It even has a place to hang the toilet paper! |
But the delicate equilibrium we had semi-consciously sustained
has now been thrown into tumult. Last
weekend we were visiting at a friend’s house, and at one point early in the
evening, this very beautiful little girl, who’s about four months younger than
Maria, approached our friend, who was babysitting her and her brother. We noticed she said something to our friend,
who then started to excuse herself. “What’d
she say?” Elizabeth
asked.
“Oh,” our friend replied, “she was just telling me that it’s
time to use the potty.” She took the
little girl by her outstretched little hand, and together they walked to the
bathroom. I saw Elizabeth ’s head start to rotate towards me,
and I felt an arrow of fear plunge into my heart. Her raised eyebrow, coupled with the fixed
gaze confirmed it: Houston , we have a problem.
Now, in our house, whenever we encounter a problem, or are
thrust into new circumstances, or approach change of any type, there is one
thing we can be expected to do almost without fail: buy a book.
We are book-buying people. No
matter what the situation, no matter how strange or obscure the problem may
seem, someone’s written a book about it that can help you define it, explain
it, give you step by step instructions for handling it, and tell you why it’s
not your fault. For some reason, it’s
highly reassuring to know that someone else has experienced what you are experiencing
now, and lived to tell the tale; and not only that, but had the wits to turn it
into a profit-making opportunity.
Maybe a quick story here will effectively illustrate just
how much faith we place in books. Incidentally, it also illustrates why intellectuals
probably shouldn’t be allowed to marry, but that’s not the main point. The story takes place in the year 1991, PI
(pre-internet); you know, in the days of Moses, Jesus, and Abraham
Lincoln. You need to know this going in,
because if you don’t, the whole thing just falls apart.
We once had this problem where our salt shakers started
clogging up for no apparent reason. We
tried different salt shakers, and bought new salt, but within a day or two, no
matter what preventative measures we took, they would invariably clog up
again. We tried keeping them cold,
keeping them warm, wrapping them in paper towels and suspending them in midair
(that was an awkward moment when the maintenance guy stopped in to check our
leaky faucet), but the salt inside would always turn into a rock-hard, miniature
salt lick. Great if you’re a very small
cow, but it made every request for a dash of salt a daunting challenge. “I’m sure there’s a book that can tell us
what to do,” Elizabeth
said, thereby assigning the job to me.
So I searched through our extensive library, focusing on the sections
devoted to condiments and common kitchen quandaries, but to no avail. I then went to our local public library
looking for answers, but returned in no better position to crack the curious
case of the cementing salt.
I broke the news to Elizabeth :
after a full day of researching at the
library, without lunch, I reminded
her, there appeared to be no books which addressed our sodium chloride
coagulation condition. “Impossible,” she
said flatly, and set off to search herself.
I didn’t see her again for a few days, but the subject came up as we sat
down to our breakfast eggs on Sunday morning.
“I don’t know what to say,” Elizabeth
started, looking forlornly at the salt shaker between us, “I couldn’t find
anything either.”
“It’s okay, honey.” I said. I looked around the kitchen,
which by now was littered with the pathetic, lifeless bodies of salt shakers we
had bought and filled with salt, only to see their innards turn solid
overnight. We had taken to pillaging
Salvation Army and Goodwill thrift stores across town to supply our constant
need for more salt shakers at a discount.
“We’re collectors,” we would tell the cashiers. The more thoughtful ones would ask why we
only collected salt shakers, to which I would reply, “Because that’s where the money is,” giving them
a duh-uhhh look before quickly
departing. But now, surveying the
carnage of plastic cylinders and glass jars and a wild assortment of ceramic
dogs and cats and other animals, separated forever from their pepper mates, I
was struck by the devastation wrought by our dilemma. It was like seeing Sodom
and Gomorrah
from a helicopter right after God let them have it. “Look, maybe I can just take a knife and
stick it up the filler hole, and kind of twist it around to get some salt
out,” I suggested helpfully. It was the only solution I had come up with
in all that time.
