We got a letter from the pre-school last week stating that all three-year-olds must be potty trained in order to attend school in the fall. This fall – the one that arrives in two weeks according to the school calendar. Which is still summer. Remember the good old days when fall had something to do with the Gregorian calendar and leaves falling, blah blah old lady rant blah?
They do not indicate if they will refund our deposit if we are unable to meet their
stupid arbitrary deadline. But I’m guessing not.
The pressure to potty train, it’s just so… not helpful for my own intestinal issues.
Nonetheless, we’ve made a little progress on that front. We have had some measure of success. We still have a ways to go, if you will — or even if you won’t — but we are working on it. At this point, it’s a matter of will, not skill – a will that makes iron look like warm butter.
Many times a day, I enthusiastically enumerate to Sean the many benefits and privileges of wearing big boy undies. And I sound as though I am trying to sell him an annuity or something equally useless. If I were calling myself on the phone with this fabulous offer, I would hang up on me. Really.
stupid arbitrary deadline has turned me into some sort of slimy incentive-wielding used car salesman. Whereas normally, I’m not that slimy. Oh the depths to which I have stooped in the name of potty training. There is nothing that I have not promised that boy in the last week. The incentives have increased from gummy bears and plastic dollar store crud to a bicycle. But apparently, even at that, I wasn’t aiming high enough.
This morning, when I gave him the “poo poo on the potty” pep talk and promised him the moon and the bicycle of his choice, he listened intently and like a little executive, he nodded slightly while making a little church steeple out of his hands. “Well, I want to be in charge of the world and drive the car,” he countered. And then he walked away from the bargaining table. “What’s it gonna take to put you in these big boy undies today?” I called after him.
On the other hand, he may be 16 by the time I get him potty trained, so handing over the keys to the car shouldn’t be a problem.