So today I get an urgent message from Peter: we're down to two diapers. I make haste to the Whole Foods where they sell the environmentally correctest of all the disposable diapers in size 6. And when I get up to check-out girl #21 she examines the squishy package, grins and says, "How old is your baby?" I blush with pride. "She's three." Thud. Her jaw drops. Her eyes go hollow and cold. She whispers, "She's still in diapers?!" My shame floweth out like a river. I cast my gaze downward. "We're starting tomorrow. I swear. We've tried to potty train her, but it's never worked. She likes her diapers. I really did try! It's not my fault! It's her fault! She won't use the potty!"
After which I listen to a potty-training lecture from Checkout Girl #21, nodding obediently, thanking profusely. She makes me promise to come back and inform her when I've found success. I can't fault her. I have been lazy, and I am indeed a horrible mother. Checkout Girl #21 cared enough to call me out. She cared enough to shame me. She cared enough to double-bag me. I am grateful.
From there I swung out onto 14th Street and let my shame fall off of me like a damp blanket. Some would say I'm a lazy mother. But I read the Michel Cohen book. I heartily agree with and adore his terribly French approach to child-rearing. Laissez-faire! Que sera, sera! Mais oui. When it comes to things like reading and using the potty, I believe she'll just get to the point where she'll be so humiliated for being the only illiterate eight year old in diapers, she'll figure it out. She will teach herself. I'm taking the organic approach. Edie is a smart kid. She knows all the dialogue to the last six scenes of "The Little Mermaid." She's got brains. She'll teach herself the potty and how to read, just like she'll learn how to make the perfect martini and light my cigarette. She'll learn the things she needs to know to survive. For the love of god, it's Darwinian.
