Confessions of a Chronic Self-Discloser

Here is a blog post I did for a blog contest a while back. I didn't win, of course. Apparently they were looking for someone who would write about switching dog food brands to save money and not fabulous sarcastic witty writers who come up with less mainstream ideas on how to save money. Have I whined enough and convinced you I am being a sore loser? Either way, I miss writing blogs and came across this and felt it was fun to share even though it was not good enough to win a contest on ways to save money- I am glad I submitted though since I always feel I will fail 100% of the time if I don't try. Enjoy.

"I think we should get rid of our TV." My heart did a little skip at my husband's suggestion. What was he thinking? I don't know anyone without a TV. I think the government requires every American household to have one. I was immediately fearful of life without a TV.

"What are you talking about?" I was hoping he was joking, what would we do for entertainment every night? What about all our weekend projects inspired by watching the Home Improvement channel or lets not forget the couples bonding experience we had spending an entire weekend watching Beauty and the Geek on the Reality TV network.

"Well, my brother and his wife just did this and they are saving so much money." I was instantly skeptical. I was usually the one who came up with the money saving ideas that were on the extreme. Something this extreme coming from my husband I knew must have some flaw he didn't think about. And then he laid it out for me, "Ok, everything is going digital, we either have to get a converter or get a new television. The one we have is extremely old and breaks a lot, so we will probably be tempted to get a new one. We will want to buy a nice flat screen with good picture quality that will be at least $700. We already pay $55 a month to a satellite subscription. I think we should consider just getting rid of the TV."

I was shocked. I worried about all the shows I currently watched and how much I would miss them. I loved to read, but sometimes I wanted to unwind and not think. Television allowed me that special kind of numbness. Plus we had just had a baby and I didn't have the time or the hands to read any more. I needed it as a window to the world I felt isolated from while I dealt with colic, diapers, and spit-up. When my husband pushed again I just shoved the idea off with "give some time to think about it." But really hoped he would come to his senses.

Months later he was still dropping little hints and they all centered on the same idea of divorcing our television. "What are you afraid of?" he would ask me. "What shows do you watch that we can't get for free from the ABC, NBC or Fox web sites?" he would tease.

We sat one night and made a list of our favorite shows and afterwards I realized that everything we watched we could get for free online or through a digital antenna. For $200 dollars we could purchase this digital antenna to hook up to our new computer and after this point we could begin to save $55 dollars a month.

So finally with that logic I took the plunge and looking back I don't know what took me so long. I don't miss our old eyesore of a television. And it ended up saving us time and money in the long run. We didn't have as many spontaneous household projects inspired by the Home Improvement Channel and we didn't spend entire weekends watching old reality show marathons. So we actually had time to ride our bikes and go for walks, eventually leading my husband to cancel his gym membership. Overall that one bold act led to a new world, new possibilities, and over $1000 dollars a year in savings. Beauty and the Geek weren't that interesting anyway and I already knew how to fix my own toilet.

Below is another guest post from Meghan Ewald:

***

Everyone has been mentioning "Go Texan" Day all week. I've seen emails, I've heard folks talking about it, etc. I didn't know what it was, and assumed there was a day dedicated to the Texans (the football team). I mean, it seemed logical... Texans like football, so it wouldn't surprise me that there was an entire day dedicated to the a football team.

Then this morning, a co-worker (Tamela) said that she saw her neighbor all decked out in western gear, and that made her remember what today was.

Me: "What's today?"

Tamela: "It's Western Day."

Me: "Oh."

(pause)

Me: "What's Western Day?"

Tamela: "You know... it's where you get all dressed up in western clothes. We used to dress up in school, and people will probably be wearing western stuff at work today."

(I stare blankly)

Tamela: "You mean, you didn't have Western Day when you were a kid?"

Me: "Um... no."

You would have thought I asked, "What's Christmas?"

I've been here for almost 6 years and I still feel like I'm a visiting foreign national.

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated ... As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness ... No man is an island, entire of itself ... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

John Donne (1572-1631)

Why is it that every blog I go to the blogger always has to mention his or her "passion for writing?" I don't understand how anyone can have that deep of a relationship with word formations and sentence structure. I wouldn't call what I do a love of any kind to the art of writing. I would more describe it as a rivalry with writing. It feels like a fight to get out what I really want to say and have it come across the way I want.

I have never kept a journal. I have absolutely minimal skills with spelling and grammar. I am surprised all ten people who will read this blog can even understand what I type. I certainly never would have chosen an English class as a favorite of mine in school. I felt this qualified me to become a "writer" and write a blog.

