I spent my summer vacation in the bathroom. My oldest son is on the cusp of turning three, so it couldn’t be put off any longer. We have entered “The Potty Zone.”

The problem inherent in this scenario is that I’m a bit of a germ freak. But not just your run o’ the mill garden variety germ freak. I believe I have elevated the obsessive pursuit of cleanliness to a new level.

You should see me when I cook chicken for dinner. My anti-salmonella precautions begin at the grocery store as I double bag my hand before selecting a package of chicken (actually I double bag both hands and feet before even entering the meat section of the market) and then deftly perform a reversal-of-the-bags-around-the-chicken-maneuver. I then militantly quarantine the chicken in a designated zone in the cart, obsessed with preventing it from making contact with any other item.

To prepare the bird, I have perfected a special technique, by which I unwrap, rinse, cut, and season the chicken; then dispose of the packaging, using only one hand. This allows me to always keep an uncontaminated hand available for using the sink, dispensing soap, operating the stove, procuring utensils, answering the phone, scratching my nose, balancing my checkbook, etc.

Once I convey the chicken from the cutting board to the pan,(using an intricately designed system of latex gloves, plastic wrap, paper towels, tongs, a rope, and pulleys) I commence a thorough bleach and scalding water sterilization of every surface, utensil, or appliance that might have even conceivably come into contact with the chicken. Rinse. Repeat. At that point I go back and sanitize everything I touched with my UN-contaminated hand. I finish with a ceremonial chant as I dance around my kitchen shaking a Mr. Clean doll and spraying anti-bacterial room spray. The goal here, you see, is to completely exorcise any and all remaining “poultry vibes” from my kitchen.

Finally, I set about washing my own person in a manner which may only be likened to that scene in the movie “Silkwood,” when that poor lady with the silly pointy glasses was found to be contaminated with radiation. All of a sudden alarms started blaring and a team of people in white suits and space helmets ran in, threw her in a shower and scrubbed her so vigorously that her skin was red for three days. That’s how I clean myself after I handle chicken (and I’m just talking about those pre-cooked, pre-processed dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets!).

I know what you’re thinking: “You know Susan, 10 milligrams of Xanax twice a day could probably take the edge off.” Or maybe you’re just thinking, “What in the world does all this have to do with potty training?

Well, when all this potty training started, I had to confront my germaphobia head on. You see, before potty training began, I hadn’t touched a toilet in years. If I had to lift the lid up or put the seat down, I would do it with a little piece of clean toilet paper in my hand. (Just between you and me: in public rest rooms I flushed with my foot). Then we start potty training, and before I know it I find myself having to stick my hand IN the toilet to retrieve a vast array of unflushable objects, as I’d become a reluctant participant in my young son’s experiments of hydrodynamics and buoyancy. (If that isn’t confronting your phobia through “Flooding” then I don’t know what is (pun intended)).

Thankfully, my son does not appear to have inherited my phobia of germs (or confined places, or heights, or spiders, or flying, or…) But neither has he demonstrated much interest in adopting any of my prudent (albeit a trifle rigid and religious) routines for using the facilities. He chooses instead to use the toilet with gusto! He climbs all over that stool like an Olympic gymnast on a pommel horse. He aims his stream with such enthusiastic glee you’d think he was shooting a water gun in a carnival game. Then he gets his face as close to the water as possible (without having to don a snorkel mask) to peer intently into the bowl and ponder where “it” all goes. In short, he ‘Becomes One’ with the toilet.

As much as his germaphobic mother wrings her hands and cringes as she is forced to sit (and sit and sit) and watch the process, I have to allow that this exuberant use of the toilet beats the alternatives. This point was driven home the few, yet decidedly creative times he chose to relieve himself in places other than the toilet. For instance, once after I allowed him to answer the call of nature near a palm tree in our backyard, he demonstrated his knack for generalization by later relieving himself on a potted palm in our family room. Then there was the time he got in a little ‘target practice’ by aiming at Mommy’s brand spanking new, pristinely white, not yet worn, just waiting for that perfect summer day, canvas mules in my closet. (I now have a brand spanking new lock on my closet door!)

Yes, potty training has pretty much permeated every aspect of our lives. I’ve come to accept the fact that in our house going to the bathroom has become a spectator sport, complete with cheering crowds, high-fiving, ooohing, aaahing and awards ceremonies (even for Mommy and Daddy). In fact, I didn’t realize just how much potty training is on my son’s mind these days, until recently when we were at the Gap, he tore open a three-pack of underwear we intended to purchase, and insisted on wearing a pair on his head the for the duration of our shopping trip.

All in all, my husband and I think the process has gone well. My son seems to have taken to all this potty business like a duck takes to water, but I guess we should have known that would be the case. After all, we named him “John.”