Dear Adele,

Your brother is nearly 3 1/2 years old and he does not use the potty. I am a loving and patient mother, Adele, most of the time, even and especially with potty training. But changing the diaper of a toddler is nasty.  (I apologize to EVERYONE who changes the diapers of older children and adults–obviously, I am weak in many ways.  Please know that I know this.)  Changing the diaper of a larger person is just plain nasty. As a dear friend recently said about something else entirely–holy fucking ick.

Your father and I have been asking Ian about the potty fairly consistently, doing what we can but trying to be mostly hands off. And we’ve gotten no meaningful response. By meaningful response, I mean that your brother does not use the potty. The other day, he carried his little plastic potty around the house on his head, a clear indicator that a) he has never used it, and b) he has no plan to use it anytime soon. We might have to resort to bribery or a disturbingly controlling act this summer, though, as most preschools around here require children to be potty trained, and your brother will start preschool this fall.

But for now, there is no movement. Not in any literal or figurative receptacle.

So. I’m changing Ian’s diaper last night before I read to him and tuck him in. We’re on the floor of his bedroom, where he prefers to be changed (yes, he gets to “prefer” where he would like to be changed–Adele, this will cause me to be annoyed with you, but I will suppress it, and then I will tell you about how I have suffered when you’re a teenager). I’m wiping his booty, putting the ointment on, understanding that when you do this for an infant, it is an act of loving nurturance, but when you do it for a toddler it totally sucks.

“Mommy,” he says, “I think we should change your diaper!”  He laughs.

I laugh, too.  “I don’t use a diaper, honey. I use the POTTY. When you use the POTTY, you won’t use a diaper anymore!”

He looks at me.

“And you get to wear cool UNDERWEAR.”

He looks at me. “No, Mommy. I pee and poop in my diaper, and then you come.”

Please read the previous sentence again. Slowly.

I gaze at my son, my beautiful, sweet son who needs me so much that I cannot believe how any child survives neglectful parents.  I feel for them all.  Deeply.

Then I say, “Ian, you think I won’t come anymore if you use the potty?”

“Let’s read some books, Mommy.”

“Ian, I’m always going to come if you need me.”

My heart is racing, Adele, because not only do I realize that I have to address this issue (this is what it’s like with children, in my experience anyway–I am frequently hovering around a line, trying to keep from crossing it by making a little thing, a small source of conflict, into A THING, A LARGE SOURCE OF CONFLICT), but I also want to hold Ian in my arms for the next four hours or four years, until he is paralyzed there with me for the rest of his life, and tell him over and over and over again that I will always be here for him, that his growing up will never, ever, keep me from coming to him.

Instead, I help Ian into his pajamas and we read three books.  I kiss his cheeks and rest my chin on his head as he reads some, too.

Then he climbs into his bed and situates his Winnie the Pooh and his Rabbit just the way he wants them, and I kneel by his bed and rest my chin on my hand and look at him. This is a deviation from the usual routine.  I smile at him.  He smiles back, his blue eyes like warm in the cold, like a sunny place on the floor in the middle of a winter day where the cat might sleep.  Or like an infant against your skin.

“Ian,” I say. “Do you know that I will always, always come if you need me?”

He smiles, still. “Yes.”

“Good,” I say. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

Adele, even if I’m wiping your booty when you’re big enough to skydive, I look forward to moments like these with all my mind and heart and soul.

I love you.

Mommy