Complain? Never! What’s two days spent in excruciating labor; what’s some minor (okay, extreme) sleep deprivation when it’s part of the precious package of motherhood?

I am not throwing in the towel. Not that there are any towels left to throw. Every last one I own is currently the casualty of an accident of the toilet-training variety.

His third birthday fast approaching, my little boy has yet to complete this particular rite of passage. I’ve spent the past couple of days doing everything in my power to change this state of affairs.

Day One of Operation Triple T (Toilet Train my Tzaddik’l) found me cross-legged on my bathroom floor, putting on a song and a dance to keep my delicious ball of energy from bounding off the potty. I was getting so tired of singing, “The Wheels on the Bus”; my voice was starting to sound like its batteries were dying.

In desperation, I speed-dialed my mom. “Where can I buy potty glue?” For goodness’ sake, she trained 11 of us, she must have some up her sleeve. Alas, all she had to offer was a chuckle.

Day Two brought one success and many more non-successes — all over my carpet — than I care to count. Does being five-percent toilet trained count for anything? (For the record, no! What would I do — put 95 percent of a diaper on him?)

As the days progressed, but our success rate didn’t, I decided that some serious sympathy was in order. I called Bracha.

“Yehudis, it sounds awesome! Like you’re trying to train a wonderfully rambunctious, healthy little boy!” Count on Bracha to say that!

“Your kids practically train themselves. Why did I even call you, Bracha?”

“Because I’m the only friend who yells at you for kvetching but knows that you’re really not kvetching at all.”

Bracha gets it. She knows. That even though I’m human and sometimes get frustrated from, well, normal parenting frustrations, hardly a day goes by that I don’t feel breathless with gratitude for the priceless little people in my life who call me “Mommy”.

Right after the birth of my bechor, when I was still squinting in the brilliant light that is parenthood, a fellow infertility survivor told me something I’ll never forget. “Just because you went through infertility, doesn’t mean you’re an angel. Motherhood is sometimes hard, and you have a right to complain, just like the rest of humanity.”

At the time, I was horrified. Complain? Never! What’s two days spent in excruciating labor; what’s some minor (okay, extreme) sleep deprivation when it’s part of the precious package of motherhood?

But as reality set in, as I tried to cope with the aftermath of my traumatic birth and long, arduous recovery, I began to understand that though complaining is never in place, I did need to give myself permission to be human.

Too late, I started to realize that others’ expectations, and even more so, my own expectations that I would always be in a state of ecstasy, were… certainly not enhancing said state of ecstasy. Because worse than feeling a little down because you’re exhausted, hormonal, and in pain, is feeling like an evil ingrate for feeling a little down because you’re exhausted, hormonal, and in pain. And then feeling guilty for feeling guilty for feeling guilty.

When my baby was a week old, I asked my sister if it was normal that his fists weren’t clenched (don’t all newborns do that?). Big Sis, justifiably fed up with my obsessing (Is his breathing okay? Is it normal the way he’s crying?) snapped, “Yes, yes, yes! Everything’s fine! Could you stop worrying!”

I remember feeling so… misunderstood. It’s only in retrospect that I understand that she couldn’t understand. But it so would’ve helped if I had understood myself. If I’d have recognized that my need for reassurance was normal. It was normal for someone who’d spent years wondering if she’d ever give birth to a real, live baby. It was normal for someone who’d spent a whole pregnancy hearing that since this was a high-tech conception, there was an increased risk of who-knows-what-abnormalities (not necessarily true, by the way). And it was normal for someone who’d nearly lost her baby in labor.

In due time, of course, I adjusted to the adjustments and life moved on, each new stage bringing with it fresh joys, and yes, fresh struggles. But I now know that the wonder of motherhood is not in no longer struggling; it is in struggling with the sweetest struggles possible. Yes, even toilet training.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 526)