Patience Grasshopper.

In my pursuit of the ideal education for my son, which of course, does not exist. I find my way to the Zen-master-of-all-things-Montessori, let’s call her Dr. M. Well, Dr. M has transformed her home into a oasis of learning. It is magnificent. It has animals like turtles and fish, plants are blooming everyway, bread for baking, tea for pouring, letters, numbers, fountains, yoga, courtyards, and the peace and quiet to enjoy them. This palace of learning had everything, but the one thing Dr. M. does not have is a tolerance for diapers.

When we were there, she showed us around and we were both awstruck. More importantly, Gabriel truly enjoyed himself. How could you not enjoy yourself? It is the spa of preschools. It reeks of serenity and enlightened minds. I was totally sucked in. I took off my shoes wanting to dip them into the pool of knowledge she had created for children ages 2-6. Well, not so fast Mrs. Fat-toes! (Oh yeah, did I mention she was a whisper of a person. She moved like a she floated on air and talked like a sweet, seductive breeze, you know the type—I felt extra large, clumsy and cumbersome next to her, so of course, my infatuation was complete.)

Yank those cellulite-insulated digits out of that fountain! There is a matter to discuss. The dreaded diaper, she was no fan. And while her website made mention of accepting those in training. She meant training, as in making any mistakes on their own time, not hers. I said we were working on it, which is true. But we aren’t making any real headway to speak of, so I didn’t want to make empty promises. She said, “It should only take a couple days. He will be ready by Fall.” I sort of didn’t know how to take that—was it a reassurance, or a directive, or something like an indictment. You really can’t get a read on a person like Dr. M. they seem to operate on another plane, one I don’t have access to. But I felt like it wasn’t a kindly response. I felt like I should have agreed and been quicker in my duties, but I will be the last human on earth to apologize for my son in that department. The boy is not even three yet. I mean, he will be in a heartbeat, but every heartbeat counts.

So, I bid farewell and told Dave about the good Dr. M and her home of perfection. And while he wasn’t a fan of a school without a jungle gym, sandbox, and basketball court, for reasons beyond my comprehension, he trusts me, and I told him I thought Gabriel would thrive there. Let’s sleep on it.

While I slept, Dr. M sent message after message with detailed information on how Gabriel would reach his full potential through Montessori. He would read and write by four. He would be doing algebra by five. He would be splitting atoms by kindergarten. And who would deny your son the opportunity to walk in the footsteps of Einstein?

Apparently, me.

While I felt a bit barraged by the materials, I liked her passion. I liked that she was a believer. I think kids need that kind of energy to sweep them up and carry them to places they couldn’t have imagined. So, I felt confident Dr. M. was working in my best interest. But the potty training thing still hung over my head. Every time I wiped that boy’s bottom, I thought of Dr. M. frowning at me. I felt her shaking her head and pursing her lips with that if-you-only-knew-look. And then I would shake my own head and say, “No, you fool! It’s not zen to judge, no judging!” Dr. M. would never pass such harsh criticism on such a natural and organic process.

So, given that this was the only small issue between Gabriel and the path to nirvana, I thought we might be able to reach a compromise. To be honest, I was ashamed each time I changed those dirty diapers after our visit, but I knew that you could only lead a horse to water, you could not make him drink. And for all that I would LOVE to scream from the rooftops, my BOY PEED IN THE POTTY! It is not going to happen by brut force (although I am sure Dick Cheney would have a differing opinion). I courageously wrote a letter to Dr. M. explaining that I really want to enroll Gabriel in her preschool, I think he would thrive there. But he is not potty trained and I can’t assure her that he will be in September. He is enthusiastic and willing to go through the motions, but he just can’t seem to close the deal. And after much deliberation and research, from experts locally and globally, I have decided that the added stress of an external deadline would not be healthy for either of us. If she were open to diapers, for the training process, I would send a check tomorrow. And she could send a letter of acceptance, instead of twenty-seven more articles.

It is clear that acceptance is the last thing that smug, skinny, little know-it-all will be sending me. Yes, she told me how much she liked Gabriel and wished he could join them, but it was important for his focus that he be toilet trained. Dr. M. said no, thank you. And just to be sure I knew what I was doing, because clearly I am not to be trusted—the bitch sent me a bloody encyclopedia’s worth of reading material on the subject! Oh, NO YOU DIDn’t!

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Serenity now…

Okay, so let’s say she does think I am some kind of idiot with an aversion to indoor plumbing. STILL! I don’t know anyone who doesn’t use a toilet eventually. Seriously, the box-of-rocks, who delivers my groceries, is probably an All-American on the john.

I don’t want or need her high & mighty advice on potty training. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t suggest that I am lost for ideas. I stated the facts and I stated my intention—patience. Good old fashion faith in humanity. Mark my words, It WILL happen! (maybe even by September) And she may be disappointed and tsk-tsking me, and my lack of pro-activity, but I would like to point out that my approach, however unimaginative, will eventually lead to success. While I don’t have a published article to back this up, I do have the overwhelming empirical data that every adult I know, walks upright (assuming there are no extenuating circumstances) and poops on the toilet (once again, assuming he is your average citizen with a normal fiber consumption). I suspect the same glorious activities to bless my children’s lives in the future.

Who is the Zen-master now? While I would never attempt to compete with her sea of serenity, I am proud to say that I am a patient woman when it comes to my kids. They will walk and talk when they are ready. I will be here. They can poop and pee where they are most comfortable, I will dutifully follow after with a plastic baggy. And I figure, by college, their preferred depository won’t be in a pair of Huggies. But even still, I know that I will accept their idiosyncrasies. I know how they have had to suffer through mine. So, the garden of peaceful bliss and certain genius will have to wait and while Gabriel finds his way through our garden of riot and mayhem to the blessed potty. And what I have learned from Dr. M. is that the path to enlightenment is not always a marked with a Koi pond. Sometimes it is just a puddle in a Pampers.