It can be tough to explain to someone with a delay in social development why we don’t fart at church or why we don’t laugh about poop during math class. So we have adopted a strategy I SWORE to myself I would never do as a parent: cutsie euphemisms.

I’m not an overly clinical person, but I decided early we would not have dainty little words for different body parts and their functions because I want my children universally understood; we also do not shun discussions of our body parts because there needs to be open communication for the children’s health and well-being. No, my children don’t go around spouting the medical terminology for their parts, but they do know what the correct terms for various pieces of anatomy are. As a science teacher, I’ve met far too many junior high schoolers who still had never heard the terms vagina, penis, feces, urine, et al. because they were still calling them “cooters” and whispering behind their hands to me that they “had to go number one.”

But to keep Carrie in the realm of appropriateness, we had to make a game out of her obsession with potty humor. It started with fairies, of all things. Carrie had asked one day to use some glitter, and I just didn’t have time to get it out AND clean up the glitter-fest, so I said, “We don’t use glitter! It’s gross! It’s fairy poop!” (she knew I was playing, nobody get mad that I lied to her!)

Carrie was rolling on the floor laughing. She became obsessed with the ways that fairies can be gross. They fart rainbows. The vomit sequins. You name it, she giggled about it. Then we moved on to Vikings (another of Carrie’s obsessions, thanks to the movie How To Train Your Dragon) and all the ways their bodies can eject stuff.

This has been fun for both of us, I admit, until I heard Carrie lose her computer game and shout, “Oh glitter!”

Now I’m glad we came up with new words!

Wait, she is not poop (I don’t even love poop), so I will say she is tiny and “olive-skinned” because, really, everyone is brown compared to me.

Oh hey! I’ve been a bit quiet lately, haven’t I? Sorry about that. For the most part, I’ve been busy with work, and -

What? How am I doing? Really? Sure you want to ask?

OK. Fine. I’ll tell you: I’m starting to get excited. On Tuesday I’ll be getting my second colonoscopy in six months. 

Admit it: you’re jealous.

As if two in a year weren’t thrilling enough, the real joy of this one is that it’s exactly a week before my birthday. Some people regain that youthful feeling with a spa day. Me, I prefer a more hard-core route. From my experience, nothing transports you right back to infancy like needing a diaper.

To each her own, I suppose. Whatever keeps you young.

Actually, I’m just happy I will be able to do the “prep” at home, in the comfort of my own bathroom, rather than in the hospital with a roommate. If you’ve never had a colonoscopy, I’ll spare you the details but this should help you get the gist: the prep (ironically branded “GoLYTEly”) ensures you will go to the bathroom over three dozen times in 12 hours – or until your stool is clear.

Let me repeat that: CLEAR.

Also: apologies for using the word stool outside of a kitchen or bar. Wholly inappropriate and kind of makes you puke in your mouth. So sorry about that.

Right. So I’m skipping the details, but I think we can all agree that when the preparation for a procedure defies nature – much like reversing the flow of a river – it can’t come without some, um, effort.

I don’t care how close I am with my parents – I’m glad they didn’t heed this advice.

By the way: If I ever have the option of inviting a dead or living celebrity to dinner, I think my money is on Katie Couric. Mainly because I want to ask the following: Katie, when you claim you had a colonoscopy on television, did you actually mean you PRETENDED to have one? Because I didn’t see any evidence of a) broken blood vessels from your face cramping up, b) shaky legs from running on zero nutrients for 48 hours, and c) terror in your eyes from the noise in your stomach.

My sister recently chatted me to tell the story of her friend’s son, who was given GoLYTEly in the ER, without the benefit of a semi-private bathroom. The poor kid had to STAND IN LINE after essentially detonating a bomb in his stomach. Again, I’ll spare you the details, but it’s safe to assume: that did not end well. Also, (just a hunch!) there may be a lawsuit related to human dignity at play.

So. I haven’t written for a while, but I think we’re pretty much caught up now. You might want to file this one under “Careful What You Ask For.”

I’d be sad too if I knew the shit I was walking in to.

When you have to go, you have to go.

No way! Just pee on the wall when no one is looking!

I am the Wood Nymph who lives in that tree.  I have to leave my
tree to take care of my bodily functions, because . . . well, you
can just imagine.

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☺☺☺

Two years ago I wrote a blog called Green Poo What to Do. It was a disgusting but crowd pleasing tale of our whole family crowded around a toilet ogling and contemplating a freakishly green turd that I swear we could’ve charged admission to see. If we had a camera rolling on the conversation I’m thinking we would be a YouTube sensation right now bigger than PSY’s Gangnam Style.

Anyway, we never did figure out what could cause a poo to be that color green without being exposed to radiation or swallowing a glow stick.

Until now.

Yes, it happened again – and this time the depositor was me (I’ll own it so we don’t have to use the Gumby psuedonymn again trying to protect ourselves from one of the children suing us for defamation of character).

This time the source was reliable and could remember more than just one epic moment in class when someone farted and blamed it on the teacher.

I wrote a log of everything I ingested in the previous 24 hours. First I came up with nothing – no smoking gun of neon green that after a process of digestion would cause a normally sane person to rise up off a toilet and yell, “Hey guys come here! You gotta see this!”

