I am a veteran of the toilet wars which for ten years have raged in our home.

          "In the potty, Matthew.  Tinkle in the potty."

          "Sit on the potty, Danielle.  All the way on the potty."

          "No, Tony, throw the toilet paper in the toilet, not against the wall!"

Sounds ugly, but then war isn't pretty.   As a young mother I was unaware of the approaching battles.  At that time, when my oldest child was an infant, I bathed him, fed him and without complaint, changed his diapers.  Then one day, Matthew dropped his diaper and toddled toward the potty chair.  He stared at it, giggled, then pulled up his diaper and left the bathroom without a backward glance.

The first shot had been fired.  I escaped into my bedroom and drew up battle plans.  "Be firm, but fair."  Words of advice from loving friends and family rolled through my mind.

"Put him on the toilet, don't let him off until he goes.  No, don't make the potty a scary place.  Reward him, make it fun.  Pressure him--no, don't use pressure or he'll be scarred for life.  Use stratagem, use tact, but don't let him know you're winning this war!"

I put the first of my plans into action the next day.

 "Okay, Matthew, sit on the potty and Mommy will sit with you.  Tinkle in the toilet."

Matthew sat on the toilet and I sat on the bathtub beside him, holding his hand.  Together, we waited.  And waited.  Nothing.  We waited longer.  The bathroom  grew smaller, colder.  The wallpaper blurred and colors ran before my eyes.  I glanced at my watch.  Perhaps he needed a jumpstart.  I turned on the bathroom sink.  The sound of water beat against the walls.  Matthew's eyes grew wide, then he laughed.  Still, nothing.

"Okay, sweetie, your plumbing must be dry.  You let Mama know when you have to go."

          He nodded, smiled, got off the toilet and promptly wet on the floor.  I looked down at him, pulled up his diaper and gently pushed him toward the door.

"Round one is yours," I whispered between clenched teeth.  "But the next one is mine."

          Over the next few months, Matthew and I had our skirmishes, we had our blitzes, we even had a nuclear fallout, but eventually, he realized I was the better soldier and graciously allowed me to win.  The war, however, was far from over.  About the time Matthew surrendered, Danielle marched in and the battle moved to a new front.  The toilet wars continued.

"On the potty, Danielle, that's a girl.  No, dear, pull your panties down first."

          As an experienced soldier, I took this battle rather quickly, then after Danielle, Anthony came along and again, toilet training became a battle of wits and will.  Our skirmishes consisted of bribes, ("Just go on the potty and we'll see what Mama has in that cupboard"), of reasoning, ("Doesn't it feel better to be dry?  Now you don't squeak when you walk!") and of downright frustration, ("No, Anthony, Daddy won't like finding your wet potty pants in his sock drawer").

          During this battle, I felt each of the previous ten years bearing down on me.  I imagined Anthony stepping onto the bus his first day of school, polished shoes, pressed pants, new sweat shirt, and a book bag full of diapers.  Would he go away to college wearing his disposable training pants at night?  Just as I'd accepted these dismal possibilities, Anthony decided he enjoyed being dry and miraculously, I won another battle in the toilet wars.

Now, the diapers are gone.  The plump, training pants have been given away.  The toilet wars are not over, however, they have simply moved to yet another front.  Now I battle with Matthew and Anthony over putting the toilet lid up, then down, sparing me the trauma of sitting on a wet seat in the middle of the night.  With Danielle, she has yet to discover the value of using a bit of toilet paper over stuffing half a roll down the drain.  And somehow, despite my best drills and clear directives, the floor around the toilet needs mopping at least once a day, leaving me to wonder if painting a red bull's eye on the bottom of the toilet bowl may be the answer.

          In time, a truce will be called in the toilet wars.  As Matthew marches down the aisle during his college graduation, I will know that I toilet trained him, molding and shaping him for just this moment.  When Danielle marries, she'll responsibly use just the right amount of toilet paper and pass such knowledge on to her own children.  And when Anthony graciously wipes the toilet seat then lowers it for his wife, she'll know to whom to direct her gratitude.  As a veteran of the toilet wars I'll deserve that gratitude.

          And some day, as my children potty train their own children, I'll sit back, smug and knowing, waiting for the new soldiers to ask me for advice.  Then a slow, contented smile will cross my face as I consider sharing with them some of my top secret battle plans.  Those battle plans are my medal of honor.  My purple heart.  My silver cross.  For those battle plans succeeded when I, eventually, won the toilet wars.