Potty talk

Loyal readers of this space (hi, Mom!) might remember I wrote last time about a milestone in child-rearing and the word "poopybutt." Today, I write about another milestone in child-rearing that involves poop on butts.

That's right: After eight years, Belle and I have changed our last dirty diaper.

Thank you, Molly Matthews, for all of your help.

We had been dreaming about this moment but it happened so suddenly. Our youngest had shown interest in using the bathroom but we hadn't yet mustered the energy to begin full-on potty training. And then her daycare told us its latest "Potty-Training Boot Camp" was approaching and she would be a good candidate. 

At the conclusion of the one-week program, we were told, she would wake up from her Friday nap and have a diaper retirement party. From that point on, we were only to put her in a diaper for a nap or at bedtime. I'm pretty sure it wasn't coincidental that this particular Friday was the one before Memorial Day weekend, giving her extra time to work out the kinks at home. Still, daycare had us at "we'll potty-train her." 

The concept of changing diapers did not faze me prior to having children, although I was worried about getting peed/pooped on. But then my oldest had that meconium diaper in the hospital and I quickly became an expert, even if I still got peed on occasionally.

Like most parents, we've changed diapers in the backs (and fronts) of cars, in restaurants, in public bathrooms up and down the East Coast, at parks and playgrounds. We've struggled to keep the kids still as we wiped them and doused clothes in OxyClean after a blowout. We've wondered how someone so little, so cute, could produce something so heinous in their pants. I've emptied our diaper pail thousands of times, the smell that wafts up as the trash bag wriggles free from the bin permanently etched in my nostrils.  

When our oldest was potty training, she used a miniature, plastic toilet with a bag at the bottom. We would alternate reading two books while she sat, one an interactive Elmo story where you finally learn that, despite appearances, Elmo does, in fact, wear underwear. The other is titled "Big Girls Use the Potty," featuring a child named Molly Matthews. Before opening "Big Girls" for the first time, I was very confused how a book illustrating a girl using the bathroom did not end up on some school district's banned list. Turns out Molly's stuffed animal "uses" the potty.

Since then, I can't begin to estimate how many times I've sat on a bathroom floor to read those books, how many times I applauded and cheered a bowel movement as if my child won an Oscar, nor how many M&Ms we've given our kids after a mission accomplished.

Our son received an ultimatum when he was almost two-and-a-half: Either your diapers or your pacifier has to go. He kept on sucking and pretty much trained himself in less than a week. To this day, however, I still have to remind him regularly to watch where he's aiming while peeing. At least, living with three ladies, he learned at a young age to put the seat down. He's also discovered the joy and freedom of outdoor urination, and would rather go behind a tree in the backyard than trudge the whole 20 feet inside to the bathroom.

For our older kids, we were with them the entire time they potty trained. For our youngest, all we really knew was she had circle time daily with the other children potty training. "Use potty, get a cookie," she told us each night that week when we asked how training was going. When she came home that Friday, we looked at each other as if to say, "I guess we're really doing this?" We decided she would wear a diaper over her underwear in the car but otherwise followed daycare's instructions. 

There were multiple accidents that first weekend, of course. We went through five pairs of underwear on Saturday alone thanks to a juice box and lots of running around during a barbecue. But after that first weekend, she's really taken to it, even waking up most mornings with a dry diaper. 

We still have to ask her occasionally if she needs to use the bathroom but more often than not she tells us. The sly smile that crosses her face when she hears the tinkle in the bowl always makes me smile. One night, when she had to go No. 2 twice in a half-hour, she informed me very excitedly during her second trip, "I found more poop."

Our diaper shelf in the garage only has a box of nighttime diapers left and the diaper pail sits mostly empty in her room.

I'm not going to miss the diapers, just the little kids that wore them.

Second coming

activerain.trulia.com

It's been said a million times and is a cliche for a reason, but it bears repeating: Having a second child is like writing for "Saved by the Bell: The College Years." Sure, you may try a few different things at the beginning (baby goes in the crib first night home, Zack doesn't get the girl), but eventually you find a groove doing what you know works best for you (following my wife's lead on just about everything, bringing back Kelly Kapowski).

Unlike "College Years," however, having two children will run at least 18 seasons in prime time before continuing forever in syndication. Yet every day is a new episode with its own story arc and hopefully more laughs than tears.

I only came truly to appreciate this aspect of being a dad, the importance of stopping to smell the butt paste, when our son was born in June. I love my daughter, of course, but my mindset was totally different after three years of being a dad.

It started right at birth. As I was waiting to go into the delivery room three years ago, I got choked up thinking about how my daughter was going to change my life forever -- for the better and in ways I knew I could never expect -- mixed with the sheer terror of becoming a first-time dad. I was trembling as I took photos of her while she wailed on the heat bed. It was an out-of-body experience in hospital scrubs.

When my son was born, however, there were no tears before I entered the delivery room, just a few butterflies in my stomach and an eagerness to meet him. My mind was clear as I held my wife's hand and cried through my surgical mask as we saw him for the first time. I was not scared so much as excited to complete* our family.

(*Whether our family is "complete" -- and I don't mean getting a dog -- has yet to be decided. If I were a betting man, setting my money on fire would be the safest wager right now.)

To be sure, there was definitely an adjustment period after we came home from the hospital with our son. And by "adjustment period," I specifically mean "getting peed on like I was a fire hydrant next to a kennel." If our armed forces are looking for creative ways to train bomb defusers, have them attempt to change a newborn boy's diaper while staying dry. Even though we seem to have moved past that phase in his life, I am still wary every time his privates make a public appearance.

But after a few weeks and all of us developing new routines, my wife and I discovered what many had told us: the adjustment from zero kids to one is infinitely more challenging than from one to two. I found myself not sweating the small things the way I might have when my daughter was a newborn.

When athletes reach an elite level, they often describe how the game slows down in front of them. That's how I feel; the kids are growing up way too fast but I never forget just to enjoy my time with them. It could be going almost nose-to-nose with my son and making random noises so he starts giggling. Or it could be singing the ABCs like Brad Rogers from Crash Test Dummies while brushing my daughter's teeth before bed. (The song really kicks in right around the letter "M," naturally.)

All I ever wanted to do professionally was to work in newspapers, and I did that for 11 years. After my daughter was born, all I ever wanted to be was a good father. After my son was born, all I ever wanted to be was home for dinner at a decent hour. Changing careers ended up being a lot easier than I thought. And any doubts I had about my decision are erased when I get home to see both kids smiling -- and then start helping with dinner.

It makes me feel warm all over.

No, wait. Too slow on the diaper change again.