But then like an episode of CSI, I analyzed and hypothesized and eventually through supreme intelligence (just go with this) narrowed down the culprit, clearly in disguise, masquerading as an oh-so-cute-sweet-and-innocent confection.

The answer to the disgusting question of what would turn a turd into a glowing green specimen of awe?

This: 

Yes, a cupcake that has black frosting requires an obscene amount of green food coloring in it to make it that color – and thus also your poo.

So think twice before indulging in a black frosting topped cupcake as we go into the Halloween season. Or go for it if you’re looking for an interesting conversation piece. Especially if you’re going to hang out at the old folks home where color and consistency of poo is a daily conversation starter. And oh, man, if you brought them black frosted cupcakes, boy would that place be buzzing the next day…

Phil the Hermit Crab

My misfortunate, gravitationally-challenged relationship with the toilet started at a young age. Barely past the potty training stage, I was faced with the horrifying act of having to ship my beloved first pet, a  Hermit Crab named Phil, off to greener seas after he/she had made the awful decision to exercise his/her only form of self-defense against the tender skin of my brother’s scrotum.

As unenlightened children, we had for some reason engaged in a form of crustaceous Russian Roulette: taking turns sticking Phil down our pajamas in a timed contest to see who could handle the tickling of his shelly phalanges the longest without screaming. It was after bed time. The lights were out in our room, but this grand scheme had our competitive juices awash with muffled laughter.

The game went on for several “successful” turns, each of us enduring Phil’s weird traverses in our underoos…until disaster struck. In a shocking turn of events, what I had assumed would be some fun, cage-free exercise for my buddy Phil quickly turned into a nut-pinching fight for life that woke everyone in the house after the previously docile crab unexpectedly clamped his formidable left claw on Brody’s testicular region.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the sensation of having your gonads savagely scissored by an enraged sea creature, but judging from my brother’s reaction, it is scream-inducing unpleasantness.  Thusly ensnared in a bony, serrated vice, Brody emitted a sustained, high-pitched primal howl that I have since only heard in Tea Party conventions and small-claims court.

At the beckoning of Brody’s shrieks, my parents came bursting into our room, expecting the worst. Bewildered, they found us gripped with fear and screaming bloody murder. After ascertaining that I was not the afflicted one but rather suffering from empathetic emotions, my father set upon Brody to save him from some unseen demon. “What is it? What in Jehovah is going on?” he demanded. Biting both lips at once, tears pouring down his cheeks, the eldest Anderson son gingerly lifted open his drawers and pointed down to his nether regions with a quaking, inconsolable finger. “Ffff..ffff…fffil got his nads, Dad!” I yelled, reporting for my shock-muted brother.

The Phil Removal Project was quickly underway, and I will spare you the details due the graphic nature of the operation. For the sake of educational purposes (should this savagery ever occur to you or your own bright-minded progeny), I can report that the operation took no less than the use of a D-Cell flashlight, a rusted pair of my grandfather’s carpenters pliers, a jar of salt (Mom’s theory, relating to slugs), a wooden stick from the backyard (for Brody to clamp down on), a splash of hydrogen peroxide, and a large, perhaps overly-gluey Band-Aid.

Phil, mangled from battle, was handed to me to dispose of by my perturbed Dad. The toilet and the mysterious waters beyond offered the only thing close to Phil’s native habitat for which to reintroduce him into the wild. So, accompanied by a river of mournful tears, and with a splash pattern that would make a Chinese diver proud, I cast my best friend into the wilds of the Contra Costa County Sanitation System.

R.I.P. Phil.

Superman Toothbrush

Some time had passed since my sorrowful goodbye to Phil when I was again broken-hearted by dropping a vital possession into the toilet. I was ten then – old enough to have collected a few prized items of my own that did not also belong to my brother. One of those was my electric Superman toothbrush. I may have been a wee little feller and mostly reliant on my parents for food and shelter, but dammit I had electric Superman toothbrush, and together we could conquer the world!

It was near bedtime and I was “scrubbing my pegs,” as my Dad always called it, a strange term for dental hygiene now that I think about it, since at no other time in our youth did he utilize pirate-speak. Like all ten-year-olds, I was excited to get the actual brushing behind me so that I could go read more “Choose Your Own Adventure,” books.

It was in this Adventure-bound frenzy that I found myself rushing Superman’s main chore along. A quick lap around the gums was all that I had time for. As I wheeled to grab Dad’s Listerine off of the shelf next to the toilet, I somehow loosened my grip on ol’ Supey. Down he went, spiraling through the air like a buzzing, spitting, super heroic depth charge. I noted the unchanging, goofily grinning expression on Superman’s plastic face as he broke the water’s plane and slid down along the bowl into the muck that I had as yet neglected to flush.

It was at this time that I chose to let loose an undeveloped but aspirational string of 10-year-old swear words that would have made a drill sergeant blush with shame. Coincidentally, it was at this time that my live-in, elderly grandmother decided to check on my progress. Needless to say, Superman did not make a heroic return to the sink counter. Much to my chagrin, a well-used, tooth-marked bar of soap did, however.

The Only Expensive Pair of Sunglasses That I’ve Ever Owned

You know that predictable asshole named Murphy? The one with all of the Laws and the sick sense of humor who comes around to mock your regular inability to spot malady even when it is barreling down on you like a stroked-out trucker? I do. All too well. He nearly blinded me in 1998.

