My #1 parenting advice applies to everyone, including you
My #1 parenting advice applies to everyone, including you
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I used to be obsess over my kid’s butt crack being clean.
You see, with my first child, my obsession levels were through the roof because I realized I have no prior experience keeping another human being alive. For possibly one of the hardest jobs in the world, doesn’t it seem totally backwards that there’s not even an application process to this??? Two people do a thing then, bam, a human child arrives and God let you take the wheel without an interview process, background check, or reference calls. wtf.
Because this job didn’t come with an instruction manual, babe’s first year was my all-time high of anxiety googling. Search history ranged from “can my baby die from too much crying?” to “will I die from 2 hours of sleep?” and then in toddler years progressed to more sophisticated searches like “what to do when kid eats dog food?”
When it was time to potty train my first, I was, again, clueless. It’s a trivial daily event everyone does — poops and pees — and yet I didn’t have the slightest knowledge to teach a tiny soul how to willingly defecate in a toilet. I settled on a 3-day method I found online because I’m a rip-the-bandaid-off type of person. Plus, I’m just extremely impatient.
After a weekend of throwing M&Ms at my kid each time she used the bathroom, I thought we made progress.
I clearly didn’t see the hidden signs my child wasn’t ready because, at the start of day 3, while standing on a stool in the middle of our kitchen, she looked at me straight in the eyes, and gripped the edge of the countertop while bearing down to poop in her tights.
If that’s not my child’s clear protest to tell me she is ultimately in control of her bodily functions, I don’t know what is.
I didn’t bring up the potty again until, one day a few months later, she came home from school and decided she was ready (thank you, Teacher Rachael!!!). We traded in diapers for undies and she was practically a pro with the process.
When she went #1, I was fine. But with #2, I’d interrogate her. Was it hard or soft? Did you have to push? How many pieces? What color? Did you wash your hands? Which way did you wipe?!
The last part of my potty debriefing always ended with my final and most important question… Can I check your butt?
I’d roll a wad of toilet paper for a clean check. Most times, it was fine but I let the very few times it wasn’t as reason for me to continue to check. If she didn’t know how to wipe properly, I must make sure it’s clean.
After awhile, with each quality control wipe, my kid got increasingly annoyed. As I spent more time in the bathroom, I realized, I don’t like hanging out in the pooper anymore than my kid does.
And then I remembered myself as a child.
First off, I don’t remember my mom double checking my wipe job.
But I do remember walking around with my ass crack really fucking itchy.
Imagine little 5-year-old Stephanie with a bowl cut walking around with a waddle because something didn’t feel right.
I’d tug at my pants and readjust my underwear thinking maybe a wedgie is what’s causing the itch. I’d scratch my butt outside my pants but it was immediately itchy again. Although my problem was clear, I needed evidence of my poop in the crack problem so I’d smell my fingers and, well, I don’t need to tell you the scent.
As I was thinking of kid Steph, my adult self realized a lesson in life applies here. I asked myself:
How do we learn how to wipe our butts properly? We need to feel the tiny torture of having a dirty and, therefore, itchy butt crack.
We need to experience discomfort. Often times, it is the best way to learn how to do things.
If they aren’t in any clear danger, I need to practice letting my kids experience the fall and subsequent pain. Like me as a first-time mom, they will go into experiences blind and we have to be ok with it. I need to give them the space to learn from the newness of it all, to trust that the universe will be in their favor, and that they can handle what comes next, even if it’s difficult or painful, or itchy.
And if they’re anything like me, they’ll make the same mistakes over again and will find their time and way to eventually learn from it.
So that’s my advice, whether you’re a parent or don’t have kids. Often we look to our mothers or fathers, mentors, teachers, self-help, or therapy, to help guide us and teach us what we need to know. While these can all be helpful, let’s not forget there’s one very effective learning tool.
There is no better teacher than an itchy ass.
This is my last newsletter for awhile.
I’ve been shedding a lot lately. In the past 6 months, I stopped taking my anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication that I’ve been on for 8+ years, I said no to becoming a yoga teacher after being certified, I quit a podcast I was co-hosting for a year, and I am learning to say no to a lot more to people (including the ones I love) so I can truly honor what I want or need.
Writing a newsletter every week has, in many ways, saved me. But I need to shed this, too (at least for the summer). I wasn’t expecting to make this decision but decided this week it’s something I need to do.
I’ve been coming here to write for myself, to make sense of the raucous in my head. Many of you pay for my work and I’m grateful. I also get to hear from my friends, family, writers, people I don’t even know in real life, who tell me they connected with something I wrote. It’s a pretty amazing exchange and writing experience.
I am ready to give this feeling a pause, even though I love the rush of writing it and the dopamine I get from the response.
As I write this, I am two things at once. For the first time in a long time, I can confidently say I’m healing from mental and emotional turmoil I’ve been battling for a long time. However, I am still unwell at the same time. I expect the next 6 months to be like new motherhood all over again, with lots of research, new scary experiences, many different healing methods, and I will face hard truths. I expect to learn a lot, to make mistakes, to understand what is and isn’t working for me, and for my butt to itch a lot in the process.
I’ll see you whenever it’s time for me to come back.
Inspiring, honestly.
Keep shedding. Sometimes summertime is when we shed our whole coat. Whatever you need Stephanie. 🫶We’ll be here when you feel it’s time to step back in.