“No,” she said. “That’s no solution. How will that look in front of our guests,
you jamming a knife up into a salt shaker and scraping like a maniac.” Her eyes
had a far-away, helpless look.
I looked around slowly, suspiciously. “We don’t have any guests now,” I said,
uncertainty in my voice. “Do we?” Sometimes we did have guests show up unexpectedly,
which always made farting much more difficult.
Ignoring me, she said, “I really thought we’d find the
answer in a book some place.” She poked at her eggs absently. “What does it mean?”
I hated to see her so despondent. “Maybe it means,” I
ventured tentatively, “that it’s really not a problem.”
“What?” she replied, eyebrow raised critically.
“Well, consider this.
If we’ve always been able to find the answers to our problems in books,
and there is no answer to the problem of spontaneous salt hardening in a book,
then maybe spontaneous salt hardening isn’t really a problem. We just think
it is.”
She stared at me for a long time with a very unsettling glare. I thought she was going to hit me with an
especially large salt shaker in the shape of a Rubik’s cube. “So,” she said slowly, eyebrow still cocked, “what
you’re saying is that since the answer is not contained in a book, then this
really isn’t something that needs to be solved, and that we should change our
thinking instead?”
“Yeah, kinda. Sort
of. Well, yeah.” I was trying to keep one eye on the Rubik’s
cube without giving her any ideas. “Why
not?”
She contemplated this proposal for a minute, and then
shrugged. “Hmmm . . . well, that is
consistent with my world-view. Let’s do
it.” She visibly brightened. “Pass me the pepper, will you?”
“Just as soon as I’m done with it,” I replied.
We became huge fans of pepper from that point on, using it
liberally, to the point where the sound of sneezing became indelibly linked to
dinner. We still kept one salt shaker
out, though, even though we couldn’t use it.
I guess it was in case we ever had very small cows show up as unexpected
guests.
This little anecdote should give you a pretty clear idea of
just how much we rely on and value books in helping us to navigate through
life. So, with potty-training time suddenly
looming, it’s only natural that we turn to books once again to help us
manage. And, being evangelists of a
sort, we don’t just get books for ourselves; we get books for anyone else involved
in the process as well. In this case, it
was fairly obvious that Maria’s participation was going to be necessary, so
Elizabeth went out and found a few kid’s books, one called “The Potty Book for
girls,” and the other “It’s Potty Time,” which includes a little button you
press to hear a short, but vivid, audio loop of a toilet flushing.
Armed with these, and our surviving collection of how-to’s
left over from our rookie experience with Jessica, we donned our rain slickers
once again and stepped boldly into the arena.
The potty-training arena.
Those about to potty-train salute you.
End of Part 1
Peer pressure can be a great assistant in potty training. Case in point, our daughter was older than her friend (and not potty trained) but one day with her friend where the question was posed: "Emily, I'm younger than you. Why aren't you using the toilet?"; potty training came easily and quickly after that.
ReplyDeleteMaybe you could hook up a few play dates with Jemma? :)
Ah, yes, the positive side of peer pressure. It's funny how we only think of it as being a negative thing. As far as Maria is concerned, I think we'd be wise to keep all our options open. We'll see what happens . . .
ReplyDeleteLove it, this child hasn't even been on the potty yet and so much thought has gone into it. Perhaps if you tell Maria that we all share in her success she will be motivated.
ReplyDeleteKevin I love your writing it brings a smile.
I like this story, I forgot how we potty trained AJ and now we have Mason. It's not time yet, but knowing Chalina it will be soon. As far as books, I wish I could find all the answers to my problems in books. As you know in life there is always a fork in the road. Which way do you go? What are you made of? Living the Dream
ReplyDeleteSB - I think if we told Maria we all share in her success, she would stay in diapers forever! She has a stubborn streak that goes way beyond her years. I think if she even senses that she's about to do something that might make our lives easier, she'll refuse to do it just on principle. I'll have more to say on that later.
ReplyDeleteAdam - You noticed that I was poking a little fun at our book-learnin' ways. I always liked Yogi Berra's take when it comes to forks: If you see a fork in the road, take it!