Staring Down The Barrel of A...Baby Potty

Every time I see its pristine, gleaming bowl I feel like a bad parent

Its human nature to compare ourselves to others, and when a mommy: to compare our little ones to other little ones.  We do this all the time, however we love the trope, “everyone is different, everyone has their own internal clocks and timelines”.  We say this over and over again; almost a mantra, hoping that our child will be developmentally sound and reach all their milestones in good time (and not slow-bus time), but also to sound like we don’t care about such trivial matters and that we love our little one in whatever shape he or she decides to take.  Sorry, but its true.  I admit that I am slightly worried about my son’s verbalization.  Its not his fault.  We talk for him all the time and I do a pretty great job of decoding his sounds and so he gets everything he wants.  That’s communication 101 - give me what I want! He’s probably fully aware of this and thinks, “why go to all the trouble of forming the whole word when “Jew” gets me Juice and “popo” gets me my toy police car in record time?”  That’s not laziness on his part, its ingenuity.  

The reason that I realized that I compare way too often is when I started going to OEYC (Ontario Early Years Centers) drop-in hours around the corner from us.  I go for an hour or two in the mornings with Charlie for him to play with other kids, and for me to socialize with other moms.  This sounds like a great idea and its free - different toys and songs and stories everyday, a revolving door of new friends - what could be negative (other than communicable diseases) about this set-up?  Well, I’ll tell you what.  I have found that I do nothing, but compare developmental milestone calendars with other moms, and not all on my own doing either, its like we gravitate to each other and its a predictable and easy conversation starter.  It goes something like this: 

“How old is your little one?” 

“Oh, Charlie? (repeating or calling his name over and over during the course of the play date is a popular shameless, proud namer maneuver) He’s 21 months.”  

“Oh mine is 20 months.  Potty-trained yet?” the other mom is looking at my obviously diapered son and just baiting me into defensiveness.  I almost always take the bait.

Now I ask you, how is one supposed to, in a socially-acceptable manner I mean, respond to this?  Its not a harmless question, its a question that is basically sizing up a variety of personality traits of me as a mother: am I dedicated, in-tune with my son’s digestive patterns, am I environmentally conscious?  I have a sort of meta-cognitive awareness going on as I take part in these mostly mommy encounters.  How am I perceived? What are my strengths here? How am I doing as a parent?  Its kind of crazy actually.  I wish I could say what I’m thinking in these situations.  Something like, “well we’re a family of defecation fetishists so I think having him discard his feces into a toilet would be stripping him of the joys of sitting in his own crap.”  But that wouldn’t get me on any parenting committees and probably WOULD get me a visit from Children’s Aid, and so I keep my mouth shut (for once).

When Charlie was first born I went to these centers to get the F out of my house and to try to connect with actual human beings that were functioning as parents and not needing life support and anti-depressants by the bucketful.  Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic, but I was hurting.  So I went and I was told by the early years educators that I was normal and that it was good I was coming out, reaching out, and that it would get better.  I was comforted to meet other new zombies, I mean moms, who were just as disheveled, overwhelmed and exhausted as I was.  It sounds mean, but when I met one mom who hadn’t showered in three days, had twins and no help (no moms, sisters, non-working girlfriends, or mother-in-laws) well, it made me grateful for my one child, my great familial support network and my knowledge of the PTA sink bath (you can guess what the acronym stands for).  And see, even then, in my brand new days as a parent, I was comparing.  I didn’t smell, she did.  I had one kid, she had two.  I had a doting mother-in-law around the corner, she didn’t.  Did that make me a better person? No, my relief at my own situation and pity for hers probably made me a worse person, but it did put me in tune with that fact that, despite my terror at the whole game-changing arrival of Charlie, actually, I was lucky.  

Now that I have myself more together and have adjusted to being a parent, I guess I feel I need to compare my child.  Now I don’t do it in a mean way.  I don’t find (that much) joy when Charlie’s fine motor skills outshine a playmate, nor do I curse Charlie if his ball throwing form pales in comparison to another’s.  I don’t ever look down at Charlie and think, “well, what a shame, he’s just not going to be pianist” or “his artistic composition with the finger paints tells me he’ll probably be an athlete” but I do look (split-screen in my mind’s eye) at the two 21 month old toddlers trying to climb up the mini slide, one wearing a diaper and one not and feel like a bit of a potty-training slacker. Or I hear one saying, “Oh mom, not Gouda again!” in an exasperated tone, as his mother unpacks his snack and then to my son who happily munches a cheese slice and says “tee” (which in all fairness to him sound a lot like the “ch” sound that the word he’s trying to say starts with.)  And there I go again, wondering when it will happen for Charlie.  When he’ll be enunciating his vast vocabulary like the brainiac he is.