I was a lift operator at a ski area in Colorado, “living the dream” after my college years. Twenty-five-years-old, criminally handsome (so I’ve told myself), living on a half of a rotten couch for $200 a month, surrounded by impossibly beautiful mountains, adventurous women and piles of mostly illegal intoxicants.

The inevitable late nights of our ski bum existence always seemed to bleed directly into the next far-too-early morning, usually before light actually arrived, when we had to meet our snowmobile hop up to the bottom of the ski lift to start our work day. The sustained lack of appropriate sleep, combined with eye-reddening substances and the brutal glare of sunbaked snow made having a strong pair of sunglasses a vital necessity. Losing or breaking a pair was akin to jabbing yourself in the corneas with a flaming marshmallow stick. So, even though I made a total of somewhere south of seven dollars an hour at the time, I decided to throw down for the latest, most expensive pair of shades possible – a stylish pair of Bolle’s that ran me a season’s worth of oily tuna cans.

Being most of the way up a 12,000 foot mountain and far from a sewage system, the facilities at the bottom of the High Alpine lift consisted of a horrible smelling, freezing cold drop toilet. Using the head was something that was to be avoided at all costs. Everyone on the mountain ate the same disgusting processed food diet, and it proved out in decomposition stage. “Holding it,” was a way of life. Thus, the locker room facilities were often equally destroyed on a daily basis once everyone skied down at the end of the day, but at least they cleaned those. Poor fuckers…

As Murph would have it, you can’t always hold it, especially after consuming half my weight in malted barley and free Crab Rangoon (Phil’s revenge, I called it) the night before. So, off I went, bracing myself with a makeshift turtleneck gas mask to enter the lair of an assy beast.

Now, the thing about a homemade outhouse on the side of a mountain is, there isn’t much light to see your way around with. They were built with as little ventilation as possible, so as to contain the olfactory demon within. After all, nobody wants to pay $80 bucks to ski Aspen only to have their sense of smell permanently deadened by the gaseous emissions of lift-operators. Most days I considered the lack of light a blessing, given the god-awful creature that lived down below the wooden rim. But on this day, proud of my brand new sunglasses as I was, I decided to keep them on rather than stow them away on the bill of my hat. I figured they might work in tandem with the turtleneck mask and form an impenetrable shield against the evil that lurked in the High Alpine shithouse. Also, I was lazy.

Somehow I managed to find myself in proper unloading position without the benefit of illumination. It was on the hasty dismount that I ran into trouble. The elastic suspenders that normally held up my ski pants formed a sproingy lasso when unleashed, and when I stood to quickly evacuate the premises, they wrapped themselves around the iron toilet paper holder, yanking me violently around with enough force to lose my footing on the snowy pine floor.

I landed in a twisted heap on the shithouse floor, face-first on the brink of the death hole. My Bolle’s went hurtling down into the pit, forever sealing them in the mud of a thousand poo’s.

Dazed and dejected, I extricated myself by kicking out the shitter door, crawling to a blinding freedom. I was greeted with a chorus of bellowing laughter from my fellow crew members and cheers from the skiers who were craned around from a half dozen chairs, rising into the skies from the base of the lift.

Later, at the end of the ski season party, I was presented with a pair of sunglasses that were made out of duct tape and cardboard toilet paper rolls, upon which someone had written “Bolle” in fine black marker along the sides.

Cell Phone

Generally, the “five second rule” only applies to non-sticky food stuffs that have been dropped on a relatively clean floor. In some dire cases, this rule has to be applied to items that are both irreplaceably expensive and vital to your working life, such as my first iPhone.

Like many people, I enjoy good reading material when nature calls. It is an unscientific fact that the act of reading ushers along the biological process. In the past, I would go to great lengths to procure reading materials of any kind prior to heading for The Loo. But that was before Steve Jobs made all of our lives better by giving us unlimited options for restroom infotainment, all in a smart little box that fits in the palm of our hands.

And while the iPhone is a brilliant package of mystifying technological magic, I found out the hard way the one thing that it is not, is waterproof. So, when my entire working and social world made that inevitable, ironic plunge into the Bakersfield, California In N’ Out toilet after slipping out of my breast pocket during an unfocused attempt at flushing, I was faced with an unpleasant, split-second decision. Perhaps you’ve been there yourselves, and can empathize with my plight.

Despite what most of my former employers, girlfriends, and teachers would say about me, I consider myself a Man Of Action, an unflappable beacon of pragmatic agency. It is only due to this inner-Chuck-Norris that I was able to utilize my cat-like reflexes and follow its course immediately down into the water and fish my phone out of the fast food restaurant commode before the shock waves that its splashdown had created in the bowl allowed the traditional contents there within to recede back to their former resting places.

Just as quickly as it had entered the toilet, it exited, along with my hand, which did not escape as unscathed as the fetchee. Into the sink everything went for a wash. Fortunately, the In N’ Out had both paper towels AND a power blower, which I promptly forced into sustained usage.

I was just about satisfied with my efforts at drying out my afflicted tele, contemplating where I might find a bag of dry rice at midnight when the bathroom door swung open. It was a pimply kid in a paper hat, peering in on me with one crooked eyebrow, his foot holding the door wide open to the full dining room.

