Warning: This is another one of those posts designed more for journaling purposes. If potty training talk offends you, don't bother reading this post.
When all else fails...try some love!
I was sitting in the doctor's office with Hannah and my 6 month old baby. I was in tears, red-faced, puffy eyes, the whole bit. My doctor was not alarmed much by my emotional display, to be honest, it's not the first time he's seen me in a puddle of tears in his exam room.
I was struggling through a tight voice and wet tears to describe the reason I'd brought Hannah in that day. The baby was just there for her 6 month vaccines, but I'd brought along my 3-year-old because I had been considering selling her to the zoo, and I thought I'd better get my doctor's opinion before I do anything rash.
My wonderful doctor. Oh, how I'll curse the day when he retires. I know it's gotta be coming, he's been practicing for so long, he was actually the doctor who delivered me as a baby.
"She's just so unpredictable!" I complained about Hannah, "I can never figure her out!" Hannah is a tough nut to crack. She's whiney, moody, sensitive, manipulative, and temperamental. She can be all sunshine and daisies one minute, and then a vicious monster the next. She responds to displine so differently then her older, more predictable sister. She either grins at you or falls to pieces. Sometimes I don't believe I get through to her at all. She'll grin at me as she smacks the baby in the face, then run away laughing at my attempts to put her in time out. Other times, she'll completely fall apart if I get impatient with her for spilling the sugar on the floor.
That sort of behavior I might be able to handle, if it weren't for her potty training issues. That was actually the primary reason for bringing her to the doctor and having an emotional meltdown in his office.
Hannah had been "trained" for almost a year now, but we were still fighting the same battle with her. Since she was "trained" she and I had entered into an all consuming power struggle. It was over her bowel movements. When it came to going potty on the toilet, she was a pro. She rarely had accidents and she was good about telling me when she needed to go pee-pee. With poop, however, it was a whole different story. For whatever reason, she has simply decided she wasn't going to poop in the toilet. No amount of begging, pleading, or forcing on my part was going to convince her to do it.
She wore panties, not pull-ups, not because it was easier by any means, but because she refused pull-ups. She'd simply rip them off and demand panties. I tried a few naked days, but she hated it, and would sneak into the closet to put on a pair of pants.
We'd entered into this terrible cycle of control, at least that was my suspicion. Honestly I didn't have a clue why she was refusing to have bowel movements on the toilet, that's why I was now seeking the doctor's opinions.
I was in tears because I was fed up with her. I was so tired of cleaning up poopy panties. I was tired of the struggle, the mess, the entire ordeal. I'd cleaned up more poop than I was mentally capable of dealing with. She'd often have more than one poop accident every day.
I'd combed the internet for advice, I'd tried everything imaginable to correct the problem, but nothing worked. I tried bribes, rewards, stickers. I'd tried begging and pleading with her. I'd tried backing off completely. I'd tried getting angry. I'd tried forcing her, not forcing her, charts, graphs, pictures, incentives - you name it - I had tried it.
Most of the advice on the internet suggested being patient, understanding, and most importantly not forcing the issue. When she was ready, she's do it. That's a lot easier to say than to do, however. After almost a year of cleaning up messy underwear, it took everything I had not to tear into her and spank her little bum. I felt like she was doing it on purpose. She knew how, and she knew what I wanted, so she was refusing to do it. Often she actually seemed pleased with her poopy panties. She'd go off and hide while I fed the baby, she come back up the stairs and announce that she'd pooped in her pants, as if she were proud of herself.
The advice I'd gotten suggested trying to "catch her in the act," then run to the toilet, but that proved a lot harder than one would imagine. She'd gotten really good at hiding. I'd follow her around all day waiting for her to show me some sign that's she's gotta go, and then the minute I'd pick up the phone, feed the baby, or turn my back even for a moment, she was announcing her accident.
Talk about frustrating! I was beyond my limit to deal with it. I was now sobbing in the doctor's office, hoping he'd give me some magic solution. I felt like such a failure, like I just didn't know how to be a mother to Hannah. Obviously I was doing it all wrong.