I still ask myself "why am I doing this?" each time I write a new submission. I know some people write blogs to make money. If a blog becomeS popular enough then a blogger can get money for putting advertising links on the blog. When people click on them he/she gets a kickback. Some people do it because they have an interest in a specific topic and like contributing information to the field. Some do it for their "passion for writing" apparently. I am not really interested in any of those things.

I am pretty much alluding to the fact that I hate writing in a way. What's funny about this realization is that all through school I always found myself sort of trapped in the siren's song of writing. In grade school we had to do an 8th grade project. I chose to write a few chapters of a book. In high school we had a senior project and I wrote and illustrated a children's book. In college to graduate we had to write a thesis - which most people figure is a requirement going into graduate school, but you would think that if I really hated writing this would have at least caused me pause when entering the only program at the entire college that still required a traditional thesis instead of a cumulative test pretty much every other program offered as an equivalent.

I guess this qualifies as a morbid calling of some sort.

I actually started this blog as writing practice. I post the things I write to challenge myself, because I have never been comfortable letting large masses of people see what I write. After years of being told by English teachers this was not my strongest area and "stick to art classes" as a possible future, I am kind of self-conscious about being judged. I don't care if people make fun of what I write I just don't want them to make fun of how I write. (Feel free to point out grammatical or spelling errors though. Those are purely mechanical and that is how I will learn, and I don't want my grammar police friends to have an embolism over the wrong form of "their" "there" or "they're"...so there! That's right - I do know the difference :).)

I chose to write about everyday things at first because as a child I hated writing about me. I needed a challenge. If I wrote about research or psychological procedures I would be cheating and it would be boring for everyone but me. I love writing fiction and I have a wild imagination so I have endless ideas on stories. But writing about everyday things has always been hard for me. I can talk about my day for hours, but when it comes to writing it I really draw a blank. I chose the title of the blog because I felt it best described what I would be doing and me.

Self-Discloser is a counseling term. It is the act of the counselor revealing something about herself to her client or group. It is not an act of manipulation, but a natural confession of the soul that if done right will create an atmosphere and deepen the relationship of trust between the individuals or group. It is meant to be a piece of herself that shared with the group will open the doors for others in the room to feel comfortable sharing his or her own feelings. When I was getting my counseling part of my degree (I am a school psychologist, but I also have a counseling degree) I was known to do the Self-disclosure thing. Chronically.

Actually I feel what I am doing now when I write is actually translating my life chapters into a better verse. See how clever I am tying in the opening quote? Bet my old English teachers regret all the red inked negative comments in the margins of my essays! When I write down some of my experiences whether they be funny, difficult, exciting, whatever it is as if they are now transcribed emotionally as well. Plus I am creating a neat thing for my children to look back on when they wonder what it was like before they could remember. If my posts make someone smile, think, inspire, or simply frustrate them with the wrong form of "there" then I am glad to have stepped off of my island and contributed to the world in a small way.

Just as we were parking our car the anxiety waves started. I could feel them from across the street where a small group was gathering in the dark in front of a sign that clearly stated "Parish Office." Nobody was talking to anyone else and trying not to stare at each other. Two groups were being defined: we were all either Catholic or trying not to be found out that we weren't Catholic.

This particular adventure started a few years ago when my son was born. I kept having dreams where my Great Grandmother was trying to talk me into baptizing my new baby. In the dream we finally settled on the agreement that if I were to ever have a girl I would baptize both our children. I left satisfied and sure I would never have a girl and she walked off with a smug smile. This dream was reoccurring over and over the next few years. I finally pitched the idea to my husband and his response was "Sure, why not." And closely followed by a concerned, "will it be a problem that I am not Catholic?"

I had a girl. Now here I am standing in a parking lot pulling her out of our car while she cries like a banshee.

The first step to being baptized I found out was both parents and the godparents have to attend a "class" about baptism. My brother and his wife are the godparents. My brother is like me and was raised strict Catholic. We were scooted off to church every Saturday (sometimes Sunday), attended catechism (a supplemental bible school for Catholic children), tried to avoid the looks and hisses when we crossed ourselves before prayer with our "Christian" friends, and tried to not fall asleep while attending Mass. I was recovering nicely from my childhood experience and hadn't remembered the tension of Catholic gatherings until now.

My husband and sister-in-law, however, are not Catholic. My husband admits that all he knows about Catholicism he discovered in the riveting Dan Brown novels: The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons.

We stood outside the office for an awkward minute before the teachers of the class directed us across the street over to the school. Apparently there was some sort of communication error and we were all locked out of the original meeting place. Once inside the school I began my count of Virgin Mary's - one statue at the base of the stairs, one hiding in a picture above the door, one on a small card in the room. YES! Three in under thirty seconds! I hadn't lost my touch.

Sorry, this a little game I play with myself: the first religious figure I see I try to find three more of the same as quickly as possible. The game gets really hard when the first one you see is Saint Francis of Assi. Secretly I sometimes cheat and pretend I didn't see him.

