Eileen Slovak

Chapter Eighteen: Potty Breaks

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Catherine

Maneuvering through the aisles of Target with a cranky three-year-old who refused to take a nap, I’m certain of a few things. Without a sense of humor, a person could not possibly survive motherhood intact. I think about the many, many things that no one tells you before you have children. Like kiss your modesty goodbye. Motherhood is a covert club whereby you only gain admittance once it’s too late to change your mind. It began during pregnancy, to my horror, once I was already six months along. The other mothers began to share their secret embarrassments with oddly matter-of-fact stories. They always ended with “well once you’ve been through childbirth, nothing can ever embarrass you again.”

      Nancy, my former colleague from the law firm and a woman for whom I had tremendous respect used to share stories. She said she frequently lost control of her bladder in her third trimester of pregnancy.

      “Well at first”, she said, “it was a problem. But I kept a spare pair of underpants and wet wipes in my purse. I always made sure I knew the fastest route to the nearest restroom. By my ninth month I just wore depends because it was easier.”

      I had visions of Nancy in the courtroom. In the middle of her closing arguments. I imagined her excusing herself afterward, having literally peed her pants.

      Now I get it. Beginning with pregnancy, issues stemming from excrement are some of the things I can never escape. It’s good practice pregnancy makes women learn the whereabouts of all public restrooms. It prepares you for one of the great physical challenges of motherhood. Sprinting to the public restroom with a potty-training toddler in a shopping cart. One minute, I’m searching the aisles for a pair of pants that doesn’t make my butt look bigger. The next I’m in full on panic mode.

      “Moooommmmeeee! I HAVE TO GO POOP!”

      “Ok, Charlotte, we’ll go to the potty.”

      “I HAVE TO GO NOW!” 

      “Okay, sweetheart, but you have to hold it until we get there.”

      “I CAN’T! MOMMY HURRY!”

      Who needs the gym? Dodging customers, I zip the red cart through the store. My shrieking child is tow, we barely make it into the stall on time. While Charlotte completes her mission, I hold her small form in place over the toilet.

      “Mommy, don’t drop me in.”

      “I won’t Charlotte. I have you.”

      “Cuz I’m small. I can fall in the potty. That’s yucky. So don’t let me fall, kay Mommy?”

      “Don’t worry, Charlotte, I won’t.”

      “But you don’t fall in the potty, right Mommy? Cuz your bum is too big.”

      “That’s right Charlotte, there’s no fear of Mommy falling in.”

      In the next stall, a woman is giggling, no doubt reminiscing. I hear several women come and go from the adjacent stalls while we remain in ours.

      “Good job, going to the potty Charlotte. No more accidents, right?”

      Charlotte’s training hasn’t been going as planned. Our pediatrician thinks it’s psychological. He says Charlotte likes being the baby of the family, so she’s trying to hold onto her position.

      “No, cause I’m a big girl.”

      “Yes, I’m so proud of you. No more diapers. Big girls go in the potty.”            

      Waiting for Charlotte, I find myself daydreaming about having a career again. About being able to focus on something other than feces. Sometimes, I long for the days when I felt like a respected member of the working world. Back then, when people at cocktail parties asked what I did for a living, I said I was a paralegal and in law school. Now I say I’m a stay-at-home mom. The first always brought more questions. The second makes people say polite things before excusing themselves in search of someone more interesting. Why do I care? What I do has tremendous value. I cherish the time I have with my children. Still, I feel something is missing. I’d like to finish law school. Even though, if I had to do everything over again, I wouldn’t do anything differently.

      When Gary and I made the decision to have children, we spent countless hours discussing options for the daily care of the children. I wanted to continue working once the children were born. Gary considered switching to nights, to stay home with the children during the day. We interviewed nannies, toured child care centers. By the time Michael was born, we still had not reached a decision. The prospect of never seeing each other, while one of us worked days, the other nights, felt too daunting. I took a leave of absence and never went back.

      In the weeks that followed Michael’s birth, I came to realize that I couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone else with his care. The thought of handing his tiny being over to a complete stranger was more than I could bear. It meant putting some of our plans on hold, like buying a bigger house. It meant cutting out extras altogether, like vacations and better cars. What if my initial feelings were merely the result of a bad case of postpartum depression? After three children, it really didn’t make sense to go back to work. The cost of daycare is astronomical. Was I being selfish in wanting more? Why does this seem to be a debate only women have to face?

     Charlotte is singing a song about her triumph. “I pooped in the potty, hooray for me, hooray for me, I pooped in the potty!”

     “Hooray for Charlotte!” She’s right. It is a victory. Once again, I feel a sense of assurance that my life is going according to plan. I temporarily silence the nagging voice in the back of my mind.

      “Mommy, I’m hungry. MOMMY!” Charlotte shouts into my face, jarring me from thought.

      “Ok, sweetheart, I’m ready. I’m sorry. Let’s go. Mommy was just daydreaming.”

      “What’s daydreaming?”

      “That’s when you dream while you’re awake.”

      “That’s silly.”

      I hug her tightly.

      “Do you know how much Mommy loves you?”

     “Yes, Mommy, the moon and back,” Charlotte says with her tiny arms hugging me back.