Potties Field

When my daughter flashes one of her signature displays of unbreakable will, it instantly transports me back in time to our first mother-daughter conflict—indeed the eternal struggle that forever defines the parent-child dynamic:  potty training.  To say that my daughter was a tough nut to crack is an understatement.   Long past her third birthday she exhibited no interest in potty independence.  And why should she?  Today’s disposable diapers are so advanced in their absorption technologies that a child hardly knows when a biological event has taken place.  She was also immune to peer-pressure.  Just because everyone in her pre-school class had graduated to big-girl and big-boy status did not change her agenda one iota. 

Resolute though she was, she did not know with whom she was dealing.  Armed with the classics Once Upon a Potty and Everyone Poops, I planned my assault. I explained to my boss, himself the father of three boys, that I would be working from home for the next week.  Then I went shopping.   No girl is immune to the powers of beautiful lingerie.  I procured an assortment of tiny panties, each adorned with girlie themes from pink roses to Disney princesses.  She took one look and cooed, “Pretty, mommy!”

She loved the way the soft cotton felt against her body, its sleekness vastly superior to the bulky Pull-Ups.  When one of my staff came by mid-week to pick up something, she jumped out in front of him and lifted up her dress saying, “Look!  I have pretty panties!”  Oh brother, I thought.  I looked at the newly uninhibited monster I created, expressing her pride with a 360 degree view, worried that this could backfire if she were still exposing herself by the time she reached fourteen or fifteen.  Nonetheless, we pushed onward.  After a few false starts and a couple of teary episodes, our week of vigilance and consistency paid off.  She was on her way to becoming emancipated—and so was I. 

The following weekend, Grandma and Grampa came to visit for Father’s Day.  Back in those days, Atlanta was home to Expo, a giant Home Depot-owned concept store that eventually failed when a scaled back version was taken nationwide.  The original Expo blueprint, however, was home renovation Disneyland—a massive warehouse featuring top-of-the-line appliances and finishes for every corner of the home and patio.   This was not your father’s Home Depot—it was crack for the HGTV addict.  I could think of nothing that my dad would rather do on Father’s Day than roam the acres of this store perusing the latest fixtures and faucets, grills and garage doors, and cordless power tools.  At the same time, we were planning a master suite expansion on our second floor, putting us in the market for all manner of things: sinks, toilets, showerheads, faucets, and tile.

In our family, Home Depot expeditions are always a family affair.  We piled our three generations into the new minivan, ignoring the cliché we had become.  As we pulled up to Expo, I was focused on my father, prepared to be entertained by his utter enthrallment.   The store was laid out in quadrants, each a full-service design center for a different aspect of the house:  kitchen, bath, windows and doors, garden and patio.  We found ourselves at the intersection of bath and kitchen, uncertain which way to go first.  My daughter, who at this point had been ignored for a full five minutes, looked behind our backs and surveyed the scene.  “Potties!” she said lustily under her breath.  With that, she took off through my husband’s legs toward a large array of porcelain monuments.   Before we could catch her, she had dropped “trow” and climbed atop the fanciest of all the toilets, prepared to demonstrate her latest DIY skill to the public.

Running as fast as I could, I grasped my little princess just in time to avoid real humiliation.  Most of this went unnoticed by the clamoring public.  One salesman, who had witnessed the whole scene, was laughing so hard I feared he would need to excuse himself to the mensroom.   I tried my best to calm myself and praise my daughter for her initiative, afraid to spook her and reverse our progress, suggesting that she would be happier in a room where the potties had doors.

For the record, my daughter is still as stubborn and unyielding as ever.  She knows her mind and no one can tell her otherwise.  Nonetheless, her life is a bowl full of possibilities and she is flush with enthusiasm for what the world will bring her way.   

Tomorrow's blog:  Onward, Blogging Fool