Potty, not Party

When Pinky was two and a half, September, she was allowed to start nursery school.  Besides paying for the privilege of attending, the only requirement was that she be completely toilet trained.  We had been a little lazy on this issue.  There were so many changes in our lives - new country, finding an apartment, big girl bed - that it got pushed off.  We decided the answer, as suggested by many Authoritative English Mothers, was that when we went on our three week holiday to the South of France she would spend her days naked in the sun and the lack of diapers would make her wish to use a toilet instead of putting diapers back on.  
Why did I believe that?  
Here's why:  English people can make you believe anything when they speak with emphatic authority.  It took me many wrong turns to wake up to this.  My father-in-law persuaded my mother-in-law (a member of the prestigious New Canaan Garden Club) that a gigantic sycamore tree was dead despite the fact that he didn't know that it was a sycamore. I caught him out again when he was telling a self glamorizing story about being a spy in Italy in WW2;  he reminisced about drifting through the olive groves in romantic golden light and occasionally popping olives from the trees into his mouth for a delicious afternoon snack.  AHA!  I am from California, awash in olive trees and a rite of passage for any adventurous child with inattentive parents is to do exactly that - drift through the trees in the golden sun and pop an olive in your mouth EXCEPT that when you do this the uncured olive is in a category of sourness that has no adequately descriptive word.  The moment you bite into it your entire mouth contracts in spasms of bitter/sour/acrid flavor,it dries up and puckers at the same time and there is nothing to make it stop.  It takes way more than water to get rid of it and you will NEVER try it again!  Maybe it's why the martini was invented - only something as strong as gin could get that vile flavor out. Hmmm....

Lester Dester

Well, back to Tourettes-sur-Loup; Pinky spent the flowery sunny days nude, except for her Lester Lanin hat which she never took off and called Lester Dester.  When it was bedtime the diapers came back and it seemed like it was working.  The missing feature here is the bathroom.  She wee'ed freely in the bushes and never learned about this alternative.  This became clear when we tried her out on a small trip to the Fondation Maeght, a beautiful art museum in Saint Paul de Vence; she went into the bushes in the sculpture garden and came back wet and stinky.  Instead of training her we had turned her into l'enfant sauvage. 
 As soon as we got back to London we had a week to put it right.  Potty Boot Camp started and she seemed to get the hang of it within the allotted time.  Number 2 was a tricky issue.  Because it was an emergency I gave up on obeying the scolds who said that candy as a reward would set her up for a lifetime of obesity and presented to her a single M&M in a tiny box when she got it right.  This worked immediately and I never listened to that kind of advice again.  In the 1990's it included never say no, the negativity will scar them, no fat ever in anything, wooden toys are best, and No Barbies because they are self esteem killers.  
If you never say no you end up with a tiny tyrant.  
It was discovered by the medical community that you need fat when you're a baby in order to properly connect synapses and without it the brain will be unwired.  
Pinky has plenty to say about wooden toys and No Barbies.  After my single friend Tracey got her the first Barbie (I was really upset, what a dork) I paid attention to the way Barbie is played with and changed my mind.  Barbie isn't a doll that you nurture, she's a fashion doll and exists so you can put cool outfits on her.  She gets no respect.  Many closets have a box of naked Barbies with terrible haircuts, tribalistic markings from Sharpies, and in Pinky's case feet chewed off into nubs by her friend Adelaide.  I will climb down from my soapbox and take you back to England.

The first day of school arrived.  I dressed her in black tights and a chic Agnes B dress with black and gray stripes, edgy red high top sneakers on her feet.  She looked great, all Paris - NY,  ha girls in pretty smocked dresses.  The day went from 12:30 to 4:30.  I missed her, worried about her day, was excited for her and in the back of my mind was a little mantra - remember the toilet remember the toilet remember the toilet.
I was there early and got to meet the other mothers, some of whom became lifelong friends.  As the sweet assistant teachers brought the children out to be collected I looked and looked but didn't see Pinky.  Finally I had to ask a teacher where she was and when I followed her gesture who I saw was mini Princess Margaret.   Pinky appeared to have on a pink Chanel suit with matching tweed coat, white stockings and the same red kicks now very weird with her haughty lady look.  My memory wants to put a hat and gloves on her but I know this can't be possible.  She had had an accident, her wet, edgy clothing was in a bag in her hands and the teachers had dressed her in an incredibly fancy habille from the lost and found.  Apologetic and mortified we slunk off and I spent the rest of the day drilling her on bathroom etiquette. I  invested in a family size bag of M&M's and gratefully ended my day with a Katastroma Martini & three large olives.

The recipe for the Katastroma Martini was given to me and fellow Katastroma Club members while we were in a meeting at the Algonquin Bar trying to find a signature club drink.  The only thing we agreed on was that it should be transparent.  Suddenly a waiter appeared with another round and pointed to a handsome man at the bar.  We invited him to join us and told him of our quest.  He said "I, Juan Mateus, will give you the Juan Mateus Martini!"  Here's the 411:
Put ice into a cocktail shaker then pour vermouth over the ice.  Swirl it, strain and throw away the vermouth (love that, so decadent).  Next add one jigger of vodka, one jigger of gin. Shake, strain into a martini glass and add olives or onions.  I have grown to love cocktail onions possibly because olives have become too complicated with jalapenos, almonds, garlic cloves, blue cheese, tuna - you know what I mean.
This drink tastes like a chilly cloud of fragrant spirits.  It is very helpful in reducing inhibitions and on one occasion after two of these lovely beverages I hid my friend Jeanine's shoes in a potted palm far, far away.  
You've been warned.

Poor Use of Underpants