Crossing Potty Lines

I am the stay-at-home father of a 4-year-old boy named Noah and a 2-year-old girl named Josefina. Everyone's always told me that potty training girls is easier than training boys. But I couldn't understand why. Would Jo one day simply put down her blocks, excuse herself, grab a copy of The New Yorker, and head into the bathroom, closing the door behind her? Because really, that was the only way it was going to be less work than training my son.

Potty training Noah was a breeze in large part because he was always with me. My wife, Karel, and I were typical first-time parents, terrified of leaving Noah to his own devices even for the amount of time it took for us to run to the bathroom. Our neurosis, combined with the fact that I was the one staying home with him, meant that I often found myself tossing him under my arm like a ham to go pee (not that I usually take a ham with me to pee). So from the earliest possible age, Noah had a constant example of how business was supposed to be conducted by men in the bathroom. And business was good; when the time was right, Noah completely bypassed the training program and, almost overnight, became the Chief Operating Officer of the toilet. During his time in that position we have never had a wet bed or a misplaced puddle.