The class begins and the married couple teaching the class introduce themselves and we all begin to introduce ourselves. I could tell the Catholics from the non-Catholics right away. The non-Catholics were nervously darting their eyes around the room as if they weren't sure whether they should instantly give up their opposing religious position or pretend a bit longer for the sake of the Catholic friend or family member. I had two non-Catholic attending and as a bigger transgression both my brother and I had been non-practicing Catholics for a very long time. We had a very good reason to be nervous and yet we were by far the least nervous in the room.

It was easy to tell those of us who were born Catholics in the room, because we all looked guilty. Also we were all staring off into the distance. I was expecting a droning zombie like "Amen" to simultaneously blurt from each of our lips when we finished each prayer.

Ella, my daughter, either had sensed the tension in the room or was struck by the power of the Holy Spirit and was letting out random and yet inappropriate cooing noises. Under any other situation I would have described the noises as cute. Every once in a while she would let out a loud grunt like she was trying to test the boundaries of her empty diaper. Usually the grunts would coincide with the mention of "Jesus our Lord and Savior" remarks. It was like her own little baby drinking game except instead of taking a drink she was threatening a bit more and I prayed for the first time in ten years that she wouldn't follow through with her intention. Tyler eagerly offered to walk with her over near the door. I think he just wanted to be closer to an escape if the opportunity arose. I gladly gave her over; a lady over in the corner of the room kept giving me the evil eye. I wasn't sure if it was the fact my baby wouldn't keep quiet or she too was worried about my baby disrupting the air quality in the room. Ella continued to speak in tongues over by the door, but it was now not as noticeable.

A nice couple asked all the questions my husband was burning to ask, but was afraid to because it would definitely give him away as a non-Catholic. "Do we have to tip the priest/deacon?" "How much?" "What should everyone wear?" Followed by endless questions as to how the ritual would be performed, who says what where, will they ask me for proof that I am Catholic or not? Ok, they didn't ask the last one, but the questions were so innocently asked and it was obvious that neither parent nor the Godparent attended Church, ever. At the end of the class the teachers passed around a sheet of paper for everyone to write their name and number and this particular couple paused when the sheet got to them. The dad suspiciously poised his hand with the pen above the paper and narrowed his eyebrow as he asked, "What is this for?" But what I really heard in his body language translated into "uh, shoot... you aren't going to call my house and check up on me and make sure I take my child to church every week are you?"

By the way, contrary to popular belief Catholics are not as strict as they would lead the general public to believe. The fact our party was only fifty percent Catholic was not a problem when I signed up for the class. I think this is in the hopes that someday you remember that they let you into their special club with obvious handicaps and either give a generous donation or slowly wear you away until one day you are bringing up the Gifts in Mass and wondering how you became a "regular" again.

Soon the class was over. And in less than forty-five minutes! A Catholic event record. The room perked up a bit. Ella suddenly was miraculously quiet. And as we walked out the door my brother and I made jokes to my husband and sister in law that everyone in the room noticed that they didn't cross themselves. We also teased that others noticed they didn't touch their forehead a special way when trying to pretend to cross themselves as people looked their way.

I was relieved to feel a step closer to my promise.

Life is a series of connections. Invisible strings stretching from person to person outward over great distances.

Even as a young teenager I recognized the string of my soul mate. As his string was pulling me to him, it was a relief to find my destined best friend at the end of that string. I am so lucky to have found him early in life. Strings connect my children to me too; even though I witnessed the umbilical cord being cut I was comforted to still feel them near me. An automatic and enduring string they have, resilient to the most weathered circumstances. My family has such hearty strings as well. My parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, grandparents and extended family are all there, strings pouring out of me.

I love the strings, but I get lost in them. I get overwhelmed. "What a mess" I sometimes think and want to tidy all those strings and bundle them up or at least organize them a bit better. I feel them spread around me so tightly that I am afraid I will choke from the emotion woven into them. So many strings I lose track of them. What are these extra strings doing scattered around? What is their use? Will I ever get to see where those strings connect? I think I will go mad with the confusion of it all. Can I tie all these strings up in a bow and give them to someone who needs them more that me? When I try, the strings just get longer. They connect to more people and I feel like a greedy little spider. The web I am weaving is unbelievable.

I don't know how the strings I have for my friends found me. I don't know if they orchestrated a sneak attack or the other way around. I can't even remember the day I discovered their strings. Were they always there, waiting for me to pick though my tangled mess to find them? When I meet a new friend I soon find that I have a shiny new string spinning thicker as time goes by. I have friends I made strings for a long time ago, but when I stopped seeing them they never cut their end of the string. The string is still there. I feel that something is still connected to the end of it, so I leave it be for now. When I meet an old friend I smile to find them bringing the end of their string over to me, not to give back, of course, but to show me they kept holding on to their end for me all this time. I am honored and humbled to see it. Those sticky strings!

