Abandon all hope, you who enter here

When I read Dante's Divine Comedy lo those many years ago, I had no idea anything was missing — it seemed more than complete to me. A painful and tortuous journey through a twisted cavern of word, thought and philosophy that could not possibly have one more concept jammed into its bloated self.

But Thursday, everything changed.

Thursday, we discovered the tenth and missing circle of hell: toilet training. I've got your Stygian marsh RIGHT HERE, Dante, and I need another baby wipe, STAT.

For months, Shawn Joaquin has told me that tomorrow, TOMORROW, he's going to say bye bye to diapers. After a particularly painful school meeting last week in which I was reminded that Shawn Joaquin was one of only a handful of children in the school of 80 who still eschewed underwear for pull-ups, I decided that there would be no more Scarlet O'Hara moments. TODAY was THE DAY.

He's been rewarded with the forbidden chocolate, small trucks, race cars, promises of endless Backyardigans and old Disney classics, tortilla chips, new books, a trip to Home Depot, small plastic animals that grow when placed in water, extended bedtimes, more bubbles in the bath, candles to blow out, poo poo party hats and underwear with Diego, Spiderman, Superman, Dora, animals, stars, stripes and bubbles.

I have been rewarded with urine-stained clothing, a scent of excrement that will never leave my nostrils, an increased use of disinfectant and an OCD-like tendency to scrub my hands.

Now Shawn Joaquin is aware of when he needs to sit on the toilet, painfully torn between his need to dance around with knees and legs twisted to avoid the shock of urination in the little toilet or the horrible, newly self-conscious moment when he realizes that he's had an accident. He is more pained by accidents than we are, which we try to mitigate with reassurances, a cavalier attitude and a no-rush to clean up stroll; to listen to our assurances of him you'd think we freely urinated on the floor at least once a day and really, IT'S NO BIG DEAL.

I know he will be fine. But I am a mess. I mistake his howls of protest at the inevitable functioning of his body with fear, future hatred of me or possible labor pains — as I rub his back with his head on my knee, I am reminded of being with a close friend when she was in labor and am tempted to offer him an epidural or some ice chips.

Tonight, after two dry days and a number of crank calls to various family members after success — GAM, I TINKLED! [click] — I realized that we might be almost ready to leave this tenth circle of hell. And that I may miss the intensity of these last few days, the hours spent holding Shawn Joaquin while he sits on his little toilet seat, reading to him, rubbing his back, encouraging him and always staying within 2 feet of him and that little plastic toilet. I will miss our dinners around his 18-inch high table, where we all gathered so that he could sit on the Bjorn toilet while eating turkey sausage and strawberries and occasionally clinking glasses with us to toast his new underwear. I will miss the intensity of his joy and need to hug me immediately, occasionally bringing droplets of his success with him and soaking my shirt.

When he is grown, I can only imagine that I will yearn for these days in hell. That I will remember what it felt like to be needed, even if it was only to wipe the poo from his bottom and the tears from his face and to hand him a 39 cent race car to make it all better.