A few months ago, I may have mentioned that I was finding it a bit challenging to toilet train Sacha. Those days are behind us, and now, he is a lean mean shitting machine.
The way we trained him was a textbook example of classical conditioning, substituting television and feces for a bell and saliva. Wherever he is, I imagine Pavlov is either nodding in approval or burrowing deeper into the ground.
Here is a typical exchange:
"Mama, can I watch tv?"
"No, not now."
Sacha to starts to protest, and then, he remembers he has a secret weapon.
"Mama, I need to poop."
What a marvel his colon is, because just when I think he is cleansed, he manages to eke out a bit more.
It's gotten so that I've had to issue yet another of the absurd fatwas that are part and parcel of parenting. The nomenclature will be familiar to anyone who has read Everyone Poops once, twice, or a thousand times.
Television will be offered in exchanged for elephant poops; a skittle will be issued for mouse poops.
When I deem a movement insufficient, we have a spirited debate on its merits. Frustrated, Sacha chants, "Poop for TV; POOP...FOR...TV!"
Clearly, my plan has worked all too well, and it is time to develop an exit strategy. If we go on like this much longer, given the ubiquity of television in public places, I envision a scenario in which wherever we go, Sacha cannot avoid being constantly tormented by the call of nature. Walking into Costco and confronting the flat screens could become an assault.
Such is the farce that is my life.
Showing posts with label behavior modification FAIL. Show all posts
Showing posts with label behavior modification FAIL. Show all posts
26 February 2010
19 July 2009
A weaker woman would have caved by now
In the past week, I have been verbally abused, bitten, and hit. One night, as I was getting him washed up for bed, Sacha adopted the telltale male stance, and let loose a stream of urine on my bathroom floor, mere steps from the toilet. It was so deliberate that any doubt I may have had that he perhaps he wasn't yet capable of controlling evacuation was erased. I could practically hear him thinking, “Fuck you, Mama.”
To cap it off, on Friday when arrived to I pick him up from camp, he more or less ran screaming from me.
“Sacha, Mom's here!” called a counselor cheerfully.
Sacha turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
“Come on, Sacha, Mom's waiting for you!”
Sacha feigned great interest in the sandbox.
She sent someone to retrieve him, and that is when he dug his heels into the mulch, and had to be dragged in my direction. He was so resistant that the counselor had to pick him up and carry him to me, and when placed by my side, he turned on his heel and ran back to the playground.
I take it as a sign of faith in me that camp did not alert DYFS.
A weaker woman would have called the whole thing off by now.
Although I regret that we are locked in an epic power struggle, there is no turning back. In retrospect, on the subject of toilet training my most stubborn beast, there may have been no way of avoiding this. I have dangled many positive incentives, from candy to prizes to privileges, but he cares not a whit for any of them. At this point we have the pole wedged so far up our ass that we cannot take a step in any direction.
So while Sacha may not like me very much right now, I know that he loves me, and at this point in his life, love is preferable.
I have seen a few signs of softening on his part; after a week and a half strike, he finally decided to enjoy himself in the baby pool, and when he is in the mood, he not only pees on the potty, he asks for his Skittle when he's done.
In the mean time, I am contemplating outsourcing the whole affair, and have begun composing my classified ad: Seeking strong willed individual to toilet train adorable stubborn bastard. Must have proven record of success, the patience of a saint, and ample sense of humor. Generous compensation, and all the Skittles you desire.
To cap it off, on Friday when arrived to I pick him up from camp, he more or less ran screaming from me.
“Sacha, Mom's here!” called a counselor cheerfully.
Sacha turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
“Come on, Sacha, Mom's waiting for you!”
Sacha feigned great interest in the sandbox.
She sent someone to retrieve him, and that is when he dug his heels into the mulch, and had to be dragged in my direction. He was so resistant that the counselor had to pick him up and carry him to me, and when placed by my side, he turned on his heel and ran back to the playground.
I take it as a sign of faith in me that camp did not alert DYFS.
A weaker woman would have called the whole thing off by now.
Although I regret that we are locked in an epic power struggle, there is no turning back. In retrospect, on the subject of toilet training my most stubborn beast, there may have been no way of avoiding this. I have dangled many positive incentives, from candy to prizes to privileges, but he cares not a whit for any of them. At this point we have the pole wedged so far up our ass that we cannot take a step in any direction.
So while Sacha may not like me very much right now, I know that he loves me, and at this point in his life, love is preferable.
I have seen a few signs of softening on his part; after a week and a half strike, he finally decided to enjoy himself in the baby pool, and when he is in the mood, he not only pees on the potty, he asks for his Skittle when he's done.
In the mean time, I am contemplating outsourcing the whole affair, and have begun composing my classified ad: Seeking strong willed individual to toilet train adorable stubborn bastard. Must have proven record of success, the patience of a saint, and ample sense of humor. Generous compensation, and all the Skittles you desire.
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