Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 196

You guys,

We stand in a Home Goods parking lot on a Sunday afternoon, the rain pouring down, and stare at our toddler who sits on a potty in the trunk of our SUV.

“Are you done yet, bud?” I ask. 

He says no. I tell him it’s raining, which might as well be the same thing as telling him my favorite color is green. 

I don’t know why but the only thing about motherhood I dreaded more than labor was potty training. I heard once that fear is just a lack of knowledge. For example, I’m afraid when I fly in an airplane that we’re going to collide in the sky with another airplane. Perhaps if I learned about air traffic control I would find this idea silly. But I do not learn about such things. 

The first time my toddler poops in a potty and asks me how to wipe, I will remain crouched down next to him, wipe in hand, a stuck statue, as if the White Witch has just waved her wand and turned me to stone. My husband will walk into the room and ask what are you doing, and I will say I don’t know, I don’t know what to do, can you take over? And he will. 

The only thing I contributed to this huge milestone in my son’s life was a trip to Lowe’s for painter's tarp. I stood in the aisle and stared at all the options—five different sizes and three different thicknesses—until a 19-year-old employee meandered past and asked if I needed help. 

“This is probably too much information,” I said, “but we’re potty training this weekend.”

He nodded, his youthful wavy blond hair swaying with his head. 

“Your dog?” he said.

“No, my kid,” I said.

“Oh,” he said.

“How do I know which thickness to get?” I asked.

“I would go thickest,” he said.

“Really? It’s just pee,” I said.

He looked at the tarps, then back at me. “Yea… this isn’t my department.” 

In our first attempt at potty training we tarped the living room chairs, couch, and carpet. When Sam and I clapped our hands and told George about our fun weekend ahead—as if we were going to Disney—he cried. 

A month later we laid the tarp out early Friday evening. George and Layla ran back and forth on it, its newness and crinkly-ness as thrilling as a water slide. George announced that he wanted to put on underwear, and just like that we started potty training on Friday night instead of Saturday morning. 

We were prepared to reward him with an M&M each time he went on the potty. (Before I became a parent I would have scoffed at using candy as a bribe. Before I became a parent I thought parenting would be easier.) But rather than run to the kitchen for a piece of chocolate, he ran to the bathroom to watch us pour the pee into the toilet, and waited for the okay to flush on his own. 

For the most part I think of Sam and myself as equals when it comes to parenting, but I watch from afar as George announces, “I have to pee,” for the fifth time in a row, after we have washed his hands five times, after which there must be no pee left, and Sam responds with, “Great, buddy, let’s do it!” And I follow them to the potty situated at the bottom of the stairs, simultaneously annoyed that we’re going through this whole thing again, and in awe that Sam is so good at this, and I know in this moment that potty training is going to be a success because Sam is here and he’s cheering George on and George is having fun and if it were just me I would tell George he doesn’t have to pee because he just went, and all the happiness and positive energy would be sucked out of the room. 

On the third day we embark on a car ride with a potty in the trunk. It’s only a 10-minute ride to pick up food. Sam tells me to tell George we can pull over if he needs to pee, so I do.  

One block away from home George says he has to pee. I stifle an eye roll. Sam pulls over to the side of the street and carries George to the trunk. We stand in the rain while George sits on his throne, smiling. He doesn’t pee. 

We get back in the car and start driving. “You know,” I say, “if we didn’t say anything maybe he would have just told us if he actually had to pee.”

“Oh, so you’re blaming me?” Sam says.

Three minutes later George says he has to pee. I tell him we’ll be there in ten minutes and can he hold it. 

He cannot.

We pull over into the Home Goods parking lot. The rain is relentless. As we stand at the trunk of the car watching George not pee, I remind myself that this whole weekend is supposed to be dedicated to potty training. Why can’t I just be all in for this experience?

Two little drops of pee come out. “I peed!” George says.

On the drive home George has to pee. I ask if he can hold it for ten minutes.

He cannot. 

We pull over at a gas station, this time under an awning, and George pees, a lot. 

Later that evening George pinches Layla. I take him upstairs for a break. We sit together for five minutes. He is no longer screaming but continues to grab my nose and my face. I finally leave him and walk downstairs. He stands at the top of the stairs screaming for Papa. 

Sam looks up at him from the bottom of the stairwell and George is standing in a puddle of piss. Sam rushes to his side, telling him it’s okay. I tell Sam he did it on purpose, and Sam says no and looks at me in a way that makes me know I’ve just said an ugly thing. 

Two more times I hold George in a restrained position so he doesn’t scratch me and he tells me he has to pee. I think he’s just saying it to get out of my arms but reluctantly let him walk out to the potty, and both times he sits on the potty and pees. 

Monday morning George is officially knighted as potty trained and goes to school in underwear instead of a diaper. As we drive home Sam says how amazing George did this weekend. 

And I agree. George did great.

—

Until next week,

Charlie

Camilo Moreno-Salamanca

,

Rick Lewis

, and Alex Michael, thank you for the notes when nothing made sense.