Potty Training Daddy
I have dreaded potty training since I first found out I would be a father. Not entirely sure why. I didn’t really have much of a clue as to what it entailed, but I was sure I would be bad at it and likely scar my child for life.
And I’ve always known that it would fall to me, if not the actual training period then at least the ramifications. Our original plan had been for me to be in school until my daughter was about two, at which point I would take over childcare so my wife could return to work. As it turns out, she was just past one when I became stay-at-home Daddy, but, with no real prospects for being the breadwinner that my wife is better suited to be (she has a Finance degree, I’m a writer, do the math), I knew that changed little. I’d still be the primary when potty training came ‘round.
And, actually, it may have made the transition harder. I’ve had time to get used to taking care of the diapered child.
We are deep in the training right now. After many fits and starts and much reluctance from both child and Daddy, my wife is, bless her soul, using her vacation to help out with, okay actually lead, the training efforts. We’ve had some accidents and victories already, and I’m sure she’ll get it. More cleaning and laundry than unusual for a while, but that is so much easier with my wife home than it would be if I was juggling this with the rest of my household responsibilities.
Really, I might be most leery of the post-training period.
Y’see, a child that uses a diaper is much easier to manage in public than one that uses the restroom, which means I have to plan our trips out into the world more thoughtfully than I do now. Used to be, we’d roll out to the playground, about a twelve block walk, any old time we wanted. Now, it must not only work around my housework and the child’s moods and my moods and whatever errands we have, but also her potty schedule, lest I want to be sprinting a stroller twelve blocks back to my house hollering “You can hold it, baby girl, you can do it!” all the way.
Yes, of course, we can use public bathrooms. But, even besides that fact that my daughter is already terrified of the echoing sound of flushing in restrooms, are you aware just how much dirtier men’s rooms are than women’s? This isn’t conjecture. I worked a number of my stepfather’s janitorial contracts in my teens, so I have had ample opportunity to compare and contrast, and men are pigs. We smell bad, our public hygiene sucks, and I’m not sure why people think men make better soldiers with the shitty aim we apparently have. I’m not looking forward to taking my little girl into such places, especially once she begins to recognize that she is the only girl inside. I remember how I felt being dragged into women’s rooms as a little boy, how emasculating it felt.
Those blessed places, like our local library and Qwest Field, that have family restrooms are suddenly going to jump to the top of our destination lists. I’m going to grow even more thankful for my association with places like Seattle Rep, where I can duck in with the child and find a clean and quiet restroom. Coffeeshops and stores that are closer to home will get privileged status. In short, our daily routines are going to be retrained.
I’m a creature of habit, and an advocate of the path of least resistance when dealing with the mundane details of daily life, and these changes are not welcome. Yes, I want to stop the endless parade of diapers through my life and into landfills, and I was really moved by the amount of pride my girl showed yesterday when she decided on her own that she wanted to go sit on the potty and then produced the tiny brown object of our training, but I’m resisting deep down inside, gritting my teeth and bearing it, trying unsuccessfully to chill out.
But it is tough. I know I’m whining, and it isn’t a big deal, and I will likely forget as much of the next few months as she will, but damnit, Daddy didn’t want to get potty trained.
And I’ve always known that it would fall to me, if not the actual training period then at least the ramifications. Our original plan had been for me to be in school until my daughter was about two, at which point I would take over childcare so my wife could return to work. As it turns out, she was just past one when I became stay-at-home Daddy, but, with no real prospects for being the breadwinner that my wife is better suited to be (she has a Finance degree, I’m a writer, do the math), I knew that changed little. I’d still be the primary when potty training came ‘round.
And, actually, it may have made the transition harder. I’ve had time to get used to taking care of the diapered child.
We are deep in the training right now. After many fits and starts and much reluctance from both child and Daddy, my wife is, bless her soul, using her vacation to help out with, okay actually lead, the training efforts. We’ve had some accidents and victories already, and I’m sure she’ll get it. More cleaning and laundry than unusual for a while, but that is so much easier with my wife home than it would be if I was juggling this with the rest of my household responsibilities.
Really, I might be most leery of the post-training period.
Y’see, a child that uses a diaper is much easier to manage in public than one that uses the restroom, which means I have to plan our trips out into the world more thoughtfully than I do now. Used to be, we’d roll out to the playground, about a twelve block walk, any old time we wanted. Now, it must not only work around my housework and the child’s moods and my moods and whatever errands we have, but also her potty schedule, lest I want to be sprinting a stroller twelve blocks back to my house hollering “You can hold it, baby girl, you can do it!” all the way.
Yes, of course, we can use public bathrooms. But, even besides that fact that my daughter is already terrified of the echoing sound of flushing in restrooms, are you aware just how much dirtier men’s rooms are than women’s? This isn’t conjecture. I worked a number of my stepfather’s janitorial contracts in my teens, so I have had ample opportunity to compare and contrast, and men are pigs. We smell bad, our public hygiene sucks, and I’m not sure why people think men make better soldiers with the shitty aim we apparently have. I’m not looking forward to taking my little girl into such places, especially once she begins to recognize that she is the only girl inside. I remember how I felt being dragged into women’s rooms as a little boy, how emasculating it felt.
Those blessed places, like our local library and Qwest Field, that have family restrooms are suddenly going to jump to the top of our destination lists. I’m going to grow even more thankful for my association with places like Seattle Rep, where I can duck in with the child and find a clean and quiet restroom. Coffeeshops and stores that are closer to home will get privileged status. In short, our daily routines are going to be retrained.
I’m a creature of habit, and an advocate of the path of least resistance when dealing with the mundane details of daily life, and these changes are not welcome. Yes, I want to stop the endless parade of diapers through my life and into landfills, and I was really moved by the amount of pride my girl showed yesterday when she decided on her own that she wanted to go sit on the potty and then produced the tiny brown object of our training, but I’m resisting deep down inside, gritting my teeth and bearing it, trying unsuccessfully to chill out.
But it is tough. I know I’m whining, and it isn’t a big deal, and I will likely forget as much of the next few months as she will, but damnit, Daddy didn’t want to get potty trained.
posted by JJisafool at 5:56 PM
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