Even as I sit in a pile of what seems to be a mad knitter's paradise I can't seem to let any of my ends of these strings go. Even the ones I think I don't need or want. Too bad they are not real strings. I then could I maybe make a blanket with them? A fashionable ladies scarf?

I was surprised to find that as people I loved got older their string became a stronger connection to mine. When they died the only comfort I had was that the string was now too strong to sever, too overpowering to break. And when I miss the people who are gone I have only to send a tug on that string and feel an echo in response. While I sleep I feel them in the palm of my hand and the back of my mind, whispering soothing sounds of regret that they cannot physically be present. When I wake up I feel all my strings wrapped around me as if every connection I have has enveloped me in one big hug.

Feliz anivers�rio vov� Machado. Eu me lembro dos abra�os.

Editor's note: I haven't written a story in a while for the blog, but I hope to have a few out soon. I did manage a small coup and got one of my best friends and an awesome writer to author a guest post (with hopefully more to come!) about her first racing experience this last weekend.

Thank you Meghan!

This is a guest post written by Meghan Ewald

The race started fine. Good spirits and good weather made for a great first 5 miles. I smiled at others, chatted, even shared a bit of toilet paper I had carried with me with a woman standing at a port-a-potty (ah, race bonding moments). Police officers trundled back and forth along side the runners, and AED operators rode their bikes back and forth. The wind would gust and die periodically, but that first 5 miles was a beaut.

Just after mile 7, I turned the corner of NASA Road 1 and Space Center Blvd. I realized there was nothing to cut the wind. I was drenched with sweat and wearing a thin long sleeved shirt as wet as I was. The wind turned the shirt to ice. At first, that wasn't so bad. I was running at a pretty good clip and the cold shirt cooled me down. That wind though... I wasn't expecting that.

I developed a stitch in my side and slowed to a walk. Then I started getting cold. The wind blowing through my shirt and shorts caused actual pain when the material snapped against me. I started running between miles 7 and 9 only to be derailed by the stitch in my side. As I tried to walk off the cramp, a constant litany marched time with me through my head, "you have to finish, you have to finish." Besides... the food was only 3 miles ahead and 7 miles if I turned back.

I tried to catch a few of the walkers in front of me, but I was wiped out. I was hungry enough to be shaky, I had a stitch in my side that I couldn't shake, and my legs felt like Jello. I turned the corner just before mile 9 and walked through the water station, grabbing a cup of water. The volunteers shouted encouragements, "you can do it", "you're almost there", "just a little further." I don't think I even smiled. Just walked with my head down.

Another runner, clearly done with the race, was walking in the opposite direction and took one look at my face. She just held up her hand for an encouraging high-five. I slapped her hand, and she kept going. She didn't say anything, just smiled at me. She could probably tell just by the miserable look on my face that I had almost given up. That one smile from a perfect stranger was all I needed. After the mile 9 water station, I started to run.

There were markers along the last mile for those like me needing just a touch more encouragement. My favorites were those that just said "RUN" and an arrow pointing forward. Really that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? An arrow pointing in a given direction and a simple directive: "RUN".

So I did.

After 2 hours and 21 minutes discouraged, hungry and wet, I finished 825th place, dead last in my age group. But, by God, I finished.

I continued beating myself up for a few days, completely discounting the first good 7 miles I put in, and only giving myself mild reprieve for running that last mile. I could only focus on the 2 bad miles I spent on Space Center Blvd wishing like hell a police officer would take pity on me and throw me over the back of their motorcycle instead of suffering one more minute.

I wasn't sure I wanted to race again. Run yes, I told myself. Race, no. Although, now, I recognize that saying I wasn't going to race was the equivalent of quitting running, too. Because once you start quitting on things, it gets easier and easier to do. I was tempted these last few days to cry off the Aramco Half Marathon in January. Clearly I wasn't meant to race, what the hell was I thinking? My Easy run on Tuesday turned into a very long, very brutal Tempo run as I continued beating myself up. Consequently, my Speed workout on Thursday turned into an Easy run. I felt better after both, but not like I'd exercised the demon of my first USA 10-miler.

Then this morning, I found myself in a conversation about running. One co-worker said, with all the authority of a non-believer, "Running has to have a purpose. If you're not chasing a ball, there's no purpose." I wasn't thinking of the race, the race didn't even cross my mind until later. I was comparing his statement to every good run I've ever had. The runs that make you feel powerful, as though you could go forever in any direction under just the power of your own two feet. Thinking of that, I responded, "Running is the purpose." He scoffed, rolled his eyes, and gave me the "oh, you're one of those..." looks.

