Zoe vs. Potty Training, Part the Second

When last we left the epic poem that is Zoe and her bodily functions, events had come to a standstill. To catch you up, as well as to lend the proceedings some class, I'll summarize in iambic pentameter: 

Zoe's potty remains unstained. Alas!  

No pee, does she. And as for poo, no too/two. 

Take that, Shakespeare.

A movement about
a movement.

But I'm keeping the faith. Because there's been a new development. The Husband thinks it's a pronunciation issue but I choose to believe she has potty training on her mind. She calls pre-school "pee-school." And pre-K  "pee-kray." Cute misunderstanding or bowing to the pressure?

Of course, as The Husband points out, she also thinks potty training involves an actual train. And desperate as I am, I asked her if she wanted to ride it: All aboard the potty train! I said, my lame attempt to make relieving herself sound fun. Not yet, she responded. While we wait for that train, we're engaged in the Battle of Little Big Girl.

It began when we replaced the crib with a "Big Girl" bed. A Big Deal was made about Zoe being a Big Girl and Zoe responded well. "Zoe's a Big Girl" became her mantra. The words spilled over into ideas, and soon she insisted on doing more things on her own, like taking her shoes and socks off. This minor progress went to my head and I figured here was my chance to turn the screws with the potty.

She was way ahead of me. Albeit not physically.

On Saturday I carried the potty chair into the living room, where Zoe was busy grinding Play-Doh into the carpet, and subtly inquired, "Is Zoe a Big Girl?" Zoe started to answer, "Yes, Zoe's a B---" but then stopped to give me her full attention, sensing the Weight of Meaning in my tone. Her gazed bored into me, an unholy light shining from her eyes. Then she finished:  "--a Little Girl."

Me: "But remember how you told me the other day you were a Big Girl?"

Zoe: "No." 

Me: "But you sleep in a Big Girl bed, don't you?"

Zoe: "No."

Me (sighing): "Can I get an ETA on when you will be a Big Girl?" 

The subject was non-responsive. And resumed playing/destroying.

The fateful moment when Dr. Frankenstein decided
to dip the Monster's hand in a bowl of warm water,
earning him the nickname Dr. Prankenstein.

Since then whenever I broach the Big Girl topic she says, Not yet. Or, Soon. Three years old and already she knows about ulterior motives. What am I going to do when she's a teenager? My hope is that her obvious intelligence will someday catapult her into some powerful position, like Grand Poobah of Mad Scientists or President of the United States, a position so powerful that her underlings won't have the nerve to say anything when she voids herself, soiling her lab coat or lady power suit beyond recognition. 

Still, a mother can't help but worry. What if the Joint Chiefs call her President Poopy Pants behind her back?

I brought my concerns to the day care staff, and one of them recommended a video called Potty Power. With the one-two punch of catchy tunes and peer pressure, Potty Power promises to teach any recalcitrant toddler how to use the potty.

DJ Lance Rock wearing the hell out of a toilet paper cozy.

The video begins with a series of questions asking the child to identify which activities can be performed by a Big Kid and which by a baby. Insanely catchy ditties ensue, all sung by a fresh-faced gal wearing a style-resistant denim shirt. She is accompanied by an animated roll of toilet paper appropriately named T.P. It would be as surreal as children's programming gets if not for the existence of Yo Gabba Gabba.

The video ends with what I assume is a sendup of the "Princess and the Pea" story, except here it's a homonym of pea. (That would be pee, in case you're struggling.)

Chaos reigns in the castle, for the princess will not use the royal potty (I don't know how the writers resisted referring to it as a porcelain throne) and the king (her father) and the queen (her mother), along with the jester (why?), are attempting to train her. The jester is an irritating man-child mainlining silly. Not only does he wear the foolscap and the motley attire, but he's got disturbing makeup, most notably, a perfect circle of color on each cheek. For some reason the king and queen fail to consider that it's maybe the jester's presence that is causing the little princess to have a shy bladder. Eventually though, as with all fairy tales, we get a happy ending and the little princess succeeds.

As promised, Zoe enjoys this video. She enjoys it so much she stands in front of the TV, rapt, stamping her feet rhythmically to the songs in the puddle of pee that quickly forms beneath her.

It was his unusual rosacea that made Jigsaw such a sourpuss.

Still, it must be having some effect. The other night, Zoe shouted: "No more diapers!"

"Right on!"  I said.

"No more pull ups!" she shouted.

"Yes."

"And no more underwear."

"That's ri---" Um. Hmmm. Does this mean she wants to go commando? A whole new problem may have surfaced.

