I F*cked Up Potty Training, and the Potty-Training Industrial Complex Will Never Let Me Forget It
I was recently commiserating with a girlfriend over the phone about the fact that my 3-year-old had been refusing to poop in a toilet. And by “refuse,” I mean that she’d dissociate completely when push came to shove (ha), separating body from mind while crouching mid-sidewalk pretending to “work” at a desk and demanding I call her “Mommy” while she “didn’t” poop in her diaper before my very eyes. It was convoluted, confusing and pretty gross (have you dealt with much 3-year-old diaper poop?), but who am I to judge her method? (After all, men have done much worse).
“Hmm,” my friend contemplated. I assumed she’d tell me that it would be OK, that all kids ultimately grow out of whatever their “I need to pretend I’m Mommy in a public outdoor mall in order to poop” phase is. Instead, she hit me with a gut punch: “Yeah, we know a 6-year-old who can still only poop if he’s wearing a diaper. The parents will literally stop what they’re doing and slap on a diaper if he has to go. They tried everything, but the kid just really likes sh*tting in a diaper.”
Oh god, I thought. Was my beloved child going to be a forever diaper dumper? There she was, nearly two decades later in my mind, meeting her freshman college roommate while holding a Kirkland sleeve of size 20s, “You don’t mind if I put my diaper bin next to the mini fridge, do you?”
The thing was, I had thought we were doing a pretty good job with potty training so far. She’d shown interest in all things bathroom, so we were following her lead. She had the peeing in the potty down pat! We got her Encanto underwear! We profusely congratulated her when she told us she had to go. We did the naked-for-a-weekend thing. And now, here I was wondering how far you could push the weight limit on those Koala Kare changing tables.
That night I overheard my husband trying to convince her, once again, to poop on the potty: “We have a VERY awesome surprise for you if you do it!” he bribed. It was true. I’d found an $18 Elsa dress at Target that I just knew would solve all of our problems. The issue was, of course, that we couldn’t tell her what the surprise was because if she knew it was an Elsa dress, we’d have to give it to her before it had done its job of coaxing her into doing what we wanted to do…because she’s 3. It was our own Schrodinger's Cat, if you will. On top of that, I was also concerned she’d be done with Frozen and onto the next obsession before she even got to wear the dress. The tragedy!
That’s when then Googling began:
Me: reward toddler potty training?
Google: PARENTS WHO DO THIS ARE SHORT-SIGHTED, BAD AND PROMOTE EXTERNAL REINFORCEMENT OVER SELF-MOTIVATION LEADING TO CHILDREN WHO GROW INTO ENTITLED MONSTERS WHO WILL POOP IN THEIR DIAPER FOREVER
Me: ok then how get 3 yo to poop in potty jeez
Google: IF YOU READ ONE OF ANY OF THE MILLIONS OF BOOKS ON POTTY TRAINING I’VE BEEN SENDING TO YOUR GMAIL PROMOTIONS TAB YOU’D HAVE AN IDEA, WOULDN’T YOU? BUT NO, YOU ‘DON’T HAVE TIME TO READ ANYTHING THAT’S NOT VAMPIRE SMUT’’
Me: how did you know about…[delete delete delete]. OK, what should i do?
Google:
*Dramatically slams computer shut*
The next day, I reached out to our pediatrician: “So, I’ve completely fucked up potty training and now my daughter is never going to poop again because this is her ‘first trauma’ and I’ve already spoken with a childhood poop therapist who I found on TikTok who doesn’t actually have a degree but has had five kids, so, I guess I trust her? Anyways, I just wanted to make sure holding in a poo too long doesn’t make her explode or anything–”
Our very patient pediatrician took a moment and responded, “Prune juice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Give her some prune juice, and then let’s talk.”
Doctor’s orders. We spiked her water with prune juice, the same stuff my parents gave me, the little anal-retentive tot that I was. “You used to hide behind a sofa, turn beet-red and ‘not poop’ for hours,” they laughed over the phone. A knock on the door.
“Do you want to build a snowman?” It was my daughter. Any time she saw a closed door she could knock on, she’d act out Frozen.
“I do want to build a snowman!” I responded.
“NO! You are Anna. You ask Elsa if I want to build a snowman!”
“OK, do you want to build a snowman?”
“Go away, Anna!” She had the scene memorized.
I thought of the Elsa dress rolled up in a Target bag. Maybe my 3-year-old would be asking if office perks included wet wipes at future job interviews, but I knew that she’d only be knocking on doors, pretending to be Elsa for a short time. We gave her the very special surprise that night, for no reason, just so she could flit around the living room pretending to turn everything into ice and belting “Let It Go”...which she, in fact, did in the potty after a couple more servings of tried-and-true prune juice.
She didn’t poop in the potty because of any fool-proof routine, genius product, professional intervention, or even good parenting. She pooped in the potty because most people—even the ones who start out hiding behind objects to adamantly “not poop” in a crouched position—eventually just poop in the potty. So you can keep your fancy contraptions, boot camps and $59.99 downloadable PDF instructions, Potty-Training Industrial Complex, it's bribes and natural laxatives all the way home for me. And let's be honest—who was I kidding? If my daughter did become a diaper dumper, I’d happily wipe her butt for the rest of my life.
That night, after way too many hours of screen time and a completely microwaved dinner, I slept like a baby. In fact, my 3-year-old did too…while sucking on a pacifier, because you bet your butt, I f*cked that up too.