And just like that, my faith was restored. I was a believer again.

Can I get a hallelujah.

Dear Lizard,

Imagine my surprise to come out of Ella's room to find you staring back at me. I thought you were a snake at first, so I hope you didn't take offense when I wished that you'd slither back to your hole. I called my husband to complain about you only to find out he was a few minutes from home. I had to work quickly to catch you so sorry about the numerous cups, paper funnels and other fashioned devices I had to use for my purposes. I know now that you are much speedier than I first estimated. I will be ready for you next time.

Isaac enjoyed me running into his room at full battle cry when you scampered under his door. By the way, that was the first nap he had taken in a week, so I don't appreciate you tricking me into waking him. I refuse to believe that Isaac was frightened by me letting out scared little screams as I tried to capture you, so I blame you for any psychological damage that will result from the attempts. Running under his bed was a nice move. Bet you didn't know I could call upon super human strength to hurl the bed across the room to get to you, did you?

The past 24 hours that have passed since I discovered you have been interesting. I live in constant fear, thanks to you. Every light switch for which I reach, blanket I pick up, and step I take is riddled with anxiety that you will be lurking underneath. Isaac however, seems invigorated with our random "lizard hunting." He wields the flashlight with all the skill of a college student on a weekend bender. He excitedly insists that lizards "could be anywhere!" Ella's diapers, the neighbor's drive way, and up his nose are the most highly suspected lizard hideouts. Ella slept better last night and if you had anything to do with it then, congratulations, you are finally earning your keep.

Some people have joked you will become our pet. I have no clue how to take care of a lizard. I just learned how to take care of children and you can ask them how that's been working out. Unless you want to become a Seeing Eye Lizard for the Blind I suggest you stay clear of me. You will have to take care of yourself, but listen up Lizard, there will be no sharing of resources in this house. That Ben and Jerry's S'more ice cream in the freezer is mine! Just ask my husband what happens to those who try to force me to share... Oh wait, never mind, I just read on Google you eat spiders and other bugs. You can help yourself to as many of those you wish to consume. We have plenty. I also read that you like dry climates and so excuse me a minute while I go remove the trap I have set for you in the bathtub.

Let's cut to the chase, lizard. I want you gone. I realize that you have little opportunity to accomplish this goal, so I will make you a deal. I will agree to leave the sliding glass door open for a small amount of time in the mornings. Don't let the screen door hit you on the way out. Please do not abuse my generosity by inviting in all your other free-loading lazy lizard friends. I hope you realize I could just as easily order your execution without trial. Now who's afraid?

Take care,

Tina

(PS. I have friends that believe "take care" at the end of a letter is the equivalent of saying "I hope I don't see you again" but nicer. It is pretty much the literary version of a middle finger. I'll let you ponder that one when you are a safe distance doing your lizard tongue thing on some rock, miles away from my home.)

After one and a half months potty training was a bust for me. Everything I was doing was yielding little results. I would have one success only to be followed by more and more failures. All parties involved where frustrated. It was time to research again. I needed more graphs. I needed more data. I needed more ideas. I needed Google.

Google and I are great friends. I knew her when she was a newborn. Tyler introduced me to her fancy search engine and although he referred to her as a "thing" I knew immediately she was a female, because who else can keep all that information straight and organized?

Google provided me with the fresh restart I needed. If anything it was nice to see what other parents were doing and that I was not the only one. I did get a bit angry at some naive parents' suggestions. It seems when some people have an easy time with it they feel that everyone else with problems must be doing it wrong. They also have a tendency to rub in their accomplishments. One parent insisted that all she did was tell her daughter to "now pee on the potty" and the next day she was out of diapers. She was chastising another parent that was having trouble telling her, "You're making this all too complicated. Potty training is so easy!" I wanted to invite her to my home and prove it to me. I also wanted to crush her spirit.

I have never wished harm on another human, so I knew I was stressed on the subject when I had these thoughts. I also knew I was getting delirious when I was willing to spend unimaginable amounts of money to help me get the potty job done. I am extremely frugal and when I was looking up flights to the other side of the United States for a potty training boot camp I knew I was hitting my breaking point.

I did stumble on some interesting information during all my research and decided to completely change my attitude about the whole thing. I decided to make the process more fun and inviting. It needed to fit both my personality and Isaac's.

First of all I needed to teach Isaac a few skills to help him feel successful. He needed to know what wet and dry meant. He needed to be more of a pro at pulling his own pants down. He also needed to be clearer on what was expected of him. He also needed more motivation than just pleasing his parents.

