Good to go

Reviving a long-ignored skill set not so easy

It has long been my understanding that at some point, exposure and experience meld together to create an environment in which teaching something becomes almost a seamless and fluid event.

Think breaking horses or teaching someone to throw a curve or, I don’t know, surf. Don’t think potty training. OK, maybe the fluid part. But not in a good way.

It seems the time has come for some of the progeny to start housebreaking their children. Or at least getting them to use the facilities. In the matter intended, anyway. I’m sure “final fish resting place” will come later.

And since it’s true that in my family what impacts one of us tends to impact all of us, and that my grandchildren spend so much time at our house we might as well be running a preschool youth hostel, well, as they say, stuff runs downhill. Literally.

I mention this not because it’s the sort of thing you write about and use to embarrass your grandchildren later on when they, say, graduate from some prestigious institution or bring someone important to them to meet you. OK, not just because of that.

No, I mention this because, well, despite the fact that I’ve had to do this before and should be a hardened combat veteran at it by now, it hasn’t gotten any easier. And as I’ve stated previously, I like to whine.

You see, most of the time when you mention some complication that arises from having grandkids, someone will reply along the lines of “that’s a nice problem to have.” But when it comes to potty training, no one says that.

To clarify: The Lovely Mrs. Smith and I are not solely or even substantially responsible for potty training our grandchildren. I mean, it’s not like my kids dropped them off at the door with a small plastic commode and a bushel of “Frozen” and “Spider Man” underwear and instructions to let them know when the grandkids were safe to take in public.

However, thanks to the fact that three of the grandchildren were born within months of each other and we’re at about that stage in the great calendar of life, potty training is next up.

And since the “grands” do tend to spend a lot of time at our house with or without their parents, and potty training is like Acapulco Cliff Diving in that once you start, you don’t get to stop, well, we suddenly become something like substitute teachers. With all the responsibility and none of the power.

The challenge this time around is that, as I recall, there was a lot of prework involved, a lot of prepping small, barely and only periodically intelligible people for the big life advancement that is successfully taking a bathroom break. And since I’m not sure what form that prework took or what the magic words are or just how well they understand the concept, well, I feel unprepared.

I do recall a lot of bribery was involved. But I’m already quite adept at giving them things like candy they really aren’t supposed to have (“how does your grandchild react when you tell her ‘no’?” “Not really sure since that hasn’t happened ever … ”). So the idea of actually expecting results for handing out M&Ms is both simple and, frankly, takes a lot of the fun out of it.

So whatever else I remember from potty training their parents (and, let’s be honest, it’s not much) is now being deployed on the next generation. Which means every 30 minutes I get to ask someone “Do you have to go?” Which I feel like is just me getting my shot in before they start asking “Are we there yet?” every 15 minutes.

I also get to clean up the results, whether they were successfully deposited in the right place or not. Word of advice: A lot of the time you just want to throw those undies away. They sell them in packs and it’s only “wasteful” before the “accident.” Time marches on, but there was an advantage to diapers.

It’s also hard to explain to grandchildren that one of the great ironies of life is the thing they’re fighting so hard, namely sitting on the toilet, will later in life be one of their greatest joys, a few minutes of quiet and reflection during a busy day.

At least until someone starts sticking their fingers under the door or telling you repeatedly they “need a snack.”

Ah, yes, the circle of life.