As for the potty train, we'll have to catch the next one.

Zoe: 21; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. Potty Training, Part the First

I don't know how many parts this will have. I'm just hoping I don't end up writing: "Zoe vs. Potty Training: The Wedding Edition."

I've already detailed how Zoe feels about the diaper change. A reasonable person might conclude she'd want to learn how to use a toilet to avoid that particular indignity, however, she does not see any contradiction in her behavior and refuses to entertain our arguments. 

As with everything else, Zoe's in charge, her father and I mere advisors, looking for avenues of influence. The biggest question we faced was when to start. We were apparently to look for signs she was ready, such as:

1. Asking to be changed (hilarious)

2. Telling us when she needs to go (Zoe only volunteers such info when it's a lie to get attention)

3. Being able to pull up and down her pull-ups (something she can magically accomplish at the day care yet always needs Mommy's help to do at home)

4. And, my favorite, from Baby Center: "when your child is in a generally cooperative stage, not a contrary or negative one." The closest we've come to this is when she says, yes, in response to my saying no, but I think you can see the problem.

Check out the newest looks for fall!

So we started slow. We introduced her to her Elmo potty, which was the signal she was waiting for to turn her back on Elmo forever, only not in the seated position we'd envisioned. We got her picture books to help her connect the dots between the independence she craved and a fresh and sparkling tuchus. We also bought a potty seat, which Zoe has decided is a hat. I firmly believe it will be the new look for fall among trendier toddlers.

At the beginning we'd try once a day, before bath, and if she peed while she was perched on the potty, the Husband and I would throw a parade to congratulate and encourage her. 

The results were hit or miss. Literally. She'd sit there, smiling at us, not peeing, waiting for her parade anyway, until finally I'd give up and say, Time for bath. Here she'd play it one of two ways:

1) Grab both sides of the potty while yelling, "No!" insisting she had to go, but really she just wanted to prolong sitting there leafing through magazines while we stared at her, rapt, as if she were the Dalai Lama passing a kidney stone engraved with a message from Elvis.

Or,

2) Get in the bath and immediately pee. 

Sometimes she wouldn't wait till she got in the bath. Sometimes she'd just stand there next to the bathtub as it filled and quietly, with no fanfare, pee on the floor. Then she'd jump up and down in it splashing and laughing while I ran for paper towels. Still, silver lining! We'd have a clean spot on the seldom-mopped bathroom floor. (Note to self: consider spinning child through air while she pees so the rest of the floor gets clean?)

Now as we know, toddlers, like other humans, don't just pee. There's another piece to the potty training puzzle. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting no one's favorite number: two.

From the beginning I was in charge of it. The Husband just can't handle it, runs for the hills, where they presumably don't allow people who aren't potty-trained. It took him several months before he could even change a poopy diaper. Faced with this unholiest of numbers (not 666, as thought), he panics. So it's up to me.

I can handle it though. Me, I mind vomit. Otherwise I'm fine. Pee, poop, blood, mucus, plasma, dark matter, bring it on. There were a few months where I was peed on so many times I felt disoriented if one leg wasn't warm and sticky. Getting pooped on didn't happen as often but each instance was memorable. Early on there was even some projectile poop. Between you and me and the lamppost, which is a pretty accurate description of the trajectory of this poop.

So when she's firing warning shots, causing me to gently inquire if she has to go before I put her in the bathtub, and she says no, and then drops a deuce in the tub, guess who's cleaning that up? To be fair, the Husband has other responsibilities. He's in charge of killing bugs, transferring contacts to new cell phones, and taking out the trash (all meanings).

Of all the orifices I could've had . . .

Meanwhile, at the day care, Zoe's apparently doing quite well with potty training. She uses the potty a few times a day. Perhaps it's the peer pressure, perhaps it's just that Mommy's not there to help/be her slave. I don't know. But the day care said she was definitely ready for us to make a big push, so to speak.

And so we decided it was time to try harder. Last weekend we put her in her new underwear and the plan was to take her to the bathroom every half hour. She peed before the half hour was up. So we figured we'd take her every fifteen minutes. Once again, missed the time frame, did not miss the rug. Ten minutes. Nope. Apparently she pees like she eats, a little here, a little there. 

We went through several pairs of her big girl underwear before I just hauled the potty in front of the TV, undressed her completely, stood her on her changing mat, and told her to sit on the potty whenever she had to go. As soon as I turned around to continue cleaning the rug, I heard the unmistakable sound of a stream of liquid hitting plastic.

Zoe: 11; Universe: 0