For the next few weeks I worked on these skills with him. I would point out wet items and dry items in the house. He wore mostly cotton underwear at home so I could continue to show him wet and dry and say, "hey you are going pee pee." When I would notice he was going, I would say "now you are wet. We like to stay dry." I would try to make this as non-threatening and casual as possible. I then would comment, "someday you will put your pee in the potty. That will be awesome!"

I had him watching every potty video I could find that I felt was of high quality. The fact that Elmo used the potty too was a huge eye opener for him. We talked a lot about the potty and how we all use the potty. I got a ton of children's potty books and read them to him often. We would talk about the characters and point to the pictures. We would take field trips to our own potty and talk about the things we read about. Our toys used the potty often and we would wipe their bottoms. He had a set of bath cars that would fill with water in a small hole out the bottom and we would hold them over the toilet and they would "pee" into the toilet. Isaac would dutifully wipe them clean and flush. He was very encouraging to them and would exclaim "Good job, red car! Good job Lighting McQueen!"

I also tried using this same technique for poop. When he would poop in a diaper we would hold the diaper over the toilet and let it fall in and then explain, "Poop's home is in the potty. Poop belongs in the potty. When we poop we will try to poop into the potty like mommy and daddy." For a teaching session I got one of his toys and it would grunt and strain over his potty chair and poop out a Hersey's chocolate square. It was all I had in my cupboard. The first time I tried this Isaac's eyes were huge and he squealed in delight. He then dove straight in after the candy and quickly plunked it in his mouth. Thankfully the potty hadn't been used yet. He then yanked the toy from my hand and shook and squeezed the thing all the while excitedly questioning, "Where is the chocolate? Where did it go? More poo poo chocolate, please!" I learned my lesson not to use anything as easily recognizable as Hersey's chocolate again.

Isaac was also still weary to sit on the potty. So I had to make that more inviting. I ditched the potty chair for a while, since I felt too many negative feelings were attached to its use. I went and got a potty chair that fit over our toilet seat and a stool. I then decorated up the toilet with paper and put waxed paper over the tank area. I put play dough and some toy cars up there as well. I faced him backwards on the toilet and let him color pages I ripped out of a coloring book and taped to the back of the seat. I chose car characters since he was really into that at the time. I would give him water and after an hour I would take him in there to play.

I did all this for about a month and really only got him to pee on the potty a few times. I was happy with the results, because at this point I was just happy he was sitting there without fuss or major melt down. The real miracle came on a day when I least expected it. He had been sitting on the potty coloring and decided he was done after twenty minutes. He climbed off and we both went into the living room. I noticed I had an email, so I started to reply as he was playing with some toys. We hadn't gotten around to putting his pants back on.

After a few moments he wandered back into the bathroom and I quickly tried to finish up my email in case he tried to get into some trouble in there. Quiet is never good when it comes from a two year old boy.

Suddenly he came running back into the living room exclaiming a bunch of incoherent toddler speak of which I could only understand the words "potty" and "fell in." He also looked extremely worried. I immediately begin to panic over the number of Tyler's fancy techno gadgetry that could have been dropped in the toilet. I rushed into the room as if I could save the doomed device or catch it lest it be hanging on a precipice. Upon my arrival I peered into the toilet hesitantly expecting to find an iPod only to discover a child-sized turd. I had never been so happy to find a floater in my life. I knew that it was not in there before and only Isaac and I were in the house. I really hoped I didn't have a toddler-sized intruder using our toilet that was going to spoil my fun. I jumped up and down and screamed happily and Isaac's expression changed from worry to glee as he realized what was happening. I immediately took a picture with my phone and sent a picture and text to my husband. I then called him to relay the newest achievement. Tyler awkwardly spoke with Isaac and I while trying to avoid using the words 'pee' 'poop' and 'potty' and not alarm his co-workers to the strange client he might be working with that would require him to use such vocabulary.

My pessimistic side was trying to convince me that this was a freak accident and he probably pooped on the floor and shoveled it into the potty. But my optimistic side was winning out and I was assured that all of our hard work for the last two months was finally paying off. After this point I knew it was all a matter of practice and continue doing what I was doing, since it was finally working.

Isaac randomly used the potty for the next few weeks and I was comfortable with the way things were going. He was not a master of the potty domain yet, but I felt he was getting there.

Just before the beginning of the spring season my brother came to live with us until the baby was due. It was a nice arrangement: he did lots of chores around our house and yard and got free rent until school was out. I slightly fretted over this big change in our household and how it would affect our potty training progress. My brother provided little intrusion in the matter as it turned out and Isaac continued to do well with expected set backs here and there. My brother also provided another cheerleader for Isaac and Isaac didn't seem to notice that my brother was horrified and grossed out by the situation.

