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The Tunnel of Doom by Carrie Metz-English

It's a rite of passage from babyhood to full-blown toddlerdom stage before turning into a pre-schooler: potty training. Then you have to remember there is one important element to this "rite": the child. How many readers of Humor Is Relative can relate to this story from Carrie?

Potty training has never been my favorite task as a mother. The somewhat moving mission ranks right up there with pulling Marshmallow Chicken Peeps out of the heat registers or pulling threads of Grape Bazooka Gum from long blonde hair. Advice there is aplenty on how to train children into big girls and boys, yet ultimately, Dr. Spock and Dr. Sears have never met children quite like my crew. Consequently, their advice has not served any purpose in my compound. Now if Ozzy Osbourne were so inclined, he would have much better luck writing a potty training book geared towards my own.

My oldest was obviously my first foray into the world of emission eliminations. She was the easy one of course; she made me think having more child! ren to train would be a breeze. One day, she was sitting there diving her Barbies into the toilet, the day an ominously scorching day. She felt her Barbies needed to have a pool party, complete with whirlpool action when she flushed the toilet. Seeing the opportunity playing right there at the toilet, I explained the theory of waste removal to my child. This advice was taken poorly. She wanted her Barbies to have that pool in any case. Soon the roto-rooter guy came to retrieve Ken from the tunnel of doom, sternly telling my child that toilets were for "tinkles and sprinkles" and not for the pool-side parties she had been hosting. Alas, the pool was then stationed in the dog's water dish and a "flusher" was born.

My middle child was a bit more difficult; the whole concept of standing up and doing one's job was not something I taught well. I tried floating some cheerios in the commode for him to aim and shoot at, but the normally aggressive child geared for combat was struggling with the whole violence concept of shooting the poor cheerios. He would sit on the stool for hours, perusing the "National Geographics," all the while explaining how he was experiencing performance anxiety. (At least that's what he told me.) At the time of his demise as a failure to be a "flusher," our dogs awed him. I stumbled upon the learning he could discover by explaining to him how the dogs don't wear diapers and as an added bonus, they stand and do their jobs. Soon our son got the hang of the concept and could be found "tinkling and sprinkling" in the dog kennel outside. What the heck, it saved money not flushing the toilets. However, with winter knocking on our back door, this soon had to change. It then became a matter of "doing his job" in any circular device that had an opening. Once again cheap, but not quite what I wanted to put down on his kindergarten form for "Is there anything else we should know about your child?" Just when I thought I would ! never have to clean the walls around the commode, flush went the toilet and out came my son with a trail of toilet paper stuck in his behind.

My last trainee has been the worst. When I state that she is odiferous, she says she smells wonderful. Being wet makes her happy. C'mon, this is the child that spits raspberries every 3 seconds, dumps milk on her head and lets her nose-discharges drip down to her neck. (She never thinks to use her sleeve.) She is petrified of the air breezing across her rump if unclothed and is absolutely unbribable. She adores her diapers, frequently making reference to how she loves her Luvs. And forget rationalizing with my little thumb sucker. She does not want to be a big girl, she wants to smell, she wants to be wet and she wants her rear swaddled in absorbent materials with top-of-the line fastening systems.

I always knew I would have a child wearing diapers to her high school graduation.

Diapers have been a permanent fixture in my house for 9 years now. I guess you could say I am a bit tired of the garbage can that stinks to high heaven and the social stigma involved with having a child that once her duty is done, asks people if they think she smells like roses.

Where's that Dr. Ozzy Spock when I need him? Ah well, he'll probably suggest I make my little one into a sumo wrestler so she can wear diapers for the rest of her life.

About Author
Carrie Metz-English has her own column in three newspapers in South Dakota. Carrie commented that she writes what the voices in her head tells her to; most often than not, however, Carrie writes about the hilarious mishaps her children have managed to scramble up. Carrie has also won "Best Humorous Columnist in SD" in the weekly newspaper division the past two years. In mid-May, 2004, Carrie will unviel her website!

Humorous Book Recommendations:             [ view all ]
Me Talk Pretty One Day
[David Sedaris; 288 pages]
This guy makes me laugh every time I hear him sharing one his stories on NPR programs. In Me Talk Pretty One Day David shares about his speech therapy (for a lisp), a brief period of guitar lessons, and more. Those of us who have tried but never fully conquered (yet found some humor in our failures) - can you relate?

A child can go only so far in life without potty training. It is not mere coincidence that six of the last seven presidents were potty trained, not to mention nearly half of the nation's state legislators.
-- Dave Barry

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In automobile terms, the child supplies the power but the parents have to do the steering.
-- Benjamin Spock

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My name is only an anagram of toilets.
-- T.S. Eliot

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Diaper backward spells repaid. Think about it.
-- Marshall McLuhan (Canadian communications theorist educator, writer & social reformer. 1911-1980)