Downtown LA, September, 2006.
The start of the custody transition. #5 comes to us a month shy of his fourth birthday still not potty-trained. Enter the aptly named Celeste, the first of our many heaven-sent babysitters, who promptly begins bribing him with Skittles, to great effect.
CC and I and all the kids are walking downtown, heading to California Pizza Kitchen for dinner, when #5 suddenly grabs his crotch and screams “PEE!”. I’m still new at all this, so we quickly decide that it will be better for me to handle one boy rather than four girls, and #5 and I run full out towards the bathroom at CPK.
We make it.
It’s a small bathroom, two stalls. The only one open is the handicapped stall and we go in. I immediately see the problem: the toilet, built up to accommodate wheelchair users, is pretty high for a not-quite-four-year-old boy.
I am prepared to do anything to make this right because all I can think is that if I screw this up, he’s going to be hitting kindergarten still not potty trained.
Me: Hey buddy, this toilet is kind of high. Do you want me to lift you up? Do we need to wait for the other stall? Do you want to sit?
#5: No, it’s okay. My penis is big and I can stand on my tippy-toes.