When I got pregnant with my second son in 2006, I had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to be a handful. I swear on a stack of bibles that the kid never slept -- even in the womb. So it was no surprise when I popped him out and he exerted his will on the world: Only Mom would do and, well, sleeping is for suckers.
It was with great glee that I finally got the child to sleep through the night when he was one. It was good, because I was thisclose to losing my mind (I only appear to be joking about that) and landing in the psych hospital. Chronic sleep deprivation is a bitch.
So it's really no surprise that my kid remains, at 4 years old, one of the most stubborn, willful people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.
It's going to be something that treats him well, later in life, but for now, I'm about three steps from pulling my hair out and running away to Detroit.
Two dreaded words: Potty Training.
I'd gone to something we called "poop class" a couple of years prior -- a class about potty training put on by Early Intervention. Autistic kids often have issues with toilet training, so my husband and I had gone for our older son, who, as it turns out, had no issues with using the toilet.
No, those issues are all reserved for my middle child: Alex, or as I like to call him, The Stubbornest Baby on the Block. At this point in my life, I'm pretty sure his younger sister is going to be finished with diapers before he is. In fact, I'm not entirely certain he'll EVER potty train. He might be one of those kids that ends up going to college in diapers.
You think I'm joking.
Therein lies the crux of potty training. I can't physically MAKE him do it, considering I'm not the one in charge of his bodily fluids. And as much as I'd like to pretend I'm in any sort of control of this stuff, I'm not.
I've tried bribing him. I've tried talking to him. I've tried to make it a competition between siblings. I've promised trips to Chuck E. Cheese's (the seventh circle of parenting hell). I've bargained. I've lectured. I've promised. And I got nothing.
So until he decides he's ready, I'm done with the whole thing. If he wants to buy adult diapers and wear 'em off to college, I'll buy him a tub of Diaper Cream and explain to his roommate how to change him.
Now let's celebrate my new-found freedom with some Ativan!