April 11, 2002 - 2:17 p.m.
The differences between mothers and fathers is amusing.
My sweetie has no problem with Zachary's falls, bumps, and bruises. When he hurts himself, my first reaction is to scoop him up, check him, hug him, kiss the boo-boo, and generally make a fuss over him until it's clear he's alright. Conversely, Daddy will pat him on the head, laugh over the whole thing, and send him back to play. I'm convinced that the first time we have to take Zachary to the emergency room for stitches (and I just tell myself to accept that it will happen, sooner or later), my husband will put an arm around our son's little shoulders and tell him "Chicks dig scars."
But change the scene to the middle of the night and that boo-boo to a fever or vomiting, and Daddy goes to pieces. Momma's the one who gets the Tylenol and Pedialyte and shoos everyone back to bed.
The same thing goes for potty training.
I have great incentive to potty train our son. I want him to be able to attend the pre-school activities at the rec center next winter, when he's 3. I don't want two children in diapers at the same time. I want to get it out of the way before the baby comes.
But Zachary seems to have his own agenda. He knows what the potty is for and has proven himself capable of undressing in order to use it. He just won't use it. I haven't taken the drastic step of taking away his diapers yet, true, but I'm confident that it won't be long now.
My husband, I think, would prefer the "boot camp" approach - On your potty! to quote a book Zachary and I are reading this week. And it might work - were he in charge of the job. But it's mine (the only one I've looked forward to less than labor and delivery), so it's Momma's way: Poo-poo in the potty, get a cookie.
He's bound to catch on soon.
