Training Day

We have three fish; the last survivors of a fleet that now swims in the great toilet bowl in the sky. We got the fish as a prize for our son, Teddy, for finally being potty trained. While I love not having to deal with changing wee sheets in the wee hours and lugging around a diaper bag the size of steamer trunk, I hate the aquarium. I hate the hum of the filter. I hate the smell of fish food. I hate that sometimes one of the residents hides for two days, which means I turn into CSI Aquarium. That means grabbing a net and digging for a body. Then that little orange sliver flits out from under a Tiki hut and flips its tail at me, the fish version of the middle finger.

But the aquarium still stands. Why? A. Because it was my idea in the first place. B. I’m a glutton for punishment. And C. Teddy was obsessed with the dead fish episode of “Daniel Tiger.” We figured a three-year-old should probably be introduced to the idea of living fish rather than the latter. I proudly ranked myself as CAO: Chief Aquarium Operator. I held the position for like a day. But the intense amount of dry heaving and exclamations of, “OH MY GOD! I CAN’T! THE SMELL! I’M DYING!” led to my quick retirement. In between bouts of nausea, I dragged my green-tinged carcass into Jared’s office, and handed him the net. “You’re the captain, now.”

Honestly, in terms of unwanted chores, I would take dirty diapers over cleaning out a fish tank. Have you ever tried to potty train a kid? If you have, God bless you. I will pop open a can of wine in your honor. Teddy never really showed interest in the idea of the potty. But diapers only go up to certain size before it’s necessary to switch over to the geriatric section. When dropping a potty-training child off at a friend’s house, the child is as welcome as bear in a camper.

We decided it was time to start our foray into self-regulatory control during a family night at my parents’ house. Teddy toddled around the corner of the sectional, and cuddled up to my mom. He proudly stuck up a finger, covered in a biological substance. It was poop. He had poop on his finger. They say a child always shows signs of being ready to toilet train. If this wasn’t a sign, then we’ve got bigger problems.

I immediately opened my Bible, also known as Pinterest, and started pinning wildly. Cute potties! Baby urinals! Sticker charts! Prizes! Rewards! Look at all the urological cuteness! I found a potty in the shape of a skunk at our local Marshall’s. Get it, skunk? Stinky? Stinky kid butt? It’s adorable.

Guess what’s not adorable? Let’s say it all together! POTTY TRAINING. It’s irritating. It’s gross. It’s inconvenient. There are the two approaches we took. Militaristic and Woodstock. So, the 60s, pretty much. For the militaristic method, we set timers and placed the kid on the pot every ten minutes. We put him in big kid undies to get the feel of freedom from the diaper. We made a big deal when Jared went to the bathroom. This was a short-lived approach, as it resulted in Teddy yelling in the middle of the grocery store, “DADDY! Show me your penis!” If you have not experienced your child yelling ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ in a public place, just wait. It will happen.

The Woodstock approach is just letting your little flower child run around pants-less with a potty in a centralized location. Much like hippies at Woodstock. Come on, ask your weird Aunt Sharon. She was there.

We also added a little frog-shaped urinal to our bathroom. It was a frog head, mouth agape, with a little spinning tongue at which the kid was supposed to “aim.” It was rather gross, if you think about it too much. We named the urinal, Piddly. I have a thing for naming inanimate objects. Piddly was a hit. Except when Teddy insisted on dumping it out into the toilet, himself. Oh my Gawd. We practically had to install a bleach dispenser. So much spilled urine. The carpet was another story. It was old carpet. But we still had to function like civilized people. When we pulled up that old beige carpet this past winter, the back resembled the flooring they pull out of those houses on Hoarders.

It was a cathartic experience, watching that old carpet rise into the air, as “I’m Proud to be an American” blasted from the Bose. My father-in-law was over and as always, insists on his own playlist as he works. He’s free labor, so we say play that funky music. His playlist has become part of our family lore. An eclectic mix of Bon Jovi, TSO, the soundtrack from “Pitch Perfect,” some doo-wop, and the Christian version of Nickelback’s “Kryptonite.”

Teddy is finally potty trained.  It involved a lot of thrown away Spiderman undies. We had his preschool open house a couple days ago. His new teacher’s eyes lit up with joy when Teddy proclaimed he needed to go, and directed his dad to the bathroom. Apparently, we didn’t wait too long to train him. So fear not, my friends. It’s not too late. Jared’s mom still regales us with her worries that back in the early 90s her own son would not be potty trained in time for kindergarten. I do her son’s laundry now. I confess I’m still concerned about his toilet habits sometimes.

But that’s parenthood. It’s filled with messy occurrences, unwanted chores, and sometimes a dead fish. But there’s good stuff, too. There’s a kid who announces loudly, “I GOTTA GO POTTY!”, and takes himself to the bathroom. There’s new flooring that we put in ourselves. Now the cats just puke on the remaining rugs. Teddy is no longer to blame for mystery stains. Well, unless slime or Play Doh is involved. Then all fingers point to the four-year-old. There’s still the aquarium, but I choose to ignore it. But isn’t that what life is about? It takes the mundane and unwanted chores and work to make you appreciate what you love. And potty training really makes you appreciate clean underwear and wine.