I didn't get mad, and I even did my taxes

My Lucy is freshly 3 years old, and has adult-size poops. Hence, toilet training time.

A friend reminded me the other day, during a rare night out at Teddy's, that I had previously expressed that children should be allowed to wait until  they want to defecate in a toilet on their own, rather than being forced or heavily pressured to.

Note to self: Don't make judgments about and draw life conclusions from that which you know not.

I was wrong in that, after a certain amount of time goes by in a kid's life, like pretty much three years, it's time for the wee one to begin the transition from diapers to toilet.

This isn't based on some instinct or intuition--I'm just tired of changing diapers. She poops like an adult, has the control to hold it in until she's ready, and is stubborn as a bull about continuing to go in her diaper. Isn't  stubbornness a rather adult trait? It reassures me further that she's ready for toilet timez, but she's asserting her wishes by refusing. She's standing up for herself, in a way. In a certain light, it's something to be proud of.

In another light, it stinks. This kind of holding onto one's droppings is not suited to one with beauty like hers. She should smell like fresh daisies. Well, maybe not, but just not like bear leavings.

It's been about a month of training now, I'm guessing. She's deigned to allow a few dribbles their righteous escape into the little green Ikea toilet on I think two occasions. Other than that, no full release of that sweet sweet golden stream or hideous hellscape solids.

Megan and I are still feeling out the right way to train her. It's hard, but you basically have to have the kid sit on the toilet every day, and we aren't there yet. We do it almost every day, but we're not consistent about it anymore. It's a combination of two things--Lucy really doesn't want to, and we're too lazy. Basically. I mean, our lives as parents are super busy. And we didn't get off to the best start, either. Well, me anyway.

I've since discovered that one key to not giving a kid complexes about their own shit is to never get angry about it, or anything related to it. It means never getting angry at the poops she doesn't tell us about, that sit in her diaper for like 15 minutes and dry to her vag and butthole, are harder to scrape off than fresh poo, give her rashes, and basically make diaper changes suck. It's something I have particular trouble with, but anger is never the right answer. It invariably makes the kid think you're mad about them pooping.

That's what I'm pretty sure my Lucy thinks, anyway. Trying to explain the difference between being mad at the act of pooping, and being mad at not telling mama and dada about her poop and leaving it in the diaper for a long time, is too fine a line for Lucy to understand.

But she's getting it. I can tell, cause she'll repeat my apologies for being mad at her poops, long after I've given said apology. There have been times in the past few months where I've become pretty enraged at her for sitting in her own poop, and she always cries, and is ashamed, and is vulnerable with her privates right in front of my face, and it's bad, and I can't seem to hold back from yelling or being too rough with her.

I'm ashamed at myself reading that last sentence. I remember my dad yelling at me sometimes when he couldn't handle my little kid ways, and I never forgot because it's scary when dad yells and gets mad. It's exactly the same thing I'm doing to Lucy, and I've got to stop. It's hard. That shit smells so bad and it's right in my face, and she insists on keeping it that way--yet there's no way she can understand, because she's only three years old. Her mind isn't developed enough. I've got to resort to other means that are nicer.

But a few days ago I made headway--I didn't get mad all day, even at the two poopy diapers she didn't tell me about. I was tired as hell and didn't have the energy to get mad.

I had sort of had a drunken revelation Tuesday evening, and incidentally didn't sleep well. I tried to keep up with my classmate dude and ended up drinking more than I should have. Later that night, I was home, all drunk, getting ready for bed and cleaning up some random stuff.

I was thinking about my Lucy and how I'm an angry asshole too often, and getting pretty down on myself. So I wrote myself a harsh note and left it on the fridge so I'd find it the next day. Big words, centered vertically in the middle of the page, "Stop hitting your daughter. This ends now motherfucker."

Let me be clear, I've never hit her out of anger except to slap her leg during a diaper change. Twice. That's it. I don't casually hit or push them or engage in violence of any kind. Both times were in the last month, and I apologized to Lucy both times, on the days they happened.

Then I wrote some other, smaller sentence around the main one, like, "Learn from your mother," and "Tell Megan she's special," and, "Read BB an abc's book before playing Stardust HD SUV, asshole."

Wednesday morning, seeing the note, I was like, "Ok, ok, drunk me. I'll be good. Sheesh. Say it, don't spray it." It was uncomfortable to read--the sober self encountering remnants of the drunken self is never met with pride. But the lessons were etched in my brain.

Later that day, Lucy tells me, "Oh! I'm poopy!" It was awesome. She was nice and jovial, and I heard little to no apprehension in her voice.

But then, en route to her room for the change, she said, just like every time since I smacked her leg that one day, "Dada! I'm sorry I smacked your leg."

She's repeating my apology to her, verbatim, but simply as a way to tell me what she's thinking about, and to let me know that she remembers what I tell her, so I can be proud of her. She's probably trying to ask me not to smack her. You do it a couple times, and the repercussions last much longer. Perhaps the rest of the person's life. It's a good lesson--NO HITTING.

She'll also say, sometimes, "I'm sorry I got mad, at your poop."

Christ. This is how I hypothesize she doesn't know the difference between simply pooping, and pooping and not telling me about it. She's repeating what she thinks my apology was, when I probably said something way too long and complicated for her to understand, like, "I'm sorry I got mad about you not telling me about your poop and keeping it in your diaper and etc." Of course she interprets that as, 'He's mad about my poop.' She's only three, dad! Three!

Anyway, Wednesday was a good day. No anger from me, and I made her sit on the toilet a little bit. But I stayed with her and hugged her and stuff when she cried, and I let her get up when she wanted to.

Yesterday, Thursday, was also a good day. No anger from me--I think this whole 'being nice' thing is starting to sink in. The weather was fair (that's warm for Seattle in April) and we had a park trip before the naps. Then mama came home and I went to Spanish class, ready for the week to be over.

Today, Megan let me sleep in, like she does every Friday morning, bless her. I woke up around 9, feeling awesome, and Megan goes, "So Lucy puked twice this morning."

Awww! I went to get the car fixed, like we were planning on me doing, and Lucy slept for much of it, for about two mid-morning hours. BB, too--huge nap. I came home and learned Lucy had puked two more times since I'd been gone. She looked haggard. A little while later, I gave her a couple small pieces of orange, which Megan told me not to. Then Lucy pukes those up ten minutes later. Ugh.

Serious stomach bug--probably from the park. I dunno.

But even though she's sick, I feel like a back-to-normal dad, with nothing in the last few days even to guilt-trip myself about. I even got my taxes done yesterday. Score!