Pulling off the Pull-Ups. For good (fingers crossed).

Potty training Lil E -- or my grandiose attempts to turn it into a fabulous and enticing party -- taught me a valuable and frustrating lesson: Let the kid go in his own time.

That means go and go. By some miracle of evolution or genetics, he did not inherit the peanut bladder both his parents have (which, by the way, made every road trip we ever took sort of like we were a traveling band of pregnant ladies). The kid is a camel and can (and will, thank you very much) hold it all day. He has had very few accidents but mostly because his iron will oversees his southern regions and he refuses to go at daycare, co-op and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa's house unless I am there with him. Handy in Target? Yes. Fun to explain to a daycamp counselor? Not so much.

The only time Lil E is challenged in cameling is at night. He's a thirsty boy and I thought I was being savvy in ending the late night wakings and calls for a drink into the dark by leaving a sippy cup full of water in his crib, then toddler bed and now, big boy bed. It's worked like a charm. So far. So far is important because tonight is Night Nine.

(Keep reading to find out why Night Nine's such a bedtime biggie).
 

Let me back up. The real lesson of potty training my boy
was not that he is the hostage negotiator of peeing. Rather, it is that
he didn't tell me he was ready to make the plunge into using the potty
all the time. All the signs were there that was (literally) go time,
but one crucial element was missing: It wasn't his idea.



It's not that I let Lil E run the show (most of the time). I a firm
believer in parents being fun and silly and still the parents, with
rules and structure and all that good stuff.  Over time, though, I
noticed that when milestones happened more organically than with some
big Potty Party or pomp and circumstance or ruling by me, they went
smoothly and sometimes even miraculously well.



I worried and worried about weaning. I made plans and outlined an exit
strategy. Then I went to New York for business for two days, came home
and nursed through my concerns that Lil E would be upset or grasping on
to me for dear life. The next day, he looked up at me with those wide
eyes and said, "No more." And that was it. Weaning, done.



While I harbored the selfish hope he'd stay in a crib until junior
high, I also could have created a spreadsheet with my ideas of how to
transition from baby bed to toddler bed. And then we went to playgroup
at a friend's house and Lil E realized that other kids were no longer
cooped up in cribs. He stood in front of me, pensively, decisively that
night and said, "Mommy, I need a big boy bed." With that, it was time.
No big thing, no real worries.



It's happened many times and each time I am taken aback just enough and
still recognize with some relief, "Ahhh, this is my boy and he knows
himself pretty well." Maybe that's a leap to say of a three-year old
but it feels right.



I've held off on pondering other typical preschool milestone moments
simply because we've been in a bigger and much more overwhelming
transition for nine months. One thing at a time, I thought, even though
I know the time for the pacifier should come to an end and that, at
some point, the boy should put on his own socks. I haven't let him off
the hook of growing up but I also haven't wanted to add any pressure of
taking away the self-soothers he may need now more than ever.



It doesn't really matter whether I am right about that. My parents have
different opinions about it than I do and the other parents I know have
their own ways and agendas to consider. But I felt reassured a few
weeks ago when I was helping Lil E into his dinosaur jammies and he
took my face in his hands as he sometimes does when he is being serious
or is very tired.



"I don't want to wear Pull-Ups at night any more. I think I want to only wear undies or be commando."



It made me laugh that his Pull-Up proclamation was rooted around the
allure of being commando, but I noted his tone. I heard what he was
saying.



I made him a deal. He could be done with Pull-Ups if he could have ten
dry nights in a row. Did I feel thrilled in that moment with the flash
photos of stripping the bed at midnight or the constant washer loads of
sopping sheets? Of course not. I have just enough experience to know,
though, that the milestone is not the Pull-Up, it is his decision that
he is done. It is being able to say he is ready to move on and maybe
even grow up that little bit.



Night One, Night Two, Night Three breezed by. Before I knew it, we were
counting fingers up to Night Eight as we pulled up for what we hoped
would be one of the last times. It was his idea
to go potty one last time after stories
and songs and prayers and snuggles, even if he only had to "go just an
itty bitty bit." I got my party in by making a big deal of using up the
last of the Pull-Ups and stripping off the dry ones every morning. We
high-fived. We cheered. He danced. He was doing it and I was amazed.
The kid who drinks all night and holds it all day was adamantly staying
dry.



Tonight is Night Nine. I don't have any doubt in the world Lil E can breeze through ten nights in a row into the nights when, well...a breeze can blow through his much-looser jammies. There's just one wee thing. Tonight, I have a dinner out and we will have a babysitter here at bedtime.

I will stay as long as can, sit with him in the bathroom as many times as he needs before I leave and crossing my fingers he will go that one last time, even with the sitter. But I also know my boy and how he feels about going potty with anyone else, even in the final hours of the Commando Challenge.

So we shall see what the night -- and the sippy cup and the Pull-Ups and the boy's budding self-awareness -- brings. I am pulling for him, even if that means pulling off sheets and putting down waterproof liners and pulling out an extra Pull-Up from time to time. He's ready and that means I have to be too.