Yes, we can

Last week, Sacha said something that left me in a swoon. It was not “I love you,” or “You are the best mom,” or “You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” although all of the above is uncategorically true.

What he said was,  “Mama, I need to poop.”

And so with great joy, I gave away the last of our diapers to a younger and more deserving customer.

After many, many months of trial, to say nothing of error, I can, at long last say that Sacha is at toilet-trained. CAPS LOCK CANNOT SUFFICIENTLY CONVEY THE MAGNITUDE OF THAT SENTENCE.

While he hasn't needed diapers for several weeks, he was more a well-trained circus monkey than truly trained, able to perform impressive tricks on command in exchange for a treat.

We had a ritual, which involved reading Everyone Poops, followed by a few minutes privacy, and then, great rejoicing. Thanks to this book, our family knows more about defecation habits throughout the animal kingdom than I ever thought possible, or necessary. 

We have spent so much time with this story that not only do we have it memorized, but Sacha is now an emerging reader. Which makes it even more of a relief that he is finally trained, as it would have been extremely embarrassing, to say nothing of disconcerting, had he continued to shit himself while reading Tolstoy. Thank you, Taro Gomi, for so effectively teaching my son that two O's make the “oo” sound. You have replaced Dr. Seuss in the literary pantheon.

While I am relieved to put a period on this developmental milestone, I can not help but entertain ominous thoughts about what lies ahead. Because if toilet training is a gauge,  I am very, very afraid for Sacha's adolescence.

Speechless

My children were recovering from their first bout of sickness of the season, and after twenty-four hours without appetite, they began to exhibit signs of hunger. To capitalize on this, I made pizza for dinner. It's relatively gentle, and one of the rare things that everyone agrees on.

Toward the end of the meal, Sacha's plate was littered with crusts, not unlike the bones of a small mammal's carcass picked clean. 

“More, PLEASE!” he demanded.

“Sacha, you know, you can eat those crusts.”  David responded.

“Okay,” Sacha replied, and picked a crust and proceeded to eat it.

Just like that. No argument, no protest, no screaming.

And this is how I knew that he was not quite back to himself. Because under normal circumstances, there is NO WAY he would acquiesce so readily without putting up a fight.

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.