IN DUE TIME, BIG BOY PANTS WILL WIN

The Boston Globe

BEVERLY BECKHAM

With the puppy, it was simply a matter of carrying her outside, plunking her on the grass, and letting her do her thing. She was 6 weeks old when we got her and was house-trained in a few weeks. No "how-to" books. No "Ten steps to housebreaking your pooch." And absolutely no guilt that she was too young to introduce to the backyard, or that our approach might cause her irreparable psychological harm.

With children, it's different. A few years back, Dr. Phil did a show on potty training, and I, the parent of adult children, smugly laughed because there on national TV were seemingly normal men and women, weeping and wringing their hands because their 3- or 4-year-old refused to ditch the diapers and graduate to big boy pants.

And all I could think of was my mother's advice to her sister, who had six children and a divot in her shoulder from lugging around a diaper bag, "Give it time, Lorraine. You never see anyone walking down the aisle in a diaper."

Time in those days, however, was a lot different from time today. A few days, a few weeks, and that was it. Ready or not, a child was trained. "I am sick and tired of washing your dirty diapers, do you hear me!" was the background noise of toilet training back then. Now it's all "Sweetie" and "Honey" and "Maybe next time you'll tell mommy and we can try sitting on the potty, okay?"

Adam, my grandson, is almost 2. He's smart. He talks in paragraphs. He says things like, "I want to go to the library and then to G-Diddy's and then to Lulubelle's and see Dave and Auntie and watch `Signing Time' and then eat pizza."

The boy knows what he wants.

He also knows what he doesn't want, which is anything to do with a potty.

"It hurts my bum," he told his mother, after gingerly sitting fully clothed on the cute little throne his mother bought for him at Babies `R' Us. "I don't like it."

"That's OK, sweetie," she said, and bought him a softer, gentler musical potty, which he liked in the store and which he still likes though not to sit on, but as a hiding place for his Fisher Price Little People.

"I don't want to rush him," my daughter tells me.

I have a training potty at my house too, which all the stuffed animals have sat on. Modeling, we call it. Children imitate what they see. But Adam uses this potty as a storage place, too. "He'll let us know when he's ready," my daughter says.

He certainly lets us know when he's ready to be changed. He grabs a diaper out of his mother's bag, takes it to her, and, with great enthusiasm and inflection, she inquires about his digestive status. I suspect that Mr. Thomas Watson wasn't nearly as thrilled when he heard Alexander Graham Bell's actual voice calling to him over the just-invented telephone, "Mr. Watson. Come here. I want to see you."

My daughter beams. Adam beams. "Next time maybe you'll tell Mommy before, OK?"

And then she and I, who am complicit in all this, sing a cheery little poopie song as we march in a parade up the stairs for the changing.

Last week, I bought big boy pants and sat my little boy down and had a talk with him.

"I bought these for you, Adam."

"Thank you, Mimi."

"They're big boy pants."

"I know."

"They're for big boys who do the peeps and the poops in the potty. Do you want to do the peeps and the poops on the potty?"

A nod.

"Do you want to wear the Nemo pants right now?" Another nod.

His mother took off his diaper. I put on his big boy pants. Then we waited and watched for two and a half hours, praising and complimenting him and promising to give him an M&M if he actually sat on the potty.

He sat on the potty. He ate his M&M. And then he stood up and wet his pants.

"That's OK, sweetie," his mother said.

"You did a good job wearing big boy pants for all that time," I told him.

"I want to wear Buzz Lightyear underpants now, Mimi."

We put on his Buzz Lightyear underpants. And gave him another M&M. And sat Brown Bear on the potty. Then watched as he dethroned Brown Bear and stuffed a dozen little people IN the potty.

"Give it time," I tell my daughter, rememberingmy mother's words. "You never see anyone walking down the aisle in a diaper."