What Potty Training and the 2006 FIFA Soccer World Cup Have in Common

I learned a lot about life during the summer of 2006. For that personal growth, I owe major thanks to my family potty and to the German National soccer team. They had more in common than I realized ….

My daughter had turned two that spring, and I was assured by all-knowing, experienced relatives (I will not insert the other choice words here I had for them at the time), highly endorsed early childhood educators, and – naturally – all the other wise parents of toddlers, that I was way overdue in putting down my foot … or putting my child on the potty, that is.

I dedicated my entire, Type-A, result-focused self to the task. Being a bit of a nostalgist (is that even a word?), I had my parents ship our old, battered, once sky-blue potty that had endured my own and my sister's bottom-driven efforts oh-so-many years ago when we grew up in Germany. I scrubbed off some stickers that weren't identifiable anymore anyway, spit in it for good luck (naw, just kidding), and proceeded to introduce my Wunderkind to this miracle of plastic fabrication. She was mesmerized, then spent days dumping toys in and out of it and refusing, by threat of World War III, to sit on it. Enter the potty books, oh, the potty books. You could teach a child anything with the right literature and by using yourself as a personal example, right?! Months and months of her curious observations of parental potty habits followed; we knew the potty training books by heart, used a stop watch to try to get her onto the potty, attempted to institute a reward system. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

My thought processes took a downward spiral. I was a loser parent. My child was never going to be house-trained. We would live in shame for the rest of our lives, spending indescribable amounts of money on paper products for waste elimination, killing millions of trees in the process. My relatives and friends would call to check on our potty status. I began to resent the phone, started turning it off and still gave it dirty looks every time I imagined another curious inquiry about digestion. I took my daughter's diapers away and let her run around naked, thinking that would do the trick (bad, bad, bad idea).

Then June rolled around, and with it a much-anticipated event, in my house and across the ocean: The 2006 FIFA Soccer World Cup, hosted in Germany, by Germans, my people! I could remember the palpable excitement of watching games with my dad and other relatives, feeling the tension in the room and giggling at grown-ups spouting words we were never allowed to use except during live soccer games on television. I recalled wearing the German team's T-shirt during 1994, my first year in the US, proudly claiming my support and allegiance.

From now on, my daughter's potty attempts were based on 45-minute halves, half-times, overtime, penalty kicks. The days got hotter, and so did my head watching the German team fight its way through the first round of 16 and then the quarter finals. By now, my daughter would simply sit on her potty for hours, mesmerized by that fast-moving ball on the screen. She learned how to scream “Tor” and “gooooool,” and she (I kid you not) understood the concept of offsides. But she didn't use her potty. Diapers still ruled, and gravity-driven accidents made me scratch my German, end-result-focused head. At that point, though, I didn't care much. I was helping the German team win the World Cup by cheering them on from all the way over here. The excitement and re-merging sense of national pride were contagious. For the first time in German history since World Word II, the news said, did we feel like a worthy nation with a spirit and and a true culture again. I believed it, witnessing happy German faces, hugging each other (and foreign visitors, unbelievable) on television – a sight to behold. My child and I colored German flags with crayons, practiced soccer barefoot in the yard, as I had done as a child, and discussed the match results over the phone with Opa.

And then came the semi-finals. Doomsday. My daughter's little blue throne tipped over, I startled her so much with my screaming. Neighbors asked me later if everything was alright with our family and whether I needed a place to stay. Apparently, my voice carries. In the end, we got our tushes whipped by the Italians, in overtime, to make the pain really sting.

I hung my German head, felt the pride drip away. Germans hung their collective flags low. My daughter decided to use the potty for goal practice, shooting it admirably straight across the living room, into the TV stand. But the next day during a parent-child playgroup, a wise woman who had successfully raised three boys and lived to tell the tale gave me a kind piece of advice: ”Honey, some things simply are out of your hands.”

There it was, my a-ha moment. Ta-daa. Der Groschen ist gefallen, as the Germans would have said before Euros and cents took over the monetary market. I can't control everything. Some things aren't my problem. What a relief. My daughter and I then watched Germany play Portugal for third place, and she, in her infinite, potty-refusing wisdom decided this game was much more enjoyable than the ones where advancement had been at stake. I whole-heartedly agreed (well, it did help that the Germans, in fact, won third place, and that the country overall decided this was a good way to end the competition). Then I banned the potty to the bathroom and let it collect dust. For months. I asked relatives to stop bothering us about potty efforts, since each child is different (and some Type-A mothers simply can't handle all that group pressure). Who cares that my mother was potty-trained during the minutes following her birth and could recite classic poetry on her first birthday? We read the potty books just for fun and continued to buy diapers at Costco. After all, it was infinitely easier to deal with a child in diapers when on the road than with a nearly potty-trained child and the humbling experience of public bathrooms. We were all happier.

I'd look at that scratched up potty and remind myself every time that some things are out of my control. And that's okay. Needless to say, my daughter potty-trained herself a few months later, when she was good and ready. One day, she got up and decided it was time to use the big-girl toilet. Diapers became a memory of days gone by. And that was that. The blue potty remained in a corner, obsolete, patiently waiting for the next kid to be trained or, just maybe, for the next soccer practice. Come to think of it, its shining days are possibly still ahead. My son just turned two, and I am watching him from the corner of my eyes for any signs of potty interest. That's all. He's going to do this when he thinks the time and place are right. In the meantime, we are readying ourselves for the 2010 World Cup. I will pray to the blue plastic throne, just in case. The Germans can use all the help they can get.