“Dude, are you number 130?” he asked hesitantly. I stared back at him from underneath the blower. “Your order is up and we thought you disappe…,” he added, pausing when he saw my phone in my hand below the air dryer. His oily head tilted to the south momentarily, and then his eyes lit up with delayed recognition. “OH SNAP!” he shouted, snapping the fingers on both hands at once for effect. He was laughing now, his voice rising and squeaking in a crescendo of pre-adolescent dynamic range. “Did you drop your PHONE IN THE CRAPPER!? Dude, that SUUUCCCKS! That happened to my toothbrush once!”

I went to the store and did the same in my bottle of water.

My trusty water bottle. I hate the metal ones, because they make water taste weird and I can’t see how much is left in it.

The first day I tried this, I drank 128 ounces of water. It was over 100 degrees out, and I did boot camp class, but this is still definitely a record. My pee has never been more clear. Also, I peed about twelve times that day. Obviously a weekend, because I can’t pee that much at work. Which is one of the many trials and tribulations of being a teacher. But I digress.

I also added raspberries on day two. Juliet suggested a combination of strawberries, basil, and lemon, which I will try next week. Anyone else have any infused-water ideas to share? Because this is my new favorite beverage!

So, I was wandering around Smosh when I discovered this gem. If you go there you can find more like this one. Bitches!

I grew up one out of four highly intelligent children.  You’d think my mother would be proud.  Don’t worry, she is but I still wonder how we didn’t kill each other or ourselves.  The problem with intelligent children is they get bored; when they get bored they cause trouble.  My mother would never shut the door when she had to go to the bathroom.  Not until she married her second husband all the kids were out of the house.  Some may find it strange but every parent can relate.  As soon as mom got home we would hound her with our days and what needed to be done.  We got home about an hour before she did so something was bound to go wrong or someone would fight.  It “had” to be resolved as soon as Mom got home.  Bathroom time was not peace time in our house.

I picked up from my mom the habit of always using the bathroom at home.  It didn’t really matter if I had to go or not.  It was a survival technique for her with four children.  Older two are boys and younger two are girls.  Mom really couldn’t use the restroom in a public place due to gender rules.  You really didn’t want to leave my older brothers alone by themselves.  Not in public, not earlier than the age of sixteen, and even after then that was really iffy.  So she waited until she got home to the solitude and manageability of her own bathroom.

Doctor visits couldn’t be a more prouder time for me.  Even though I’m well into adulthood I still get proud I can pee on demand.  I never made the nurses wait on me.  I never had to focus on how much to drink before had.  I could be dehydrated and still squeeze out a good amount for the urine sample and then some.  It may be just a small super power but I am boastful of it.  It is also a lot handier than you think.

Every summer until I was about thirteen my family practiced a horrible tradition.  Early August, my mother would pile all four of us children into a run down van.  She tried her best to stock up with snacks, books and games to keep us occupied.  She carefully selected what VHS tapes (remember those) to watch on the little TV and VCR console that sat on the floor of the van.  This was high-tech before the flat screens migrated to minivans.  My poor sweet mother tried to do everything to make sure we were comfortable.  No one really wants to be stuck in a van that lost air conditioning about a decade ago.  No one really loves their siblings enough to be stuck in a hot, confined area for over twelve hours.  That was endurance people.  There were only two tops along the entire trip.  You went before, on those two stops, and when we arrived and kissed Grandma and Grandpa.  There were no other options.  No one peed in a bottle due to it would smell after a fifteen minutes in the heat.  The girls really didn’t have that option anyways.  No, you learned to manage under extreme conditions back then.

So, why am I bringing all of this up?  Well, every runner runs into the bathroom situation.  You didn’t feel the need before you left for the gym.  Yet, after bouncing on that treadmill for fifteen minutes your bladder then was singing high notes it shouldn’t. The plumbing felt fine before you left for the park.  Half way though something came unplugged and you’re running for the public hazards known as restrooms.  Even veterans have stories they may, but probably not, share about runs in the shorts or side bush trips to empty the bladder.

My first half marathon I saw more porta potties than I have ever incurred in my life.  At the start all were occupied.  I did think to myself I should try to go again before the race.  But I knew already, even if I tried there was nothing there.  There were similar scenes of long lines at some of the stops with water.  Some people were lining up and waiting for a free one out of twenty occupied.  I was shocked.  I wondered if anyone cared about their finishing time.  I wondered if they all were nervous and that’s the reason behind going.  With so many that had to go, I can only assume my endurance was unique.  Was this to say I didn’t have to go after chugging several cups of water and warm Gatorade?  No.  But, I was so tired after the 10k mark that I knew one thing and one thing only.  If I stopped I would never start again.  My legs had to keep moving until I finished.  I was busy enough debating running and walking much less thinking about the restrooms. At the end of it my body was too tired.  I ended up sleeping for about half an hour on the drive back to my parents.  I really had to go when we got to the restaurant but not any sooner.

My body is just like anyone else’s.  Yes I well get that unplugged feeling in the bowls when I run once in a rare while.  Especially being a female runner, a lot of things go haywire down there once every three weeks.  I have had to pause my workouts to slip in the locker rooms though I really didn’t want to.  It’s a learning curve even for me.  Just like any other pain, those items are a mind over matter deal.  If you don’t think about it, it usually doesn’t happen.  You can control it.  You can wait until the children are contained enough or your partner is home to let you go then.  You can empty everything you have and then wait 13.1 miles to do it all over again.  You can reach for that personal record by shaving off bathroom trips.  Mind over matter.  Literally!

