I’ve always taken a low-key, wait-and-see approach to potty training. Little Y never seemed to show a lot of interest in the process, and a wet or dirty diaper rarely bothered him. He could walk around all day with a pound of poop in his pants if I let him. Honey badger didn’t care.

When I got pregnant again, Little Y was 19 months. He was too young to push the issue, I reasoned. Then first-trimester exhaustion set in. Then we built a house and moved, and I didn’t want to force potty training on top of another big transition. Then Baby Y was born and … well, you get the picture. Better to have two kids in diapers than one in diapers and one leaving “presents” on the floor.

This spring, a couple months shy of Little Y turning 3, I finally tried to get my potty-training shit together, so to speak. The baby was six months and getting into a more predictable sleep schedule, and I could finally form semi-coherent sentences again. On a whim, we bought a “Cars” potty at Target. I died a little inside paying for it, but Little Y was in the thick of his Lightning McQueen obsession. Whatever works, right?

The potty was as obnoxious as you’d guess. It had a push-button VROOOOOOOM sound and molded wheels that made it much more enticing as a toy than a toilet. Little Y was more interested in pushing it around the living room, then closing it up and jumping off. On the rare occasion he did sit on it, he was clearly uncomfortable — it was low and small and meant for younger kids.

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The world’s most annoying potty, and Little Y celebrating with his first five stickers and reward toy 

So we changed course and bought a potty ring for the big toilet. Little Y much preferred this option, and actually began to pee on the potty semi-regularly. We encouraged him with a sticker chart and toy cars, but still kept things casual.

Finally, after a week of Potty 101, I took a deep breath and swapped his diaper for cloth training pants. I made a big deal of how soft they were, and how we needed to keep them dry, and how awesome it was that he wouldn’t need diapers anymore.

It went a little like this:

“Do you need to pee-pee?”

“No.”

“You’re jiggling around like you need to pee.”

“I DON’T NEED TO PEEEEEEEE!”

(Two minutes pass.)

“Mama! I’m peeeeeeeeing in my special underwearrrrrr!”

(Cue the sound of a waterfall splashing onto the kitchen floor.)

After about a day and a half of that and a particularly nasty No. 2 accident, I threw in the towel. Summer was just around the corner, and with it came a lot of travel. Diapers would be so much easier, I figured. He just wasn’t ready, I told myself.

Looking back, though, he was fine. I was the one who wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to deal with the mess. I didn’t want the power struggle. I didn’t want to push through a few hard days. I didn’t want to run my kid to the bathroom during a “quick” trip to the grocery. Something about the process drained the little patience I had so quickly.

Soon, though, we wouldn’t have a choice.

At the beginning of the year, I enrolled Little Y in a highly rated church-based preschool. He would go three days a week, for a total of 13 hours. I was — am — thrilled. With a baby whose nap schedule rules the roost, it’s harder to get out of the house for adventures. Little Y is bouncing off the walls. Preschool is needed.

Alas, one big obstacle remained: He had to be potty-trained.

I don’t think anyone recommends potty training on a deadline, but I had little choice this time. I zeroed in on the beginning of August, shortly after we returned from our last big summer trip. Little Y was slated to start preschool at the end of the month. Tick tick tick tick.

I decided we’d try a 3-day program. (Last time, there was no “program,” per se. It gave me too easy of an out. This time, I promised myself that we had to give it three entire days, even if it seemed fruitless.) We would keep the sticker charts, but toys as rewards were out. We turned to tried-and-true M&Ms, which were still pretty enticing to Little Y, who generally isn’t allowed candy. And he could earn iPad time after getting a certain number of stickers.

I also had to do a little shopping: While the cloth training pants we used last time were nice and soft, there wasn’t much of a “wow factor” for Little Y. This time, it was a character underwear extravaganza: Lightning McQueen. Dusty Crophopper. Thomas the Train. Darth Vader. And to boost Little Y’s confidence, I got these cool stepstools in hopes that he’d feel a little more stable on the potty.

Unlike last time, I read up a bit on potty training a slightly older child. Apparently, many normally developing kids over 3 who still refuse to use the potty, whether for pee, poop or both, are “potty resistant.” They decide not to use the potty simply because it’s one of the few things they can control.

I was hesitant to slap this label on Little Y; I don’t think we really tried hard enough last time to call him “resistant.” But the bit about power struggles rang true, and I realized it was my behavior that needed to change the most:

If I was going to potty-train a honey badger, I had to BE the honey badger.

In other words, I wouldn’t nag. Yes, I would offer an occasional reminder, but sparingly, and carefully phrased so that the onus was still on him: “Let me know if you need potty time.” And most importantly, I would try to bite my tongue when he had accidents — even if he had been prompted to use the potty two minutes beforehand and I was about to lose my damn mind, I would keep my exasperation to myself, help him clean up, and move on with my day.

But could I keep my cool, dear readers? And could I convince my child that going to the potty was better than the unbeatable convenience of crapping in one’s pants?

To be continued …