I hated myself for how I interacted with her lately. I was irritated, short tempered, and I yelled a lot. I was way passed patience with the whole poop issue. When she'd announce her accidents, I'd grab her, march her down the hall to the bathroom, and yell at her the entire time it took to clean her up.
It was during one of my little tantrums that I realized just how bad the problem really was. I had marched her into the bathroom, pulled off her messy pants and plopped her on the toilet, going into my usual lecture about how poop belongs in the toilet, not on her pants, and why, oh, why can't she just get it already?! I looked down at my daughter, expecting her usual defiance, instead her eyes were full of tears, and her lower lip jutted out. "I'm sorry!" She cried. I fell to my knees, cleaned her up, and pulled her to me. I hugged her, tightly, then I decided I needed help.
I made an appointment with the doctor, and now here I was, crying in the exam room. Defeated, depressed, and frustrated.
As I finished my sad tale, the doctor sighed. He'd patiently listened to me rant, rave, and sob for probably 30 minutes. He looked at me, and with conviction and concern stated, "I think what we have here is commonly termed as "Middle-Child Syndrome." I stared at him, "what?" He explained that Hannah was reacting as a typical middle child. Doing the very things she knew drew my attention away from her siblings at towards herself. Even if that attention was negative. Her refusal to have bowel movements on the toilet was a perfect way to maintain control. She didn't give in to me, because she knew it was something within her power to withhold.
My early suspicions about her doing this on purpose wasn't too far off base, but it wasn't quite as cut and dry as that. She wasn't doing it to be manipulative or bad, she just wanted something she knew was her's and her's alone. She wanted me, and I was refusing to give her enough of that. Instead I was punishing her, and all she got was anger. What she needed was love and encouragement.
I felt more of the shame and guilt that I'd felt the day she sat in tears on the toilet. I was a terrible mother! How could I have let things get so bad?
The doctor gave me some suggestions to help improve Hannah's insecurity, and more importantly heal our seemingly broken relationship. Instead of getting angry and yelling I just needed to be patient and kind. Hadn't I already tried that approach? It didn't work. But I thought about it more and more. I thought I'd given love and patience a fair shot, but suddenly I wasn't so sure I had.
I prayed about it, thought about it, and decided what I would do. I couldn't go back and change my reactions from before, but I would start things over with Hannah and do better from now on. Instead of getting angry and yelling at her, I would try to do the opposite. I would clean her up without any fuss, give her a big hug, and tell her I loved her.
I was skeptical that it would actually work, but what did I have to lose? It was clear I needed to mend my relationship with Hannah before I expected any progress with her.
So, I did just that. I made a special effort to spend more one-on-one time with her. Instead of yelling, I gave her hugs. I told her I was proud of her for always going potty on the toilet and that I thought she was a super kid. I just loved her, instead of being mad at her. My reaction to her accidents changed. Instead of getting mad, I was patient. I just hugged her and told her I knew she'd do better next time, then we went on our merry way. Of course, I still internally cringed everytime she had one of her accidents. I still had to stop, take a deep breath, then force myself to smile, but I did it.
The change was almost instant. While she still maintained her poop accidents, the difference in our relationship was amazing. She was happier, less whiney, more agreeable, and easier to deal with on all levels. She cuddled with me on the couch and kissed me on the cheeks. She helped with the baby. She got along better with her older sister. She beamed whenever I offered to play Barbies with her. She was a new kid, a happier kid. She was the Hannah I always knew and loved.
Despite her continued accidents, our house was a much happier and much more peaceful place.
Then one magic day, it just happened. She came up the stairs and told me she needed to use the potty. I braced myself, usually this means she's had an accident, but off we went. I pulled down her pants, and was astonished to find her panties clean and dry. She hopped on the toilet and pooped! I was so floored I could barely speak. I hugged her, praised her, and gave her just about every sticker we had in the house to put on her chart. She also got to pick a special treat at the grocery store. She beamed with pride.
Over the next few days, she amazed us all by continuing to use the toilet for both potty and bowel movements. She still had a couple minor accidents, but it was clear she was still on the right path. A couple weeks went by, and she progressed to a toilet trained professional.
I was both happy and proud with my little lady. And, wow, did I learn an incredible lesson along the way. Next time I think I'll try a little more love and a little less anger. Why didn't I try that before?
