1. Avery is determined to not use it.
2. Pedialax lies
3. A proud boy does not equal a converted boy
4. I must come to terms with the fact that I am the mother of a 4 year old boy that will not potty train... and will just have to wait until he's ready...
If you are new to the whole potty training saga (and that really is not an exaggeration) you can pick up at the beginning here, here, here, then here, and finally look down the page at yesterday's entry, and the day before... (told you - SAGA!)
The final chapter all started when I took Avery to his preschool class Tuesday morning and I asked him to please (please, please) keep his pants clean for his teachers at least (he was wearing a pull-up just in case). I bribed him with a soda on the way home if he succeeded. He did in fact stay clean and I thought to myself as we were traveling home - sodas in hand - that the afternoon would be the perfect time to tackle this whole "fear of the potty" thing.
So I put the boy on the cushy donut ring throne as soon as we got home. I gave him the Pedialax and we waited, and waited, and waited and waited and waited some more. I could fill this whole page with repeated "we waiteds" - let's just say that by hour 3 I was determined to see some sort of results. By this time I had upped his Pedialax dosage to the maximum recommended strength (works in 30 minutes to 3 hours my foot...), I had also filled his belly with whole wheat english muffins, a whole wheat waffle, some raisins and a couple of baggies of pretzels... this on top of his lunch and breakfast. That boy had to be primed and ready to go.
FIVE AND A HALF hours later I hear him calling for me (no way did I wait in the bathroom by his side for 5 1/2 hours!) He had finally produced... and at the risk of divulging wayyyy too much information, let's just say, the amount he produced in no way matched the amount he had consumed that day. But I didn't care at that point, I screamed with delight. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not! I jumped. up. and. down. I was nearly brought to tears and the little boy was so. proud. I did ask him in passing, "do you think you have more?" "No," he answered quite certain of himself, and I wasn't going to argue - I wanted to keep the delight of the moment.
Avery was on cloud nine! He walked 2 inches taller and repeated how he was a "big boy, yeehaw!" I drove him to town at 7:30 that night to buy him the promised treat of a chocolate milk shake (it was originally a chocolate donut, but the oldest brother got ahold of him... but I digress). All the way there and all the way back I praised him and we talked and we laughed and we cheered, a huge smile on both our faces. So hopeful I was.
Today, I put him straight in underwear. I reminded him of last night's success and I gave him the biggest big boy pep talk that I could muster... and it didn't work. He's right back to his old ways and he could care less.
So I give up. He's probably going to be 35 and still needing a pair of depends, I just hope that he at least learns to clean up after himself rather soon. So I call this the final chapter, because I'm done. The goal is obviously not going to be attained by any strategy that I implement. The boy is going to have to determine that he wants to be trained. It's the policy I had with the two older boys, basically. They were just much younger when they decided the time was right. Oh, for the time to be right.