Wholistic-Naturalistic Toilet Training

There are several posts on effective instruction in the archives.  This is another'n, as we say down here.  But it's not on reading--as you may have inferred from the title.  Our focus now is the OTHER end.

At age four, Professor Plum's kid, Raisin, was still NOT toilet trained.  [Go ahead.  Laugh. Veeeryyyy funny.  'Till it's yours!] 

No, the kid was not nuts. 

He was an anger case, to be sure. 

And he did wear a Spiderman mask 24/7 for a year.

And he did metamorphose into Woody from Toy Story, and walked around on unhinged legs.

And he did get into music by AC/DC--though I doubt he knew precisely what "ball breaker" meant.

He just wasn't INterested.

Besides, his mother, Ma Plum-Danish, was always there to "change him." Leaving him with little incentive.  I'd have let him drag a loaded diaper behind him 'til it composted and sprouted wheat--from all that "natural" goo he ate--but nnnoooo.  I was not allowed.

So, his mother signed US up for Toilet School--which I named KaKa College.  That's right, US.  Times being what they were--with John Bradford blabbing endlessly on PBS about "dysfunctional families," and family systems theorists making everyone (well, not me) believe that nothing could be understood and treated outside of the "whole configuration of intra-systemic relations" in the family. 

I was pretty sure I could have gotten the kid to crap over porcelain without making it a family affair, but his mother was into the family systems stuff.

So, there we were, in the dead of winter, schlepping through slush (try that four times fast) and icy winds in a New England city made famous by a bloviating adulterer whose idea of a date involved driving cars off bridges and into oceans.

Seven weeks!! 

Toilet School was at Rugrat Hospital.  The trainer had just received her Ph.D. from Harvard.  Her thesis--toilet training.  Which made her a Doctor of Dookie Studies. Certainly smart as heck and very nice.  But I couldn't imagine any serious gaps in the toileting literature.  Were there  a LOT of unanswered questions?  Where there loads of intervening variables to flush out  (clever)?

"Effects of conjugate reinforcement schedules on poop production."  [Translation?  What happens if you give more rewards for more poop?]

"Dimensions of anal retentiveness. An unexplored avenue."

[Translation?  No, way.  Not going there.]

The seven week program could've been written on one side of a 3 x 5 card with room left over for Granny Gurkin's apple crisp recipe.

Week 1.  Read stories about turtles with a fear of pooping.

"Myrtle, the sad and significantly backed up turtle."

Week 2.  Read stories about kids with a fear of pooping. 

"Colin and his craven colon."

"Janus and his anxious ..."  [Your turn]

Week 3.  Just sit on the can.

Week 4.  Sit on the can and whiz.

Week 5.  Wear "big boy" underpants (Sears best) and don't poop in them.  [Naturally, Raisin merely took off the Big Boys, put on a diaper, and did his biz.]

He'd beaten the game.  Alas, what to do?  Oh, what to DO?!

So, there we wuz, week after week, listening to parents talk about how their kids were "holding it in."  Everyone was soooo Rogerian.

"Holding it in?"

"Yes, holding it in."

"And how does that make you feel?"  [Leaning forward to show "connection."]

"It makes me feel like I'm not a good parent."

"Not a good parent?"

"Not a good parent."

"Not a good parent?"

"Not a good parent."

And how does THAT make you feel?"

I wanted to kill something.

Then, during week six, Ma Plum-Danish went down south to get us a place to live.  She figgered, if the kid has to retake KaKa College, at least let's be warm.

I had NO intention of re-doing that.  If I heard the harrowing tale of "Imogene and her Impactions" once more, well...  No doubt something.

The kid would BE toilet trained, and I DON'T MEAN MEBBE.  In fact, he'd be toilet trained before sundown.

So, as Ma Plum-Danish walked out of the house, I said, "He'll be trained before you get back, My Queen."  And she said, "Now don't you do anything crazy."

Ha!

Breakfast.  Oatmeal laced with nuts.  Glass of prune juice.

Mid morn Snack.  Raisins, nuts, and prune juice.

Lunch.  Oatmeal bars.  More prune juice with 2 tbsp of mineral oil mixed in.

Mid afternoon Snack.... No time for snack.  Something's in the wind, so to speak.

Two o'clock and the kid is walking around moaning.  Pain all over his face.  You can HEAR his guts gurgling across the room.  He slaps his butt and says, "Shut up!  Stop it!  Stop it!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sweet Boy.  I guess you gotta poop.  Maybe you could sit on the...

"No! Noooo!!" 

More hitting and swearing at his butt.  He could easily crush a full can of beer with his cheeks.  Oh, no, he's NOT going to let his body tell HIM what to do.

I swear this went on for two hours. 

Finally the pain was so intense, and he was so crippled with it that he couldn't put on a diaper, that he limped into the bathroom, jerked down his Big Boys, sat down, and exploded!

"Oh, that feels better... Yeah, I'm fine now, Dad."

He pulls his Big Boys back on and returns to air guitar with AC/DC.

You are a Ballbreaker

Ballbreaker

Ballbreaker

Yeah

Wreckin' ball, let it roll

You are a Ballbreaker

Buildin' steam, for whippin' cream

You are a Ballbreaker

He thinks it's over. Ha!  There are two more rounds in the magazine.

In an hour, the next round (snack) auto-loads.  He  says, "Oh nooo!" and begins to curse his intestines again and squeeze his cheeks, taking baby steps all around the room.  Trying to outrun the pain.

It takes an hour, but he gives up and goes to the bathroom.

Ah, relief!

An hour later, the last round (lunch) loads.  This time he merely says, "I gotta go" and he goes.

I say, "You're a big kid now."

We go out and have a few beers and get tattoos.

Ma Plum-Danish returns to the homestead.  I say, "Well, he's trained, Toots." 

"Okay, WHAT did you do NOW!?"

What I wanna know is, Where do women get the idea that they are the moral conscience of the world?

Okay, because they are.  But do they have to act so suPERior about it?

[Anyway, this is one more example of how the end justifies the beans.]