Puberty. Probably the most frightening word I've encountered since the pregnancy bomb exploded in our house, leaving a dead bank balance and two hours of sleep a night in its wake. Changing bodies, changing
voices, changing personalities -- it's kind of like having custody of a werewolf. A little child climbs in bed, clad in his sister's pink footie pajamas and hauling Barney around by one of those flippers
that substitute as arms, only to emerge the next morning in jockey underwear and Mitchum anti-perspirant. From a mother's point of view it's not a fair trade. In goes an innocent baby and out pops a hairy,
sullen creature with but one purpose in life: to attract the opposite sex. I'd like to think I'm better prepared for this than I was for potty training, but probably not. As a grown up sans
children, potty training is a subject I pretty much avoided, relegating it to the same category as embalming techniques and possum recipes. Therefore, when I brought children into this world, I didn't think
much about it until my first child grew out of the diaper weight range. Since I didn't want her wearing paper underwear to the prom, I picked up about 387 books on potty training and read them. Some of the
advice was pretty bizarre, like the one book that recommended positive reinforcement whenever the kid actually manages to deposit something in the commode besides towels and family pets.
I'm a
modern parent, and like most modern parents, I'm totally unafraid of behaving like a complete fool. And my husband, who is accustomed to my dragging his dignity in the dirt, too, usually goes right along
with my schemes, although he has on occasion worn a ski mask to protect his identity.
The positive reinforcement this one expert (who apparently has a little too much brandy in the old Alexander)
recommended was to reinforce the kid with applause. Sounded kind of stupid to me, but what do I know? I'm not an expert. Of course, I couldn't remember anyone throwing confetti when I learned to use the john
without my rear end hitting the water, but I also have little recollection of many of the defining moments of my life. Like, for example, when I discovered that shaving one's arm hair soon results in
stubble so thick you could use it to impale a vampire. But I digress.
Yes, there's no more life-affirming, glorious moment for a parent than that day when two grown, educated professional people who
hold jobs where they are allowed to drive and have a bank account, too many credit cards and a mortgage, crowd into a bathroom and give a standing ovation to a three-year-old who's just landed one in the
commode.
In addition to wondering in his own pre-school way whether mommy and daddy have slipped on one Lego too many and hit their heads, it also gives the kid the impression that this is a family
custom. And just like picking up that nasty word that slipped out your mouth when that son of a -- well, you know -- cut you off in traffic, the kid now follows you into the bathroom and does the same for
you. And he does it everywhere you go.
I have personally been applauded in every Taco Bell restroom within a three-state radius. From the South Carolina state line and up through Virginia, my toilet
habits have become the stuff of legends: celebrated with high fives, shouts of "Yes", and an occasional wave, although that one is a bit tricky in the really small stalls.
Potty training was
prime-time entertainment to our kids, right up there on a pulse-pounding popularity par with live-action Flintstones movies and Teeny Beanie Baby weeks at McDonalds. It threatened to linger on unabated as a
family group sport until the day my daughter rather casually observed that my rear end was big enough to host an alien space colony and I called a halt to the whole thing. Face it: we were headed for
group hugs and a couple verses of Kumbayah, and all because someone used the potty. It was time to quit.
Besides, my kids learned their lessons so well we need a SWAT battering ram to pry them out of
the bathroom these days. We're ready to move on to other horrible stages, like puberty. And since I hit it at approximately the time Lee learned to spell Appomatox, I suppose I'll have to read up on that
one, too.
But you can bet that no matter what the puberty pundits say, I categorically refuse to celebrate the appearance of new body hair.
