Germanic Potty Training

And warm apple pie

(The following true story was edited down to protect your sensitive psyches. Although you still might find it appalling. Please note: I wrote this when my mother was still alive.)

Me & My Mother

Germanic Potty Training

If you happen to be grocery shopping, and if by chance your child is sucking on what is commonly known as a binky, beware. For my Germanic mother will feel free to give you a piece of her stern advice. Having raised four children, she considers herself an expert on childcare.

My mother believes toilet training is one of her specialties. A few years ago, we were reminiscing at her kitchen table over warm apple pie and coffee, when the conversation turned to my childhood.

“You were easy to train,” she said in a pleased tone.

“I was?” I said and took a sip of her watery coffee.

“Yes.” She smiled, making her face seem even rounder. “Mind you, it was a time before disposable diapers. Dealing with all those cloth diapers for four children was a real pain.”

“Yes, I sure it was. So what happened with me?”

“I placed you in front of the toilet, lifted the lid and made you wash out one of your stinky diapers. I told you that if you continued to poop in your panties, you would have to do the cleaning.”

My eyes bugged. “That worked?”

She laughed and slapped her sturdy thigh. “Oh sure, you blubbered and cried big crocodile tears. But after that, you were completely potty trained. Never had an accident.”

“Hmmm,” I said, not feeling like joining in her merriment.

“How’s the pie?” she asked.

“Delicious.” I took another bite.

“Usually I use Granny Smith apples, but this time I used Jonathan's.”

“Tastes great,” I said. “Very flaky crust.”

My mother chewed as if analyzing the flavor, then curled her lip. “When it came time to potty train your sister, I thought it would be as easy. I stood Tansy in front of the toilet and gave her the same ultimatum. Instead of crying, she grabbed hold of that dirty diaper and flung the damn thing up and down, laughing and splashing water and brown shit all over the bathroom.”

I laughed, admiring my sister’s sense of fun. “So then what happened?”

My mother paused to scratch the dry cracked skin that tormented her hands. “Well, I knew enough to not try that again, so I devised another method that eventually worked. Every time Tansy went in her diaper, I took her outside and sat her little butt down in the snow.”

“Oh no!” I cried, taken aback.

My mother nodded with apparent satisfaction. “I told Tansy that if she wanted wet panties, I would give her cold wet panties. She soon learned to use her potty chair.”

I rolled my eyes. “I bet.”

My mother noticed my empty plate. “Want another piece of pie?”

“No thanks.”

My mother turned from me to admire her kitchen. “Do you like the new wallpaper?”

I swiveled in my chair to give myself time to formulate a lie. The decor had the oppressive color scheme one would expect to find in a mortuary kitchen. Dark green paper blanketed the walls with dark green vines contrasting with deep red roses and even darker green leaves. The heavy green drapes, which she made herself, matched the busy wallpaper pattern. Even the oil paintings were of dark red roses with dark green leaves. The floor was wall-to-wall carpeted in another busy leaf pattern. The maple cabinets were stained a deep, death yellow. “Oh,” I lied, “it’s lovely.”

She beamed in agreement. “I like it. Though the two dumb broads who hung the wall paper did a shitty job.” My mother jumped up with surprising speed and pointed. “See that top corner? The pattern’s not plumb.”

I glanced up. “Hmmm. I don’t think anyone will notice.”

She sighed and sat back down. “Should’ve done the job myself, but I’m too old to climb ladders.”

A momentary silence followed, then my mother motioned to the picture window. “Oh look––he-he––the squirrels have found the corn we put out for them! That one’s lugging a husk back to its nest.”

For the next half hour, she watched the wacky squirrels frolic and collect food for the winter, while I sat silently brooding.

My mother turned back to me. “I can’t stand to see kids with those damn pacifiers.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” I said, while thinking: Oh shit, here we go again.

“Anyway, I’m out shopping and I see this three-year-old sitting in a grocery cart sucking on one of those goddamn binkies.”

I sighed. “Mom, you didn’t say anything, did you?”

“Hell yes. I went over to his mother and said, ‘How the hell do you expect that boy to learn to talk if you keep shoving that pacifier in his mouth?’”

I groaned and rubbed my temples. “Oh jeez, what did the poor woman say?”

“Nothing. She just stood there gawking at me with her mouth hanging open.”

Yeah, I thought, I know the feeling.

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