Only after a week of living with us and watching Isaac learn to go on the potty my brother summed up everything about potty training it took me months to learn. He said when talking with a toddler about going to the potty it is best not to ask "do you have to use the potty?" because he will tell you "no." It is better to tell him "it is time to use the potty." And then trick him into it and wear him down when he says "no."

Most importantly, he confided to me "no means yes and yes means it's too late."

Three weeks into "potty training" and I thought I was going to have a mental break. One of the worst things about being a psychologist is that you can diagnose your own mental shortcomings on a moment-to-moment basis. And then check the DSM-IV for accuracy in your self-diagnosis.

It was the middle of winter and I had realized three things. One: most people potty train in the summer so they can run their naked toddler around outside and not worry about the mess. Two: it is recommended not to potty train with an end date in mind. My end date was six months from when I started, because I was going to have a baby. And that brings me to my third point: don't potty train when a stressful event is inevitable (example: moving, changing schools, HAVING A BABY!). But like all good overachievers when I hear the words "you can't..." I immediately want to prove I can. It seemed none of the books I read agreed on anything except those points. I was 0 for 3.

I had given up on my end date. I would be happy if I could get Isaac to even speak friendly about the potty. I was also clueless on how to even start the process of getting him to actually sit on the potty. At first I went with what I knew. I had raised dogs and when a dog looks like it's about to go you rush it outside. After a while they get the idea. When Isaac would fidget or squirm I would immediately rush him over to his potty chair. He would scream and freak, because I think the first few times I was a bit too eager and scared him. Since I am a good little behaviorist I know when something doesn't work you have to change what you are doing. I figured if taking him to the potty didn't work I would bring the potty to him. A few times of him peeing and me rushing his potty chair to catch the pee was exhausting. I also hardly ever got the timing right. Most of the time I was following him around with the potty chair. He would sneeze or pause in playing and I would fumble excitedly with the chair and slide it under him like a baseball runner trying to get past home plate. He would give me a look of confusion and concern that I am sure I will see again when I am old and senile.

I continued to take data on his fluid intake and urine output with baffling results. I never took physics, but even I know what is outside the realm of possibility. If anyone can explain to me how you can pump over 8oz of fluid into a little body and not have any pee come out the other end for over 3 hours I would love to hear the mathematical and anatomical theories on that.

It was evident that Isaac was overwhelmed as well. One night I decided to test my rusting child counseling skills to see how he felt about all this potty training business. Each of his toys used the potty and we clapped and cheered for them. Isaac's enthusiasm for each successful toy I could tell was lack luster. I could even detect a bit of envy. I then took his favorite stuffed animal. A yellow duck we named Brahms, because when you pull his tail Brahms' lullaby tune plays out of his butt. I told Brahms he had to use the potty and Brahms said he didn't want to and kept exclaiming "No!" I then walked Brahms over the potty chair and had him sit on it. I puppeted Brahms yelling and screaming to be left alone in the same fashion I had witnessed a certain toddler doing the last few weeks. Isaac clapped and squealed in delight, gleefully encouraging his toy's rebellious outbursts. I then had a long talk with Brahms that it was time to use the potty and that we all use it at some point. After much discussion Brahms decided to give the potty one more try and sat on it with pride as he peed lemonade I had hidden in a syringe behind his back. Isaac's face crumpled and the look of betrayal would have been almost comical if it hadn't been so revealing of his true feelings. He marched over to the offending toy and yanked him from the potty. He then screamed a loud "No, Brahms, NO!" and promptly ran over the kitchen cupboards and thrust the toy inside and slammed the door.

My husband's eyes lit up and with his eyebrows raised higher than I have ever seen them whispered to me in his best psychoanalysis impression, "So, Isaac, tell us how you really feel."

I then tried to smooth things over only to get pulled into a rousing game of "no."

"Isaac do you want to take a break?"

"No."

"Isaac, do you want a snack?"

"No!"

"Isaac, let's go for a bike ride."

"NO!"

I tried to soak up as much comfort and joy from the game as I could, but I let out a big sigh. I was frustrated too. Neither of us were happy and I rhetorically stated, "You are probably as frustrated with this potty training as I am."

There was a short pause.

"Uh...yes?" he answered as if trying the word out for the first time. I was hoping the day that word magically appeared in his vocabulary would be cause for celebration after months of hearing its counterpart, but instead I felt empty.

A few months before my second child was to be born I decided it was time to potty train my first. I pretty much fretted and stressed over the day that I would have to confidently begin this process. When he was younger I tried to implement some "pre-potty training" activities with failing results. I still shuddered at the memory of the day his first potty arrived in the mail. He eyed the little chair with a hole in it with concern. He couldn't really talk at this point, but if he could I am sure he would have asked me how someone could sit on something they might fall through. The potty was very obviously a doorway into hell as far as he was concerned. I promptly took off his pants and tried to get him to sit on it with no success. I then tried to get him to sit on it with his clothes on and still, no go. I put the potty in the bathroom and tried to coax him on each time we would go in there. It took a long time before he felt confident to use this seat. I wondered how I was supposed to potty train him when he would refuse to sit on the potty.

