“Hey Jamie. If you go wee in the potty you can wear Mickey Mouse underwear.”


“Yea, buddy?”

“Will you wear Mickey Mouse underwear too?”

As a parent, I’d like to think there are no limits to the things I would do for my two-year-old son. But that’s just something we say. Those limits are there. They are important. My kid is giving me reasons I didn’t know existed to be anxious about his potty training.

There’s been a lot of talk of potty training around this house lately. We spend a fortune on diapers. I am looking forward to not having to do that anymore (though I’m sure that money will go on something else). Getting this one behind us will be a relief.

All that said, I am looking forward to the physical act of potty training about as much as I look forward to watching Jimmy Clausen play backup quarterback for the Chicago Bears – which is to say not very much. There will be kicking and whining and screaming. And I can’t even begin to predict how Jamie will react.

The kid has the capability of hitting notes that put the neighbours’ glassware at risk. He knows how to employ his temper tantrums.

It’s time. He can tell us when he needs a diaper change. He sometimes hides when he poops. He’s ready, but he’s stubborn. We’re trying to ease him into the idea, but there is resistance.

“Jamie do you want to go to school with the other big boys? Then you’ll need to go potty in the toilet.”

“Do you want to wear Mickey Mouse underwear? Well, Mickey Mouse doesn’t like getting wet.”

None of this has really caught on. Our casual attempts at potty training have led to accidents around the house. The sh*t is getting real. It’s on. Soon. Kind of. And I really, really, really don’t want to be here for it.

But that’s not an option, I’ve been told. All I know is, no matter how bad this gets, no matter how desperate we become for our desired results, I think about all the things we’d do for our kids. And I am thankful there are limits.