If anyone would ever have told me it was quicker to write books than to potty train a toddler, I wouldn’t have believed it. But I can easily write a book in a year, yet it took fourteen months for David, my three-year-old, to learn to use the toilet. I counted 420 days — longer than some prison sentences — of messy diapers, poop-smeared bathrooms, filthy pants, dirty hands, three cases of pink eye (all mine), and an infinite amount of “big boy underwear” emblazoned with racing cars, speeding trains, chomping dinosaurs, and testosterone-fueled superheroes.

I thought I was ready to tackle this developmental milestone. I’d read every pertinent book in the library. David and I even watched a video on the subject and began official potty training season by purchasing shiny star-shaped stickers and a massive white poster. I carefully explained to him that he’d earn a golden sticker to decorate this poster each time he used the potty. He looked at me with wide eyes.

Two months later, the bare poster lay propped against the bedroom wall. Sad and smudged. Alone. Not a single star on it.

All right, I thought. I hate to resort to bribery, but let’s get this over with. I bought candy. Lots of candy. His favorite candy. I emptied the bag onto the kitchen table, arranged the treats in an enticing array and, in a wheedling voice, announced, “You may have these. You can eat them all. But first you have to use the potty.” I felt ashamed, but it didn’t matter. He refused to use the potty and simply ignored the candy.

The next week I tried toy trains as the lure. David loves trains. Surely this would do the trick. I showed him a seductive collection of little boxcars, smelters, engines. Even a darling red caboose. He frowned, and then shouted, “No! Potty! Train!”

How about cars? Miniature hot-rods in gleaming primary colors! I presented them in shiny boxes lined up on the bathroom floor. He began to sob. Tears squirted from his eyes like tiny pearls. Bribery was obviously the wrong tactic. Time to try something new.

I visited our local superstore and bought a blue plastic potty shaped like a miniature throne. My idea of a joke. It featured a special trick: whenever a deposit was made into the bowl, the sitter was rewarded with triumphal music. At first David liked it. He laughed and sat down. Soon he began to pee while on the throne. He crowed with delight and adored making the jubilant trumpets proclaim to the world that Yes! He had urinated! I was thrilled.  Until the potty began to go off mysteriously in the middle of the night with no one near it.  David would wake up hearing it and scream that we had a ghost. Yes, a ghost that used his potty. He refused to go near the haunted potty again, and soon it sat against his bedroom wall beside the blank poster. No royal flush for us.

I asked other mothers for advice and trolled the internet for suggestions. I tossed Cheerios into the toilet. “Now aim for the cereal, honey. No! NO!  Don’t point that at Mommy,” I heard myself say as I reached for a towel.

I found two French drawings of elegantly dressed canines standing erect on their hind legs relieving themselves against a wall. I hung them in his bathroom and waited. Finally he noticed them and said, “Look! They’re peeing.” I replied, “Yes, they’re to inspire you.” But the drawings only confused him: whenever he saw dogs urinating on the sidewalk, he asked repeatedly, “Why aren’t they standing up?”

Finally, after months, he clamored onto a footstool, faced the toilet, pulled down the elastic-waisted sweat pants that had been his standard attire for months, and let rip a yellow arch of fluid. He peered into the bowl shrieking with delight, “Pee makes bubbles!”

Soon Number One was mastered. But never Number Two, which had to be done in a diaper. Preferably while hiding in his closet. Whenever he’d vanish behind the sliding doors, I’d call out, “Honey! Are you pooping? Run for the potty!”

“No, Mommy, noooooo,” he’d protest, despite the unmistakable odor wafting from the closet.

A year passed. I was invited to speak about my books at the High Museum in Georgia. I couldn’t wait. The museum arranged a dinner party for me to meet some of their patrons. I chatted with an elegant businesswoman who was building a re-creation of a French 18^th century mansion in modern-day Atlanta. We chatted about boiserie, Napoleon’s furniture upholsterer, and Louis 16^th chairs. She knew her stuff.

Just before dinner, she mentioned that she had five grown sons. My eyes widened. I whispered, “May I ask you a personal question?” I explained about the potty problem. Her eyes narrowed. She asked, “How old is he?”

“Three years, three months,” I replied.

“Does he have any intelligence what-so-ever?”

“Well, yes,” I said, surprised by her directness, “he does.”

Her mouth tightened. She leaned forward to confide. “Then he’s pulling your chain!”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“He knows exactly what to do. He’s enjoying making you do it for him. Why should he wipe his butt if you’ll do it? You go home, tell him you know what he’s up to, and you won’t stand for it anymore.”

I thanked her politely but, deep in my heart, I knew she was wrong. It couldn’t be that simple.

However, upon my return to the world of smelly diapers, I decided to try her advice. What did I have to lose? I knelt down and looked into David’s big brown eyes. “Honey, while I was away, I met a lady who’s the mommy of five big boys. Five grown boys. I told her about you, and she says you’re old enough to use the potty and smart enough to know what to do in the bathroom. So Mommy’s not going to help you with that anymore. It’s your job now.”

He turned and marched into the bathroom. Alone.

After a few minutes, he yelled, “Mommy, come see!”

Darned if he hadn’t done it. Pooped in the potty. Just like we’d been discussing for 14 months. All it took was one sophisticated woman, an experienced mom, to tell me that he already knew how.

Granted, we still have a few problems: Each specimen has to be evaluated in terms of its size, color, shape, and smell before it can be flushed. No one can urinate on top of his donation to the potty (I wasn’t trying to save water; I was just in a hurry).

He’ll use a public toilet, but only after looking inside every stall.  If any of the stalls are already taken, forget it.  He’d rather poop in his pants.

Still, I’m delighted with his progress. This was David’s first week without an “accident.” Tonight I flung myself on the sofa, heaved a big sigh, and announced, “I’m pooped!”

A little voice piped up. “Run to the potty, Mommy. I’m not going to do it for you. You’re a big girl.”  

(c) 2008