I gotta tell ya, one of the hardest parts of being a parent is potty training your child. I loathe this part of my life. I’m eager to fast forward to the next stage and be done!

For the most part Davey is potty trained. He pee pees in the potty quite regularly, can make it through nap time and even bedtime without an accident, and actually seems to enjoy the peeing part. The pooping part? Well, that’s a whole other demon and when I’m neck deep in trying to help him poop all I can think is, “I gave up a paying job for this?” At least in the corporate world, when I was neck deep in crap I was getting compensated for it. Here? This doesn’t even help with a down payment on a nice new pair of shoes.

Davey hates, with a capital H, pooping in the potty. I’ve tried begging him, bribing him, guilt tripping him, and even scaring the poop right out of him. Nothing works! This kid will hold it in for days until he just can’t hold it anymore and then we just pray he makes it to the bathroom in time. It’s madness!

Monday, a week after his last poop, I became determined to make sure that one way or another he got out a poop so I called the doctor. It can’t possibly be healthy having all of that backed up inside of you. I was nervous the doctor would want me to bring him in, would tell me horror stories, or berate me for being a mother incapable of getting a poop out of her kid. After all, what sort of mother am I?

I was told it was still a bit too early to panic, but that action needed to be taken immediately. I’m to limit his dairy intake to 2-3 servings per day, increase the fiber in his diet (almost impossible with the world’s pickiest eater), and to give him a capful of Miralax. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do any of that as he literally hit his pooping point and almost didn’t make it to the potty in time.

I sat down with my mother and told her of my problems. As usual, I asked what sort of advice she could give me. She sat back and chuckled quietly before mumbling something along the lines of, “what goes around, comes around.”

Apparently, Davey has inherited his “not pooping” stance from me. When I ask him why he doesn’t want to poop in the potty he says he doesn’t have time. Doesn’t have time? Are you kidding me? What could possibly be more important? Oh! Perhaps it’s terrorizing the dog or his little brother, or maybe it’s demolishing my house. I get it! (not really) And when he finally does poopy,it hurts leaving him with that horrible feeling that encourages him not to poop again.

My mother reminds me of the fact that I once used those same words with her around this age. For years, she gave me prune juice (barf), castor oil, and Metamucil. She claims I didn’t start pooping again until she was graphic about what the doctor would need to do to me. YIKES! I’m not sharing that on this blog.

So, I’m a bit behind the eight ball here. I’m finding myself wondering how I’m going to win the battle with a mini-me, hard-headed, stubborn, independent, and strong-willed. Someone, somehow, is going to have to find time to poop. To aid in this effort, as usual, I’ve bought Davey a book, entitled “It Hurts When I Poop”. Usually, books are the key in this house.