Tuesday, July 24, 2007

potty training

The year is 2025. “Harry Potter: The Musical” has just opened on Broadway, and Isaac, my 20-year-old son, rises from his seat in seventh row center as the curtain closes for intermission and wades through the crowd to the men’s room, where, miraculously, he makes use of the facilities all by himself.

I try to keep that glorious day as my vision. But most days, it’s hard.

More lies. They just keep coming. My sister told me, “Oh, potty train in the summer – put them outside naked and then they see when they have to go.” As if that were the issue.

My kid knows exactly when he has to go. Sometimes even informs me while the act is in progress. And we have our good days – the days when I can get him excited about all those commercial cartoons printed on his underwear. On those days, we do well. Very well. It’s getting to that point that’s the biggie. Most of the time the battle cry is “DIE-boo! DIE-boo!” How we love our captors.

The other part of the lie about the summer being the best time to potty train is that since you have to be home to do it and the summer is filled with festivals and beach days and stuff that is much cooler than watching the dust bunnies burrow in the living room, it demands sacrifice. Isaac and I don’t care for sacrifice.

The potty seat has become part of our household décor. Tattooed with stickers, a symbol of both pride and horror, it stands by us, whether loved or forgotten, plastic blue and white receptacle that fills my days and that I, were it solely up to me, would have filled in return.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I remember having nightmares of David, wearing a leather jacket and driving his car...wearing diapers. It will be done, I promise.
PS I love the new format! Jude

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