He scribbled over my note and wrote above it: “Stick to the script!”
When the meeting adjourned, it looked as if we won the battle.
Summer started two weeks after our request for the out-of-neighborhood school transfer. During those summer months, two major developments occurred: potty training and moving my mom to Maine.
First, I tackled potty training head-on. Thorin was still having accidents, so he wore pull-ups. I had friends whose children with Down syndrome were potty trained at age two, others at seven, and some in between. Thorin was five years old and wasn’t potty trained mostly because of me.
When I found out from the preschool teacher I should have Thorin wear underwear and expect accidents, I was horrified. I wanted to wrap everything in plastic, especially me. Just let him pee on the furniture? That was Coco’s job. I couldn’t have two beings urinating all over the house at once. Thorin was pooping in the toilet, but I was convinced it was because it was a better venue to showcase his productions than a pull-up. I was floored the first time he called me into the bathroom to view his poop. He gestured with his hands much like a game show assistant revealing a prize and then said, “Ta-da!”
I had heard about a clinic called Potty University. Like any sought-after educational institution, it was extremely hard to get into it. I knew our child services caseworker had a few slots for clients, so I called her and explained the situation. She was terrific.
“Yes, you can have one of the slots for Thorin! Anything for my little surfer dude!” At the time, Thorin’s hair was down to his shoulders.
First, I met with Courtney, the social worker at Potty University while the receptionists fell over themselves entertaining Thorin. I described the situation briefly without going into my shortcomings or my suspicions about him. I also didn’t mention that the day before he had stripped everything off our bed and pissed all over it after I had, moments earlier, told him about Potty University.
“What do you think is the major issue?” she asked.
“I think it’s me.”
“Good, that will makes this much easier. Do you think Thorin is in a power struggle with you?”
“Yes, I think it could be something like that.” I didn’t think it was much of a struggle, though, considering he was winning.
Next, Courtney went over the Potty University protocol. Then, she brought Thorin into the office with us. She read a book to him about using the potty that included a section on sneaky poops, which are the ones that happen when you don’t listen to your body. Thorin solemnly nodded at the description. I could see he was taking this seriously. Then Courtney brought out a stuffed animal turtle named Thomas. Thomas pooped out some turds into a small plastic toilet. She had Thorin push the tiny handle so it would flush.
“Should I buy that book and get a Thomas turtle?” I asked her.
“No, I already read it to him, and he just saw Thomas poop,” which sounded more like “I’ll tell you when I want you to do something.”
Later when I told Ward about Thomas, I failed to mention he was a toy. Ward was amazed and asked how she taught a turtle to poop on command.
Courtney gave us forms to record Thorin’s progress and had him pick out stickers to track his successes. If he earned enough stickers by the end of the week, he could pick a special prize.
“Get your mom to take you shopping for underpants,” she told Thorin.
“So soon?” I asked.
“Keeping him in pull-ups tells him you don’t think he can do this. He can do it. He will do it.”
When I saw Thorin nodding his head in agreement like a dutiful cult member, I knew Courtney must be The Pee Whisperer.
Within a couple weeks, there were no more accidents. Thorin received a diploma from Potty University, which he and I were very proud of. First mission of the summer accomplished. Thorin would start kindergarten potty trained!
Next Betty and I had finally convinced our eighty-year-old mom to move from her hometown in Wisconsin to Maine. Her decision was based on two key factors. One reason was regrettable; her health was failing, and she knew she would need more help. The second reason was joyous; she wanted to spend the time she had left with Thorin, who had become her best friend.
In the three years since we had Thorin, we made many trips to Wisconsin. My mom had also started coming to our house for a couple months at a time. A friend of hers told me, “Your mom all but rolled her eyes when any of us talked about our grandkids. Then Thorin came on the scene, and he was the only thing she talked about.”
My mom shared with me that being Thorin’s Bubba was the role of a lifetime. I think in Wisconsin she had great friends, many for over sixty years and a few longer than that, but she didn’t have a meaning for her life. Thorin was her meaning. A few weeks before Thorin started school, she moved into her own apartment at a senior complex, ten minutes away from us.
After my mom settled in, she wanted to take Thorin shopping for school clothes. When the three of us went anywhere in the car, my mom and Thorin sat in the backseat and didn’t hear anything I said. My mom would share things with him, such as “When your mom was a little girl playing a game, she would cry like a baby if she didn’t win” or “She ran around the neighborhood naked once.” What the hell? No one was talking about losing or being
