I’m the one who needs to listen

Of course I noticed my son was constantly going to pee. But I made excuses: he wanted to urinate on a bush or a tree outside and didn’t actually have to go; he wanted to leave our homeschool co-op classroom and had learned this was the best way to escape his education; he drinks water religiously; he’s turned pottying into a tic in the same way he sometimes licks his lips over and over or rubs his nose nonstop. I was not oblivious. But I spoke to myself: this is why. This is the cause. And I listened to myself.

Meanwhile, there is my son, who is not listening: when we’re at the grocery store and he tries to play hide-and-seek with his sister; when he’s banging on the piano and I’m trying to schedule a dentist appointment over the phone; when I ask him a question and he’s too busy building Legos to pay attention. You have to listen to Mama. You have to stop whatever you’re doing and hear what I have to say. You have to use your ears.

I am not subject to the same rules. I am Mother; I do not listen. I speak.

A rash forms on his neck. It grows on his collarbone. It’s dark, slightly fuzzy. I am prone to rashes, and his sister has eczema. I brush it off.

Months pass. The bathroom frequency increases. I’m still blaming the constant visits on a tic, a desire to get out of something, or too much water consumption. I’m still justifying my annoyance, because clearly my child can control his urges and is pretending he can’t. Then comes the worst day: we meet friends at a park with no bathroom. And my son is begging to go potty every five minutes. We hide behind a shed and I let him urinate on a spray of weeds; we leave my daughter with our friends and stalk the streets for an actual restroom. I spend more time arguing with my son that he doesn’t actually have to go than connecting with our friends. Maybe what I’ve called annoyance is really anger. But it is still reasonable. 

We are the first to leave our playdate. I lecture my son on anatomy: it is not possible to pee as frequently as he insists he has to pee. His bladder is not filling up that quickly. “You’re not peeing very much at one time,” I tell him. “That means you don’t actually have to pee.” I am proud of myself for resorting to biology to prove to my child that his issue is not real. That he has control. If I can change his mind by my persuasive and educational speech, his behavior is certain to change, too. He insists he actually does have to pee. “It’s because you’re thinking about it,” I tell him. “Like when you think about yawning, you yawn. Even if you aren’t tired. It’s in your head. Think about something else.”

When I unbuckle my child fifteen minutes later, his pants are wet. The carseat is wet. He has been potty-trained for years, and I can’t remember the last time he had an accident. 

I never believed that he actually had to go. I never thought the rash on his neck mattered. I told myself what I thought was happening, and that was what I held as truth. I told him what was happening. But now I find myself frantically Googling his symptoms—the rash, the constant peeing—and everything points to diabetes. 

I call the doctor. I text my husband. We head to the pediatrician’s office, the three of us: me, my son, my husband. We’re preparing ourself for the news: our son does not have an insignificant rash and an annoying habit. He has a disease. He will need care, right? Injections? A change in diet? What else? I don’t know, I don’t know, but I’m panicking. I’ve diagnosed him. And I am Mother; I am expert.

On the way to the doctor’s office, a nurse calls me. “We still want you to come in,” she says, “but I also wanted to let you know that constipation is often the cause of urinary problems in little boys.”

Unfortunately, constipation is not the issue. My son goes every day, sometimes more than once day, often a large amount, always soft and never rabbit pellets. No, I’m the one who’s right: I am finally listening instead of speaking, and Doctor Google has clearly confirmed the diagnosis I fear.

In the exam room, a young, sweet, unworried pediatrician helps our son onto the table and presses into his belly. 

“There is a large amount of stool,” she says. She checks his blood sugar; all good. She takes a urine sample. She looks at the rash on his neck, and says that it does look like rashes in diabetes patients, but usually only in adults. The nurse who called me was correct: our problem is not diabetes. Our poor son has such a large amount of stool in his bowels, it’s pressing on his bladder and making him constantly have to go to the bathroom. I learn, too, that constipation can exist even with daily bowel movements. I had no idea. I’m given a handout with instructions for a Miralax cleanse and recommendations to set aside the weekend for this event. Relief mingles with disbelief. 

In many ways, I am the expert on my son. But that does not mean my job is only to speak, and his to listen. Sometimes it’s me who needs to listen: to him, to an actual expert. Sometimes I need to stop speaking to myself.

My son’s rash has faded. A recent trip three hours away, with no bathroom stops, proved to me that he has made progress. And I hope that I am doing the same. That I am learning to listen: to the voices of my children, the voices of experts, the voices of friends. To human voices; whatever I think I am listening to on Google is nothing more than a regurgitation of what I tell myself, fashioned in such a way that it feels as though it comes from outside of me. But it doesn’t. It’s me, somehow, in the screen, speaking to myself, finding the words I want to hear and clinging to them. 

I know my children need to learn to listen. But maybe not as much as me.