It seems an inordinate amount of time on this blog is dedicated to Hadley. And with good reason. She is the embodiment of her mother, the good, the bad and the very ugly. It makes for some great entertainment but when it gets ugly, it is really ugly.

Just ask my mother. As a young child, I was a terror and my grandma is attributed to keeping me alive the first year of my life because my longevity was the last thing on my mom’s mind. She always knowingly laughs when I tell her about The Hurricane’s latest antics and surely thinks: “Payback.”

That one little word has made her have to forgo the years of post-Amber therapy.

After four weeks of extreme potty training, I am waving the white flag. Hadley has gotten progressively more resistant and more argumentative. Our home has become a battle ground and, evidently, one big potty because she goes everywhere except the porcelain throne.

If you would have told me how difficult potty training would be, I would have laughed. She is a bright, spirited and clever little girl. She has a memory like a horse and is already piecing letters and words together. But this is more about submitting to my wishes, knowing that every wipe of her butt sends me closer to my grave. A very stinky one.

Following every accident, I’ve called Jamie. Because that is what good wives do.

“What do you want me to do with about it?”
“Be there for me to complain about it.”

Because that is what good husbands do.

I hit the wall with the whole thing last Thursday after our hundredth accident and general toddler deviance that involved her “baking a cake” with our very expensive protein powder and Splenda. This, after she plastered the walls with a can of Bode’s pricey formula. I won’t even mention The Soap Incident.

That day, I had Bode’s 1-year checkup. Note: He is 25th percentile for weight, 75th for height and remains off the charts with ear-hair growth. I couldn’t be more proud.

I also had an extensive conversation with my pediatrician.

I.e. “Doc, potty training sucks. She won’t do it.”

He looked at me dubiously before proclaiming: “Well, yeah.”

He went to seven years of medical school to tell me that?

He expounded that by forcing a kid as headstrong as Hadley, it would only be met with resistance, battles, infections and general toddler deviance. That she would only do it when she was good and ready.

After his lecture, he seemed to remember his Bedside Manner 101 class and turned empathetic.
“You seem stressed out, Amber.”

It must have been my protruding vein in my forehead that gave him the hint. That, or the fact I almost wet my pants even thinking about the potty. I have to. At least one of us has to do it.

He advised me to lay off and to stop pressuring her. That when she starts preschool in a few weeks, she will likely succumb to peer pressure and it will finally click for her.

But now, I have another problem: her naughty little brother. All this potty talk has given him an affinity for a certain book every time we sit down for storytime.

How young is too young to stage my intervenion?

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