Page 43 of Even After This
“What thing do you secretly hate but don’t want to replace because guilt plagues you and you’re too tired to think about it? Say it.” I tap her forehead to prod her answer. “Say the thing in your mind right now.”
“My stupid portable crib.” Her mouth forms anOand she pauses. “Wow. I had no idea. You’re good.”
We head to the appropriate aisle.
“Okay, my dear. Pick your very favorite one on the entire earth.”
Sally wiggles her fingers in delight and walks straight to one decorated in psychedelic circles of pink. She pauses with her arms reaching out for the item. “Wait. Do we need to research this?”
I shake my head once. “No way. All you need to understand is this sucker is not the one you hate.”
Someday I’ll write a book about the psychology behind this process. I don’t have credentials and my theory will be made up, but it will climb the bestseller list because tired moms across America want permission to hate their already-paid-for, perfectly usable portable crib. Or high chair. Or bottle sterilizer. On any given day, there is one item sucking the life out of a struggling mother, and she needs the freedom to walk away.
Automatic bestseller.
After traveling a few rows over, I stop. The squeaky wheels of our cart announce Sally’s arrival, and she comes to a halt near me.
She sidles up next to me, stance broad with arms crossed, mirroring mine. “I hate sippy cups.” Her seething voice fills the space.
“Preach it,” another woman says from the end of the aisle. “I’m convinced the makers of sippy cups are evil. It’s impossible to find one cup to meet all your needs.”
“Humph.” Sally nods.
Our new friend down the way repeats her affirmation as she strolls closer to join us. “The worst part is when you find the one that fits in your car cupholders, won’t break, doesn’t spill, is covered with your kid’s favorite character, and allows the correct liquid flow. And your child will not drink from it. All after spending the money to try eight different cups. No one tells you sippy cups should be a separate budget line item.”
Spreading my arms to take command, I begin the evaluation process. “Okay, ladies. Let’s talk.” I pull down each brand of cup, and we partake in sippy cup therapy. After twenty-five minutes of debating pros and cons, we put our new choices in our respective carts.
Our new friend wanders off with her cart, muttering words about investing in the sippy cup industry.
“On to the potties.” I charge a few rows over and push the cart to a stop. “Sally, this is potty dating, a close cousin of speed dating. Answer the questions. Don’t overthink them.”
Covering her mouth with one hand, she glances around furtively, then checks out the choices in front of her. “Did you just imply we’re on a potty date?”
“Affirmative.” I don’t take my eyes off the colorful choices. “Do you want a child seat to attach to your existing potty, or a small plastic mobile one you clean out?”
She shrugs and throws a Lightning McQueen portable potty in the cart.
“Do you want to throw Toby in the backyard naked to tee tee, or use bulldozer targets in your house bathroom?”
Sally pulls the targets off the hanger. “I want these, but Spence reserves the right to throw him in the backyard.”
“Absolutely.” I balance daily, weekly, and monthly calendars across my arms. “Would you prefer a sticker chart or candy as an incentive?”
Her hands sweep over the cover of each chart. “Um, it depends. How long is potty training going to take?”
Until the next millennium, I want to say. “Let’s review these books and programs. Potty train in twenty-four hours, three days, five days, a week, or over a six-month time period. What’s your poison?”
She scrunches up her nose. “I want the one that works.”
“Sure.” I give her a side hug. “We all do.”
She turns her head to me. “So, what’s going to work?”
“The one your child responds to.” Shoulder squeeze.
“How would I know the answer?”
“You don’t until you try.” Tighter shoulder squeeze. “But the good news is I tried all seventy-three programs with mine, and I am an expert in the field while also being a total failure.”
