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I know from experience: the one thing mothers care most passionately about is potty training. The problem is, we're not content to let things happen naturally. It's as if our child's ability to keep her Tigger panties dry is a direct indicator of our worth as a parent. Not only that, potty training becomes a contest among mothers where one says, "All of my babies were trained by their first birthday." Leaving you no choice but to respond with, "Oh, so late? Mine were all trained by nine months."

I well remember my first guinea pig—I mean, daughter.

I remember setting up Alison's potty chair in the living room, sitting her on it, and keeping her on it until she did something. Anything.

I tried "I'm a Big Girl" charts with stickers, Big Girl underwear, wild applause and bribes of M&Ms. However, in spite of all my hard-wrought efforts, Alison was unable to perform. For an entire week I had to feed her prune juice and raisin cookies. (I'm happy to report she finally goes. Which is a good thing, considering she's in her 20s and living in Hawaii with her new husband.)

As for me, I received my own toilet training in the hardware department at Sears when I was about 3 years old and, despite my mother's best efforts, still in diapers. That day I'd gone with my dad to do whatever it is dads do in the hardware department at Sears. In the middle of him doing his hardware thing, I decided it was my time to go.

I tugged and pulled, yanking my diaper free, then pulled my dress up around my waist, marched over to the display toilets and hopped on the nearest one. My dad, bless his red face, leaped with a single bound over the chuckling crowd just in time … for me to puddle all over his outstretched arms.

I recently met a woman in Kmart. In her shopping cart were a toy golf club set, a potty chair and a toddler named Jacob. Although I didn't ask, the woman wanted to talk about it.

"He'll go in the yard, he'll go at the park, he'll go against the car tires. He hits the knot hole on the tree out back, and once he hit—with perfect aim—the entire length of the back fence." She took a breath and continued. "He goes everywhere. He goes around the toilet, but he won't go in it. I've tried making a game out of it: ‘Aim for the Cheerios in the water, Jacob!' I've tried everything."

Hearing our conversation, a third woman joined us. Her shopping cart was filled with training pants, a potty chair and a toddler named Erin. "Just last week," she offered, "we were in the ladies' room at a very crowded restaurant. As we walked back to our table, Erin announced, ‘Give Mommy a sticker—she went potty all by herself!'"

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