(via)

Related:
Never calling it “toilet” again
Stretch Armstrong’s toilet
The Great Toilet Paper Debate: Over or Under?
Female Urinal

I am a sign with enormous power.  By changing one word I can
cause choruses of great joy or cries of extreme anguish.  I can
send people rushing toward the building behind me or
scattering in all directions.  When I get really bored I add the
word “RARELY” before the word “OPEN.”  People have to hold
their breath (and everything else) until they try the handles.

Public restrooms near the central business district on Kellys Island, Ohio.

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Here’s advertising that’s really on a roll – in more ways than one.

One definition of good advertising is how effectively it reaches the most people and engages its audience for longer periods of time.

According to that definition, placing advertisements on toilet paper rolls is a brilliant move that should “wipe away” competing promotional tactics, correct?

[On the other hand, you might think this advertising idea "stinks."] 

But it’s just what two young entrepreneurial brothers are up to. They’ve formed a business – Star Toilet Paper – that supplies toilet paper to public bathrooms.  And the TP features advertisements printed right on the roll.

According to brothers Bryan and Jordan Silverman, Star’s toilet paper is made from environmentally friendly materials, with coupons and ads printed on them using a soy-based ink.

Their company sells space on the rolls for a half-penny per ad.  Coupons printed on the TP can be redeemed through the company’s own website.

Reportedly, some big-name advertisers like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream have signed on … as have some smaller businesses like physicians offices.  (No word on whether the doctors specialize in gastroenterological medicine.)

How are the Silverman brothers enticing restaurants, bars and other venues to stock their toilet paper? They’re providing the ad-filled rolls to these establishments at no charge.

Not surprisingly, this idea came to the brothers while they were students in college.

After patenting the concept in 2010, they’ve since formed their company, developed a business plan, and have already lined up approximately 50 advertisers.

How successful is the endeavor so far? No official word on whether the brothers are “cleaning up” in the business and “flush” with cash yet.

But Jordan Silverman notes that bathroom stall visitors are the very definition of a captive audience. “It’s an unmatched active audience. A person looks at the average advertisement for two to five seconds. People will look at ours for a lot longer,” he notes.

One of the customer segments considered to be highly lucrative for the company is movie theaters.

Come to think of it, this newfangled TP would be perfectly suited for the next Star Trek movie.

… You know, the one where the Starship Enterprise circles Uranus and wipes out the Klingons …

I understand that there is a movement to avoid the word “training” when referring to learning to use the potty.  I respect the reasons why, but just so we are all on the same page and because that’s what the book I will be referring to calls it, I am going to call it Potty Training.  Maybe you like to call it “potty learning” or “toilet training” or “Crap Mastery”… whatever you like, please feel free to insert your personal choice when reading this

Also, if you have not read the previous post, Lets Talk About Poop Logs: Our Potty Training Struggle, please stop here and read that first.  Otherwise you’ll be more lost than I was when I started watching LOST in season 2.  Seriously, I was like “What the heck is going on?!” Point is, I had to go back and watch season 1.

This will be long! So feel free to break it up over your lunch break for the next couple of days LOL .  I had wanted to post a more detailed account of our experience before, but decided a lighter approach would be better. After receiving comments about my post, I decided to do a follow up. My first post, Lets Talk About Poop Logs, was to just say “Hey, you’re not crazy and you’re not alone.” Now I want to give you a real account of our journey so you can see how “not by the book” (even though we were using a book) our experience was.  This is mainly inspired by a woman on a thread I had been commenting on about Lets Talk About Poop Logs.  She had brought up the very  important fact that putting kids with physical limitations on a schedule can cause more damage than good.  I wholeheartedly agree.  We experienced the same problem with JEM.  Her testimony brought up the negative side of what I call “THE POTTY TRAINING PUSH” or TPTP. So I decided to write this to clarify some things I referenced in the book, The Potty Journey and to give you a detailed look at our approach.

There is a huge cultural pressure to potty train our children at a young age.  I have known parents who started their kids on the potty at 18 months and have agonized over how long it took.  Its not their intention, but their complaints have been discouraging because I felt they were diminishing the true struggle of potty training a child with a physical disability. I’m going to speak boldly now *takes deep breath*, so prepare yourself for some admonition parents.  If you have decided to potty train your kid at 18 months and they are struggling and not finding success…it’s going to take a long time.  You have a “choice”, though.  You can choose to stop and start again when they are ready.  So for a parent who is struggling against a real disability combined with a lack of support and information to understand what that disability means, how it affects the child and how to resolve the situation, listening to that “whining” (for lack of a more sensitive word) is really painful.  Its not that we don’t care about your discomfort, its just comes across as not being grateful.  You have a choice.  We don’t.  So don’t get sucked into the The Potty Training Push and just let go!  Be free to do what’s best for you and your kids and stop the madness in your life.  You deserve peace. Lets face it, very few babies are ready to use the potty in a completely autonomous nature at 18 months.  Yes, “BABIES”.  Babies are considered to be “BABIES” until they are two years of age.  We call them “infants”. Then, they are considered to be toddlers and most of that age group is still not ready to use the potty until they are 3.  I’m just talking about children with NO disabilities.  When you take a physical disability into account, those statistics change dramatically. (I don’t have actual statistics…I’ll just call that a figure of speech and move on  ). But really, all of the moms I speak to that started TPTP at 18 months regret it. 

