One topic I haven’t blogged much about on Spittin’ Grits is, well, potty training. I’m betting you’re grateful, right? I had conveniently forgotten how trying this process can be, but thankfully, Joanna Leigh’s preschool took the initial responsibility for this milestone development. My job was to keep up the training at home.
I am happy to report that she has successfully gotten it! And that includes Number 2. Yes, into the potty.
But even the light moments and accomplishments are marred by the realities of being a parenting grandparent to a child of a drug addicted parent.
Getting a toddler to do Number 2 in the potty is not quite as easy and getting them to do Number 1, so we have poured on the praise. She is still basking in the glory. The other day she did it and called me to praise her, which I was delighted to give. It sure beats the alternative of changing dirty diapers.
Then she said, “My mommy will be proud I poo-pooed in the potty.”
I thought it had been hard up to now, being the parent of a drug addicted daughter. This unfortunate and hurtful fact of my life has been life-changing in many ways, including being the motivations for educating myself about addiction, learning how to cope with the realities, and figuring out if I could contribute something to inform and help others like me. And it was the primary motivation for creating this Spittin’ Grits blog.
I learned a long time ago that you do not EVER say a couple of things: “Well, it just can’t get any worse.” NOT. It can always get worse.
“I’ve taken all I can take.” NOT. Most likely you can take more because there are really no other options.
“Now it’s finally over.” Absolutely NOT. There’s always more.
Like now. My granddaughter is hurting over her mother’s disappearance – again – from her life. And watching it is awful.
I will meet with the child psychiatrist Monday, and it can’t come soon enough. I need direction on how to continue dealing with Joanna Leigh’s feelings, her fears, her grief. I just don’t know what to say anymore. I’m not sure how to better hide my anger at my daughter.
The other day she was playing and somehow or for some reason closed the door to her room. I heard her crying because she couldn’t get it open. Before I could get there to open it, she was crying, “Mommy, mommy.”
She told me the other night, which I reported in the last blog post, that she wanted a pink car so she could pick up her mommy.
I bought her several new nightgowns, which she wanted to wear immediately. She put one on, wrapped her arms around herself, and said, “I love this. Mommy will love this.”
Every day when we’re coming home from school, she says, “We going pick up mommy?”
Yes, I need direction. I hope I can pass on helpful advice and information on Spittin’ Grits. I will try.