The Caca Campaign: A Potty Training War Journal

Potty training.  Two words that stoke the fear of parents more than any others.  And yet, it is inevitable.  Thus were the thoughts of my wife and I as we entered this most trying of times. 

Where others dread, however, we prepared.  Both of us have experience with operational planning, and we leveraged that to the maximum extent.  We studied the art of potty training and our adversary.  We read books by experts and learned the shape of the campaign to come.  Most importantly, we fortified ourselves both mentally and spiritually.

The night before we began our campaign, we looked at each other.  I saw fear in my wife’s eyes, but also hope.  Courage, even.  We have fought in wars and led others through adversity.  This might be hard, but it was doable.

What fools we were.

Day 1

Our plan called for a four-day campaign.  I spent the majority of day one at work, receiving updates via text as the battle commenced.  The initial phase called for scorched earth tactics—have the toddler get rid of his diapers, then run around sans pants to let him know he ain’t in Kansas anymore. 

He approached the situation warily, like a tiger smelling something on the wind that bodes ill.  My wife texted with confidence that the situation was well in hand.  Then, radio silence.

My dread grew as time passed with no update.  Had the adversary counterattacked?  Was the plan still in effect?  I could do nothing but wait and hope.

Finally, a message arrived: “He had an accident, had to clean it up.”  The battle took its first casualty, but there would be more to come.

Several hours later, I returned home to the battlefield.  The first thing I saw was my half-naked toddler running to the door to greet me, joy on his face.  The second thing I saw was my wife, though I barely recognized her.  I had left a green recruit that morning, eager for combat and the promise of glory.  I returned home to a grizzled veteran, one who has seen the other side and knows glory for the false idol that it is.

I quickly hopped into the fight, eyes locked onto my son for any twitch or dribble that might signal an oncoming firefight.  Despite our best efforts, he had a second accident.  But hope remained, because we finished out the remainder of the evening with only those two incidents.  We could do this, we though to ourselves.  We had the initiative.

But the power of the toddler could not be denied.

Day 2

The second day started with rage.  From the moment we opened his bedroom door, our toddler ensured we knew his intense displeasure with the situation.  Tears were shed as the battle began, and what hopes we had gained the previous day evaporated under the onslaught.

Accident after accident assailed us, the blows raining down on us in unending sequence.  Time stretched, the minutes passing like hours.  We debated giving up, either by going back to diapers or pouring kitty litter all over the house. 

But then, the tide shifted once again.  Somehow, we convinced our child to sit on his little toilet, and he unleashed two days of pent of poop in a single blow.  Simultaneously, his attitude shifted remarkably for the positive.  I am no biologist, but the timing makes the two events seem linked.

This was our D-Day moment.  We had taken the beach, and the adversary was in full retreat.  All we had to do now was press home our advantage, and victory would be ours.

Day 3

Momentum is funny thing.  When you have it, it seems inevitable that it will continue.  Small hiccups along the way are waved away, even as their friction slows your progress.  Then you look up and find yourself stationary, with only a brief moment of denial flaring as momentum turns against you.

Day two may have ended with the Allies taking the beaches of Normandy, but day three consisted of trench warfare on the Somme.  Massive casualties were sustained on both sides for minor gains, soon to be wiped out from adversary’s the next salvo.  Shell shock and thousand-yard stares became the norm as both sides settled in for a protracted conflict.

What our child did not know is that we had reinforcements coming.  An aunt and uncle were coming to dinner that evening, and we prayed they would be enough to break the stalemate.  They did.  Unfortunately, it broke in our toddler’s favor.

Where we hoped that his excitement at seeing them would translate into a desire to impress them with his newfound potty skills, our toddler took a different path.  He chose to demonstrate his excitement by peeing all over himself multiple times, smiling and laughing as he did.  The sound haunts me still.

I don’t know if the aunt and uncle will ever come back.

Day 4

While the first day’s battle was my wife’s to fight, the last day’s would be mine.  She kissed me as she left the battlefield for work, and I felt in it that she worried it would be our last.  I swore then and there that I would do whatever it took to get back to her.

My toddler and I locked eyes, and battle was joined.

What I soon realized is that his attempted breakout the night before was his Battle of the Bulge: a list ditch effort meant to break through our resolve, but one that could not be followed up on if it failed.  His will met ours, and found itself wanting.

Time after time, my son told me that he needed to potty and went cooperatively to his toilet.  No accidents occurred, no meltdowns, no moments of panic or drippage.  It was as if he had surrendered completely, a post-WW2 Germany more inclined towards making amends than taking revenge.  Victory, it seemed, was ours.

My wife came home in shock.  We had endured the trial and the flame and emerged.  Battered and bruised, yes, but emerged all the same.  She came and took our toddler in her arms, looking up at me with pride.  I had finally accomplished something miraculous, something that made her think perhaps she had made the right choice selecting me as her husband.

And then our son peed all over himself.