Note: I am not judging or discouraging the Elimination Communication style of toileting.  Please see below for more information and breaking the myths behind it.

Elimination Communication Approach used by some parents…see link below to dispell myths

Even when I would begin to dispair I thought of all of those parents out there whose kids will never be able to use the toilet.  Imagine how that must feel to them. Their child is being denied the basics of a normal life, toilet use, writing, walking and talking.  Some have disabilities so severe they will be in the mind of an infant their whole life.  Or some, the mind of a 6 year old and those children understand that they are different. The reality of not being able to use the toilet affects them greatly. As their bodies grow and their mind stays the same, they know they might never get married or have kids.  So when I start to feel really bad.  I remember that there is always someone struggling more than I and I need to respect their pain by getting over mine. Rather than belittle someone’s experience, when asked, I would simply reply that we were having great difficulty and prayers were welcome. But it hurt to hear parents complain about decisions they had the power to change.  It hurt a lot. My purpose for sharing this particular piece of information, is not to accuse, stir up strife or judge. Its to be a voice for the hurting and lonely out there who have less suppoort and help than I.  So, please understand that I write this admonition with the greatest of reverence and least of condensention.  I only want to give a voice to those who are hurting and be their advocate.

On To The Next

So! I want to talk more about the book The Potty Journey that I recommended, to give you all a clearer  understanding of what the book is trying to convey and to talk about how we utilized it and how we didn’t.

Available on Amazon.com Also, check you local library.

Judith, in regards to her book, The Potty Journey, says “It is NOT a book of ‘toileting tricks. Step-by-step, it leads you, the tour director, all the way through the toilet training journey to its ultimate destination: successfully toilet training your child with special needs.”  This book is less about a rigorous schedule and more about routine.  It is not for children with a severe medical physical disability because those children have very special limitations.  It’s for those children with special needs, Autism spectrum disorders, including Sensory Processing Disorder.  It is designed for a child with  the physical age of 4 years, the mental age of 18-24 months, stays dry for 1-2 hours, has formed BM’s (meaning they don’t have a medical problem that causes loose stools), they are emotionally ready and additional stress is absent (there’s no major familial change like the birth of a new sibling), and there is an absense of Physical Contraindication.  Physical Contraindication “basically means the medical professionals agree that tthere is no medical reason not to begin toilet training”.  I am very interested in information on Potty Training children with medical physical disabilities and extremely sensitive to those difficulities. I encourage any of you to send me comments with that information to broaden my understanding. The main voice of the book is for children with Autism, which most agree that a schedule and routine is essential for.  Kids with SPD need routine too and like those with Autism, are often scared by TPTP.  She addresses this and creates a very slow systematic approach.

One thing I struggle with is caving into the meltdowns and tantrums of my Sensory kid (weird label).  All of the professionals, specialists and SPD Potty successful moms that I know agree that gentle pressure can provide amazing results.  The key is not to overwhelm, but to get them used to change and discomfort.  So they can learn to regulate themselves in order to function among their peers.  Therefore, pushing them to a breaking point with some huge shove, is not as effective as our mainstream society would tell us.  Tough Love, they call it.  Cowboy Up!  No one just throws their baby into a pool and says, “Deal with it! Sink or swim, kid.” That approach is not effective in a child with Sensory Issues.  However, a gentle but firm approach, in a safe and secure environment, displays amazingly effective results.  I have seen this produce INCREDIBLE results in our son.  However, he had to be ready physically and emotionally.  Determining when that is, is the most difficult part of the journey (at least, it was for us).

NOTE: These blogs are not written by a professional.  They are written by me.  A real mom just like you! Well, you’re probably normal.  I want to be clear when I say, we did not follow this book step by step because it wasn’t appropriate for our son to do so.  We took the parts that were applicable to him and went with that.  So, without further ado, here it is!

How we overcame The Potty Training Push and finding victory! Yay!

As I mentioned in my previous post, Lets Talk About Poop Logs (I admit, I love writing that), JEM really struggled with using the potty.  We first started him on the potty 5-6 months after his little brother was born (he was 3.5yo).  We bought a little potty and had him sit on it for a couple minutes at a time , 3 times a day.  We did this for a couple of weeks and realized that he was just not physically ready.  Other than his own motivation and excitedness about the potty, he showed no sign of physical readiness that was mentioned to me by our friends and pediatrician.  He wasn’t staying dry through the night.  We noticed other things that no one mentioned though.  We noticed he didn’t truly understand what we were saying and he could not communicate to us at all about the potty.  He wasn’t staying dry, but biologically it appeared he just couldn’t do it.  So we stopped. We didn’t talk about it until he was nearly 4.

