As a mom, diapers are close to Shelly’s heart

I am not a patient woman. I have always thought of this as a sign of my fortitude and determination. This time, that trait may do me in.

I am potty training my two-year-old. This should not be a difficult task. People all across this great nation manage this feat every day. How often do you see a teenager at the mall wearing a diaper? Someone, somewhere along the line has potty trained this person. It’s a doable task.

I approached this like many other motherhood milestones: I polled the experts. My friends and family all have fully-functioning children who managed to shed their diapers – most even at a respectable age.

At their encouragement, we set the scene months ago. Long before she was ready, we bought the potty and put it in the bathroom to de-mystify this new process. I bought the cute “Amy Goes Potty” book to read before bedtime so that Kate could see how happy Amy was without her diapers.

Occasionally, Kate would even use the potty. We responded as any delirious parent would – high fives all round and a parade around the dining room table with Kate on her Daddy’s shoulders while we clapped and screamed like she had just won the Pulitzer.

So faced with a few days off over the holidays, I decided to go cold turkey. Kate was excited about her occasional trips to the potty, so we would seize the day. Carpe diem, and all that jazz.

One trip to Target and I was prepared – pull-ups for nighttime, Dora the Explorer and Care Bear underwear to entice her into the new wardrobe, and more stickers than any child should have to reward Kate for her efforts.

Our first two trips to the potty went like clockwork – just as I knew it would. She was excited to wear the big-girl panties and we applauded and provided oodles of positive feedback.

Over the course of the following few days we had more success than failure. She was getting it. And then the light bulb went off – you could almost see the transformation. Kate realized she was in charge.

While she was learning to use the big-girl potty, she was also learning to play me like a fiddle. At some point she began using the potty as a weapon. For instance, at bed-time she plays the potty card knowing that Mommy will fall for it.

There we sit, singing Old MacDonald with every animal sound Kate knows, all the while insisting that she really needs to go. The odd thing is that I know I’m being played and she knows she has won. I can see it in her eyes. I’m stuck.

My mother assured me that she has never seen a college application that asks when you started wearing big-girl panties and I should just relax. But I’m feeling beaten.

This is where being one half of a parenting team comes in handy. Over the past two-and-a-half years of Kate’s life, I have found that I am the weak one. Since the day she was born, the sound of her crying has gone directly to the bottom of my spine and made me react and want it stopped.

My husband is the strong one, and he has a gentle way about him. It was Daddy who got rid of the binkie without any fuss.

It’s Daddy who gets her to eat the end of her yogurt after she has given me a resounding “no.” And it’s Daddy who can get her to use the potty even in the middle of Dora the Explorer. He’s an amazing man.

While we still use pull-ups more than Dora panties, I’m not counting this a total failure. As with most parenting duties, you find that while you are teaching one lesson, there are other, more subtle skills being taught as well. Through the rocky road of potty training, Kate has learned the power of a kind word for her fellow man.

The other day she wandered in as I was using the bathroom. “You goin’ potty, Mommy?” she asked.

“Yes, Kate.”

“Good job, Mommy.” And she patted me on the back as she left the room.

Good job, Mommy.

A thirty-something wife and mother, Shelly Belcher lives in McMurray, has lots of opinions, and lots to learn about life, love and the pursuit of happiness. You can send Shelly your comments about her column to shelly.belcher@hotmail.com.