Up to this point my potty training experience only applied to the three Guide Dogs for the Blind puppies I had trained. I figured a child was smarter than a dog so he should catch on at some point. I had visions of my son in High School using the lawn to go the bathroom and me following behind him with a black plastic bag to tie and keep in my pocket until I could find a place to throw it away.

I began my initial training experience armed with knowledge I had gathered off of the Internet. It was confusing and strange trying to gather information I could use. One professional insisted that children should not be trained until they are at least 3, while another provided statistics that waiting too long would only make the process harder and create bladder and bowel problems. Already I had conflicting information from two different schools of thought on the subject. Some moms insisted that boys were harder than girls to train and other moms boasted their children were trained over night or in a week after some light coaxing from them or another family member. I longed for such a miracle to happen with my experience. I took one look at my stubborn son and decided that this was going to be awful.

Like most parents I looked to this day with fear. I wanted to just get it over with. I wanted the miracle child who woke up one day and said "Mummy, I want to use the potty!" I wanted someone to do it for me. And I wanted it done yesterday.

To make matters worse Isaac was just entering that horrible "no" stage. Children are smart about the use of the word at first, so it sort of sneaks up on the parents. At first we were amused at his use of the word. I would hold out a favorite cracker and ask, "Isaac do you want a cracker?" and he would mumble "no" as he grabbed and devoured the offering. Tyler and I would chuckle and muse over the cute interaction. We were also proud. After all, that counted as one of his first words next to "mommy" and "daddy."

The next trial of "no's" Isaac began to have more meaning behind the word. He would say no to just about everything. There is a certain kind of comfort and joy knowing what the answer to every question will be. Predictability I came to expect and look forward to hearing. I would tell Isaac, "It is time to wash your hands." Isaac would put forth his inevitable 'no' and look distressed for a moment. To most watchers it may seem he might put up a fight, but once I picked him up and started the task he would calm and do it anyway.

As time went on the 'no' was still a staple answer and although I began to tire of hearing it I still felt comforted knowing it was coming. Even if at this point he was beginning to shout it out and adding more venom behind the word. I even started to have a bit of fun.

"Isaac, do you want a BMW?"
"No!"

"Isaac, do you want a foot rub?"
"No!"

"Isaac, would you like a personal chef to create a confectionary masterpiece in which Gregorian Monks of the Swiss Alps grow the ingredients?"
"NO!"

Isn't this a fun little game? See what I mean by the 'no' providing predictability bringing comfort and joy? "Soak up the comfort and joy," I would tell myself.

Just the other day I was in the store and saw a weary mother pushing her toddler in the grocery basket. The toddler was in a feisty mood and was exclaiming 'no' to just about anything the mother offered. She finally asked in a huff: "Do you want me to buy you a private island?" The little girl screamed out a "NOOOO!" and the mother gave a little smile to herself and mumbled, "I thought you would say that." I could practically taste the comfort and joy dripping off her. Other parents were playing the same game. It must have been universal. I wondered if I visited the poorest villages of indigenous countries if the parents there were having as much fun.

The key is to ask for something the child doesn't quite understand yet. Otherwise it backfires.

So I began potty training. I started out when Isaac was a year and a half, just making him sit on the potty when I would go to the bathroom. Six months later Isaac was still refusing to sit there. He also became more deliriously angry to follow me in there as time went by. I decided that the easing into potty training method was not working for either of us. I started to do some more research. And by research I mean I read just about every book available by a creditable author on potty training. I also took notes and created a behavior plan. Don't judge me, I have a Master's in child psychology and after seven years of school they practically bore the natural mother instinct out of me. I have to read to fill in those instinctual gaps. And create behavior plans.

With charts.

And graphs.

(and ok I admit...the occasional statistical data. BUT you have to admit the charts and graphs are meaningless if you don't have the means and averages to back them up!)

I measured Isaac's fluid intake and noted the average time it took for him to urinate. I filled in the data on my chart and began to draw predictions on when his next urination session would occur. The graph was color-coded.

I decided a blind study was not conducive to my experiment, so I decided to explain to my test subject the nature of study.

"Isaac," I started "We are going to begin potty training."

"No," he replied dutifully.

I love it when my test subjects are as excited as I am.

"You will use the potty to pee and poop."

"No."

I felt the stirrings of comfort.

"You will no longer wear a diaper. You will only wear cotton underwear or nothing at all when we are at home. I haven't decided what we will do when we need to go out."

"No."

I felt joy.