After our vacation in late October of 2011, we decided to try again at the recommendation of our friends and pediatrician.  So we began The Potty Training Push.  Sigh. Not only did it take a confident sweet little boy and turn him into a fearful little maniac, but it had physical set backs as well.  He began withholding.  No matter how hard we tried to find a motivator and encourage him with prizes and candies, movies, books, trips, EVEN A PUPPY, it only made things worse.  By that Christmas (only 3 weeks after the start of TPTP) he’s was so bound up and in physical pain that we were in absolute dispair.  Our poor little guy.  I would just be in tears at the end of the day and I entered such a deep depression I thought the world, especially my kids, would just be better off without me.  For those of you who haven’t read my previous post, Lets Talk About Poop Logs, please stop here, read the post and come back so you can see the full scope of pain this little guy was in.

Now we were just trying to get him to poop at all!!! We didn’t even care if it was in his diaper.  We tried to tell him it was okay to poop in his diaper if he wasnt ready for the potty, but the damage was done.  He felt like a failure if he didn’t go in the potty and he didn’t want to poop in his diaper because he desperately wanted to be a big boy.  So he held it.  We went through 3 major incidents of the sore butt, but really, the wounds never fully healed.  We talked to our Pediatrician over the phone (who is a GREAT doctor btw), our friends who are doctors and pediatricians, had those three even look at our son and they all said that even though it was the worst they had seen that it would heal and everything would be fine.  Those were the longest 3 months of my life.  I just knew something wasnt right.

By his 4th birthday I had started noticing other delays in his gross and fine motor skills.  So at his appointment, I talked again to the doctor about the struggles, wounds and the other issues. He advised stopping potty training and potty talk altogether. He also gave him Miralax to help.  He referred us to an OT (Occupational Therapist) to evaluate JEM for the other delays and we finally got to the root of the problem.  I totally expected them to say I was overreacting and there was nothing wrong with him.  To my surprise the told me he had Sensory Processing Disorder with subtypes Postural Ocular Disorder and Self Regulation Disorder.  And problems in potty training are one of the most prevelant symptoms for that particular subtype.  WHAT?!  SO I’M NOT CRAZY?! Now, let me just say, I don’t pretend to know more about child rearing than anyone that has paved the way ahead of me, but no one knows their kid like their parent/ main caregiver.  I was relieved that I trusted that. They told us to stop potty training altogether and wait for the therapy to help him.  We were told that it could take up until he was nine, but we believed that our little persistant guy would be ready again.

So…we waited.  We spent the next 5-6 months just working on the withholding issue.  If he wanted to sit on the potty, we let him but we didn’t push it.  As we approached this summer (2012) we felt like he was ready to talk about it and that’s when I found the book, The Potty Journey.  I found that it was more important for me to be ready this time around.  Over the last 6 months I’ve struggled with anger and frustration.  I was up to my elbows in poop all day long for a year now and I was absolutely exhausted.  I was ashamed of myself.  I sought forgiveness.  I got some courage on me, put on my sh** boots and prepared to get dirty.  Things began to go well, with gentle pressure, strong reinforcers and lots of encouragement and cuddles. We noticed JEM asking dad for help. So, he decided to take a week off of work so that could work with JEM on it and I could have a break.  There, at last, VICTORY!

The Process:

1. We started with bowel training first, since that was the problem area.  I made note of when he was having his BM’s so that I could be watching him for his urges and help him to the potty.

2. I increased his Miralax (recommended by doctor) which enhanced his feelings so he could push during the urges.

3. I created VISUAL potty reminders and put them up in every room.  (See picture!) The book I used has a great recommendation for creating a communication chart for children with low language comprehension.  This helped him tremendously because I could just refer to the picture. Boy on potty = iPad Time.  Later, it was Boy on Potty + Poop In Potty = iPad Time.

4. I spoke in words he used instead of my words.  That took a couple of weeks listening to him talk about it.  He used words like “feelin’s”.  So I used the term “feelin’s”.  That way I could say, “When you have feelin’s, stop, go to the bathroom, push your poop into the potty.”  That helped a great deal.

5. I put him on the potty for very short periods of time and rewarded him for potty time spent. Poop or no poop.

6. We talked calmly about the potty and tried to find a really powerful reward for the end of the journey.  At first he wanted a puppy, but after seeing a karate class, he decided that Karate was the thing he really wanted to do. Note: This took us a year to find his motivator.  So if you haven’t found one yet, have hope.  There is one, but your child might not be able to communicate to you, in words, what that is.  When they are capable, they will let you know.  But keep trying!

7. I  started having him sit on the potty for longer periods of time so that he didn’t do the whole… Drop a half nugget in and your done.  For large BMs we through a huge celebration in the bathroom. Jumping and singing and clapping (not good for all kids… some prefer no attention drawn to them).

8. NOW, it was time for Daddy to come and SAVE THE DAY!  We had set the groundwork for him and now it was in his hands.  I took a back seat and took on a demo and build project in our bathroom.  There’s nothing more cathartic than putting on your TARDIS shirt and swinging a sledge hammer at some ugly tile .  If you have the means, I highly recommend you do it. It is so choice (random Ferris Bueller reference). So last month, he spent a week with Daddy and surprised us.  My husband took the baby with him to run some errands one day that week, and while watching TV I heard a voice cry from the bathroom “I DID IT!”  I couldn’t believe it.  He had gone to the bathroom and put his poop in the potty on his own!!!! Amazing!  What a victory at 4.5yo!

