TwinParenthood.com is pleased to turn over this space today to guest author Ilana Long, mom of now school aged twins Benji and Marina.  This story is excerpted with permission from Ilana Long’s humorous multiples parenting book, “The Binky Conspiracy”.  The book is available at Amazon.com

Wee-Wee-Wee All the Way Home

“It’s all to do with the training; you can do a lot if you’re properly trained.”             -Queen Elizabeth II

Steve and I lay in bed, bickering at midnight, as if this decision would alter the course of our childrens’ lives. “I think it’s time we just go military on ‘em and get it done with,” he asserts.

“I don’t know.  What if one of them gets it, but the other isn’t ready.  Let’s just play it by ear.”

We are at an impasse about the path to potty training our two-year-old twins, Benjamin and Marina. Steve, a math teacher, wants to take the logical, ordered approach. I want to go with a more creative, freeform method. 

To be fair, I have to admit that Steve’s techniques have always been the route to success in our previous child-training efforts:  sleep schedules, feeding schedules, consistent discipline.  Nonetheless, I feel a need to argue with him, if only to keep in shape for these tactical bouts. 

“C’mon, Hon,” I add, “They’ll pick it up at their own pace.  I promise they won’t go to their Microsoft interviews still sucking their thumbs and wearing diapers.”

He is unmoved.  “Look, let’s try it my way.  If they’re not potty trained within the week,” he concedes, “we’ll reassess.”  We’re like some kind of miniature parenting focus group, awaiting results from our study.

For each child, I purchase three pairs of outrageously overpriced training underpants, imagining, in my naiveté, that these will last three days.  We have waited until the heat of summer in their second year, so that we can let them run around naked on the back deck, and, hopefully, become aware of the fact that they are peeing. We fill up a little wading pool for them to play in, and explain the rules.

“Alright.  No peeing in the pool.  If you need to pee, go and sit on the potty,” I say, gesturing to the lovely addition to our outdoor patio furniture.

“Okay,” says Benji as he is peeing out a stream into the pool.  “Oh, look.  I peed!” He is thrilled with this visible action that he is now able to perform with his useful equipment.

Not to be outdone, Marina exclaims,  “Ohp.” Bowing her legs, she opens her eyes wide with surprise, “I can pee, too!”

“Run to the potty.  Run. Run!” I shout, knowing full well this is a futile effort.  The damage is done.  Simultaneously, they race to the potty chair in a frenzied game of musical chair, and try to sit on top of each other. 

“Me first,” says Benji.  And seven seconds later, “Nope.  I can’t pee.”

That afternoon, we go through all six pairs of underwear.  I race to the store and buy 12 more pairs.  They are ridiculously pricey.  I consider taking out a second mortgage on the house.

That night, we put the kids to bed in underpants.  I know. I know. Well, now I know.  You could have told me earlier that most toddlers sleep in diapers, even after they are potty trained during the daytime.  Hours later, I’m wide awake, running the dryer on high and breaking out the few training diapers I had too-hastily stashed away in my earlier over-confident delirium.

The next morning….success!  Benji’s pee actually ends up in the potty (not around it, under it, or on Mommy’s shoe).  We jump up and down shouting, “Yay, Benji!  Benji peed in the potty,” like a family of deranged village idiots.  We call the grandparents and repeat the process.  They shout over the speakerphone, “Wow, that’s terrific!” as if he had just won the Nobel Peace Prize.  And then Marina succeeds, too, prompting more ecstasy and stickers on charts and promises of lollipops for going number two.

We become potty-obsessed.  We have set up two potties in each bathroom for Simultaneous Pee Fests.  On Ebay, we order a folding, portable, plastic seat insert for public toilets.  We carry a potty in the trunk of the car, and haul it with us to parks and playgrounds where restrooms are scarce.  We have late night debates, dueling about the merits of the potty ring vs. the floor model.  In the car, we put plastic bags on the kids’ carseats.  Under the driver’s seat we stow rolls of paper towels (the quicker-soaker-upper) and spare (gender-generic) pants and underwear.  In the first week, we launder constantly – not just pants and undies, but shirts, socks and shoes.  Stain removing carpet cleaner is our new best friend.  The pee is ubiquitous.

We ride the potty roller coaster.  There are successes and accidents.  After an unsuccessful, desperate, last-minute, search for indoor plumbing at the county fair, I change a miserable, wet child on the table of the police station booth.  A trip to Vegas is punctuated by a potty emergency in a casino lobby.  Not surprisingly, shortly after, we were discretely asked to leave.

At the local farm park, the kids turn their lips down when offered the services of the Honey Pot Porta-John.  Finally, Benji concedes. Then, suddenly, I notice he is holding something and saying, “Mom, what’s this?”  It is the urinal cake. 

I scream “Drop it!  Drop it,” like it is a live grenade.   He does and instantly begins to cry.  I feel lousy about my unstoppable reaction.  I realize, as I dig in my bag for some antibacterial gel, that I have probably just yanked the brakes on the Potty Train.  But, fortunately, the twins continue to succeed in their mission.

Happily, the children have a new potty interest.  They are fascinated by the size and shape of their poop in the potty.  They have inherited this trait from their father, who has been known to exclaim, “Honey, come quick.  You gotta see this!”  Like images in a cloud, Benji and Marina see sculpted bunnies and clusters of grapes. 

One day, Marina shouted cheerfully, “Come quick!”  We race into the bathroom.  Pointing in the toilet she says, “See?  A Mommy poop, a Daddy poop and two teeny, tiny babies.”

Benji is thrilled.  “You pooped a whole family!”  We flush, but the smaller pooplets don’t go down.  “Oh, no!  The Mommy and Daddy left without their babies!”

“Don’t worry,” Marina consoles.  “They went to work.  They’ll be back soon.”  The remaining pellets are still swirling in the bowl. “See? They’re fine.  They’re playing tag.”

Now, nearly a year later, our potty training travails are a mere glimmer.  Just like we forget the discomforts of pregnancy and injustices of 2 a.m. feedings, our survival and reproductive instincts compel us to forget the irritating aspects of potty training.  That way, we will gladly do it again with the next child, and the human race can continue. 

So, when my friend Sylvia’s son was trudging through his first day of training, and his 16^th pair of underwear, she asked me, “Was it this hard with your kids?” 

Thinking about the Porta-John incident, I smiled and said, “Piece of cake.”