days are numbered.
But if you hear loud screams from central Jersey in the next few months, you’ll know I was wrong