UPDATE: he is still in diapers and still has lots of accidents.  This is not a “How To” post, but a “Heres How We Did It” post. And we’re STILL doing it.

That being said, the victory lies in him being able to go to the bathroom by himself and actually push out a POOP LOG!  That’s a huge deal for him.  I am not concerned with consistency right now.  I’m just celebrating with him in his new found autonomy.  He’s still on the Miralax periodically and he has had one sore bottom episode since then, but it was nowhere as bad as before.

To Sum Up:

1. Potty Training a Sensory Kid is HARD! …LOL…duh

2. You are NOT alone.

3. There’s no one book or person who can tell you what to do.  They can only tell you what has worked for them.  It is then our job as parents to look into our kid, see their need and use the information we read or hear just like any other tool.  Not all jobs call for a flathead screwdriver.  Some require a paintbrush. But the flathead screwdriver might come in handy when opening the paint can!

4. We need to fall out of agreement with The Potty Training Push.  We need to wait for the child to tell us when they are ready.  Now, some kids are ready but because they fear change they will resist it.  The key is to know the difference between the two. If you are a person who believes that TPTP works, then use it.  :)  But as a society, a one size fits all approach to potty training is just ineffective.  It’s rare that it works for a Sensory Kid, so we parents need to renounce our guilt and be sure in ourselves.

5. Reach out to people who will be supportive and offer encouragement, even if it means getting online and talking to a bunch of strangers like me who only now took a shower after 2.5 days had gone by.  My poor family and they sensitive olfactory organs!

6. Do whatever is best for your kid. They deserve it!

7. Contact me if you ever need anything by leaving a comment.  I’m happy to encourage you the best I can.  I honestly love people and pray for you parents out there that are hurting.  I will do whatever I can to help you.

Thank you so much for reading these posts and spreading the word to other parents out there who need help.  Like I said, I’m not a professional.  I don’t have all the answers.  I don’t even consider this post to be any kind of answer!  Mainly I just want you all to know that there is hope.  Even when it seems like there isnt.  There is also love and empathy.  Sometimes when we cant find an answer or don’t have one to give, it really helps to just hear someone say, “I’m sorry you’re going through this right now. I’m here for you.”  So if none of what I wrote above helps you, just know that I’m saying those very words to you now and you are cared for deeply.

This was incredibly taxing and difficult to write.  So please be kind in your comments. I really would like this to be place for postitive talk.

The Potty Journey: Guide to Toilet Training Children with Special Needs, Including Autism and Related Disorders, written by Judith A. Coucouvanis, published by APC (Autism Asperger Publishing Company), copyright 2008 

*Elimination Communication is not early potty “training”, but a method of noticing signs of eliminating and placing the child on the potty to do so.  I don’t want to bring judgement against that movement.  I’m only saying that there is a more inappropriate movement (that they would agree with me) that is damaging to some children (not all children). Like me, they are just providing an alternative to The Potty Training Push. I found A Hippie With A Minivan’s blog about this very interesting.  Though I don’t feel like this method is right for my family, I don’t want my post to bring criticism against alternative toileting methods. We’re all looking toward the same goal…a child that has a confident and positive perspective of using the potty!

One of the great displeasures of life is moving people into new homes.  This is simply a fact of life.  

So after a day of moving boxes into cars, driving across town, and then moving the same stupid boxes up a flight of stairs to their new home, it was party time.  I went over to my sister’s apartment to hang out and spend the night — because that’s what siblings do.    So being avid TV show fans what do we do?  Hit the couch and turn on the TV.

However… as it turns out the TV hasn’t completely been hooked up yet so we quickly pull out the cables and start plugging them in connecting the DVD Player with the TV.  (We may not be athletic, but we sure do know how to hook up a DVD Player!!)  And so we sit down to enjoy a nice episode and realize to our chagrin, that the brand new big screen TV is a giant piece of poop.  The people on the screen were BLUE.   That is only okay if you’re watching the Smurfs.  We were not.  And so we proceed to spend an agonizing thirty minutes diving into menu screens and adjusting color saturations on the TV’s settings until we think to check the cables.

What had we done wrong?  We’d crossed the wires, the blue input was in the red hole and vice versa.  Remember what I said about being able to hook up a DVD  Player?  I take it all back.

So After that I go to bed, then wake up the next morning and head to take a shower.  (Good thing my sister had towels)  First of all, the bathtub-doing-business-as-a-shower that I used was massive — a good three feet wide.  And every time I shifted my weight.  CREEEEEEEEAK!!

“If I fall through the bathtub into the apartment below us its going to be the most entertaining two minutes of my life that it takes me to get out of there.”

Fortunately that did not happen.  However, when I started drying off I noticed an unusual smell.  Cat owners will be able to place it with ease.  I smelled urine.  Not the most encouraging smell to find in a new apartment.

So I finished drying off and went to brush my teeth.
The smell followed me.
It was on my hands.
And on my feet.
And my hair.
It was on every part of my body.

Why You ask?? The towel that my sister had so graciously let me use, her dog had PEED ON!!! (Thanks for nothing Katie)

“URINE?? THAT’S DISGUSTING!!”

Breakfast after a quasi-urine-shower is not the most pleasant experience.

Just ask the IHOP waitress, she’ll tell you.