I have learned many things from my children. I learned this truth from my middle child.

Potty training brings so many challenges to a family, and there is little adult logic involved in the process. If you tried to potty train a 30-year-old, it would be a matter of bribery combined with the convincing the person of the appeal of a new lifestyle in which a person does not steep in one’s own smelly doody. You don’t have a lot of friends when you smell like crap.

Fortunately, we are usually potty trained well before 30, typically before college anyway, although there are some recorded cases of relapse among college students, however I am told this is typically alcohol-related.

“Number One,” or the ability to urinate in the toilet, was much easier with Anna than teaching her to do Number Two (solid waste deposit). After spending many months working on this skill, there was very little measurable progress. I always got the standard line from other people along the lines of, “Take comfort knowing she will probably be completely trained by the time she goes to kindergarten.”

Thanks. Thanks a lot. Only 2-3 years of this nonsense!

Even more ridiculous was the advice from my childless friends. I vaguely remember my life before children. There were things like silence, uninterrupted TV programs, book-reading, movie-watching (in a theater, sometimes the same week a movie came out!) and social activities with other childless people. The friends who had children rarely came, although they often expressed great interest in attending an event. Why don’t they just get a sitter? How hard can it be?

HA!

Now that the tables are turned, I must endure ridiculous, ludicrous advice from my still childless friends. “Put your daughter on the toiley and tell her to make a poo.” I kid you not, that was actual advice rendered by a childless person. I wanted to tell her, “Of course, why didn’t I think of that 8 months ago when we started this crappy endeavor?” We tried treats, bribery, reasoning, promises of pretty underwear and so on before the light bulb finally came on in her head.

When the poopy finally did land in the toilet instead of the PullUps or panties, the celebration was on par with the Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah. I am pretty sure the neighbors heard us screaming and jumping around. Anna then informed us, “Now the poopy is in his home.” Now that is kid logic. The poop’s home is not in your pants, it’s in the toilet. Duh. (And I loved that she thought the poop was a boy...)

We got so excited when she finally started making a habit of pooping in the toilet, that for a while, I started showing my husband every time I pooped, followed by jumping up and down screaming with glee. My husband became so accustomed to my wierdness that he simply would share his brief excitement with me, then quickly run away and close the door behind him.