Doody Duty

Potty training is the pits. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s worse for Monkey Boy or for us adults.

Monkey Boy is 7 now, so it’s definitely time. Autism makes things like this a bit harder to tackle, but tackle it we must. He’s finally showing that he has the readiness skills needed to make this work. So what’s the problem? He’s also got the stubbornness to not want to have to deal with this underwear nonsense!

In his defense, Monkey Boy has been doing a good job with potty training—when he wants to. He knows what to do. I think he’s partially put out with us for disrupting his regular routine and partially bored with the whole repetitive “let’s go to the potty” sing-song. Twelve hours a day of someone dragging me to the throne? Yeah, I guess I’d be put out, too. Fair enough.



From an adult perspective, however, it’s a whole different ballgame. I see a little guy that’s miserable being wet and dirty, but often fights going to the bathroom in a manner much like a cat trying to avoid water. When it takes two or more grown adults to get fifty pounds of pure muscle in Spider-Man underwear to the potty, you know you have your work cut out for you.

Yup, that’s doody duty. It’s dirty work, but someone’s gotta do it.