Lessons in Potty Ettiquette

A few weeks ago, on my son's 4th birthday, we said a final good-bye to the "little potty".

For those of you who are perhaps not in the "little potty" stage of life, it is, in fact, a little potty for children to learn how to go "number one" or "number two" without the fear of falling in the giant hole that makes up the grown-up potty.  It's also the thing that allows boys to experience the advantage of their feet touching the ground clearly creating comfort for maximum play or reading time while pooping.  This, ladies, is where it begins.  Tommy actually would gather up toys to take with him each time.

Personally, I think of it as the item that helped me build up my gag reflex each time I dumped human poop from the potty's base into the real potty where it could then be flushed, but not before---oh no, my friends, not before---the poop's descent into the water created a geyser that spurted up the middle and landed "poop water" on the seat, and if I was very lucky, on my hand.  There's also the matter of washing it out, because unfortunately, physics works against you as the bin is turned over and the heavier item sinks to the bottom and then slides along the side creating what we, in this house call "poop streaks".   Highbrow stuff today, right?

So, just when I thought that we had gotten through the milestone of getting rid of the "little potty", I found out that there was more wisdom to impart.

First of all, with boys, there's the whole standing up factor.  Up until this summer, he hadn't done it 
and I blame my husband who doesn't lead by example on this front since he's convinced that the bathroom at home is the best place to brush up on his Sudoku skills whether or not "number two" is 
involved.  Cut to me one day on a walk and Tommy is anxiously crossing his legs needing to pee.  I look around, channel my college days of keg beer, and point him to the nearest tree.  He walks over and starts to squat.  Well, I don't have a penis, but my geometry is pretty good, and the straight line is 
pointing right at his shorts as he's crouched over, not at the ground.  Houston, we have a problem.

I run over to him, stand him up and his panicked look reminds me of the first time sex was explained to me.  

"Just let it go, honey."

He starts to squat again.

"No.  Standing up."

He looks at me, does it, then a grin spreads across his face in relief.  Just as I'm reveling in a little parenting success, I realize that as he's ending his pee, and I'm about to be taught another physics lesson.   As the stream weakens, it begins to fall and veers quickly towards his shorts.  I never knew there was skill and mastery to this standing up thing.  Not knowing what to do, I grab him and lean 
him forward so he's basically horizontally in my arms as he finishes.  
I learned later my husband knows more than he shows at home and that with a little hip jut out and a 
shake, the whole thing can be avoided.  Who knew?!?

Little did I know that there were more potty lessons to come...

Once he learned that standing up was an option, it was as if I had unleashed Pandora's Box.  Now there was no reason to wait for an actual bathroom.  In fact, for a few weeks this summer, he and his friend would wait until the end of camp to announce that they were going to "pee in the bushes".  Now, I could have made a fuss about that from the get-go, but doing so would undoubtedly make the allure that much more appealing.  So for the next several days as we left camp, two moons could be seen facing out of the bushes as they relieved themselves because they still hadn't gotten to the lesson about not having to pull their pants down to their ankles in order to pee.  Miss Manners might have something to say about that.

The coup de grace came a couple of nights ago while we were enjoying the best time at the beach from about 4-7pm.  After a couple hours there, Tommy came running up to me, once again doing the pee dance.

"Just go in the water," I said and turned to continue my conversation.

As I finished my sentence, I turned around to check on him since he's not a stellar swimmer yet, and what do I see?

Tommy has his suit down to his ankles and has started the process at the edge of the water, not submerged as we do in polite society.

Apparently, there was one more potty lesson I had forgotten.

I quickly ran over to him pulling his very wet suit, which was sticking to him, of course, and walking him into the water as he screamed, "I can't pee in my pants, Mama!"

Well, he has a point, right?  So, as there are so many exceptions in life, Tommy has learned his first and as we walked back up the beach, I could be heard saying, "Only in the lake, not in the pool.  You understand?  Not in the pool.  ...or the bathtub."

Who said life is clear?

Shafted!!!

...said Harper, my second child, on her first birthday.

I am having tremendous pangs of guilt about the "double" dinosaur themed birthday I held a few weeks ago.

A friend of mine said once, "do your best as a parent... And then pay for their therapy when they're older."  Sage advice considering I'm pretty sure this is where her first session will begin...

"Well, you see I'm the second child and on my first birthday there is only one picture/video of me enjoying my cake.  The rest of the documents from this day revolve around 'the prodigal son' -Tommy and his friends," she'll say with great disdain as the therapist nods and takes notes documenting this first misstep.

Their birthdays are 5 DAYS apart, for God's sake!  I can't have two separate parties so that the one-year old, who won't remember a thing will be able to look back at pictures and know she was loved.

I really hope she doesn't see the picture (I mean pictures - there were many) from Tommy's first.  It was a bash.  Ridiculously so.

She did, however, get her own cake. This may or may not be because I'm kind of a sugar nazi, and I wanted her to have a less diabetes-inducing experience for her first taste of the vice we call sugar, but it was her own cake nonetheless.

 For the record, I would like to point out that this "poor neglected child" came 16 DAYS LATE!!!  Let's not forget that little tidbit.  I know I won't.  If she had come on August 1st as my biological clock said she would, we would have been able to have a little separate party for her in late July saving me at least one 50-minute hour with a Jungian student.

She doesn't have a clue that....

...the rest of the party is watching Tommy's cake!

To her future therapist:  You're welcome!

Glamor is My Middle Name

If you look at Angelina, Gwyneth, Madonna or any of the paparazzi-tracked moms, it would lead you to believe that motherhood is borderline glamorous - and easy. It especially irks me to see the section in Us Magazine titled, "Celebrities families are just like us."pictures that have quotes like:

"They clean up ice cream cone disasters." (yes, on the day the nanny has off)

"They manage their 6 kids at the airport.". (to their private jet)

"They go back to school shopping.". (at Hermes and Henri Bendel on Rodeo Dr.)

"They go to yoga." (when above mentioned nanny is back and private yoga instructor is off)

First of all, I can tell you that when I'm shopping with my kids (at Target), they aren't patiently sitting in the cart pointing to cereals on the shelf.  The one that can walk is running ahead, declaring his inner tiger and growling/roaring at complete strangers as they pass us.  

The same child rarely leaves the beach with a smile on his face, in a stroller being pushed by his hard body mom.  It's usually some variation of me in a t-shirt and skirt cover-up (that I swim in because my body is more semi-soft) sweating like a man, pushing the baby in the stroller and carrying a tall 3 year old under my arm like a football while he screams "I just want ice cream Mama!"  The ice cream cart is placed directly out the exit of the beach, thank you very much!

Second of all, do they really get a call from the sitter when they are at work that the 4 year old's poop is green, "I mean really green, Mrs. Stewart!".   To follow that up, do they say, "OK, save it for me to look at," in response to this call?  I think not.

I'm also pretty confident that at a family wedding, they do not find themselves locked in a bathroom stall with their little black dress pulled down to their waist as if they are trying to acquire beads at Mardi Gras, hand expressing milk from their overly full lactating breasts.  Just when I started to feel individually human again, a perfectly normal adult event turns into a human 4H demonstration.

Finally, do they ever find themselves dry heaving in front of their kids at a hairball the size of a guinea pig that they find in their tub drain?  

Sorry, I just didn't want to be the only witness to this.

Really? They don't just let their handyman weather the wave of nausea this produces?  

Look, I'm sure being a celebrity has its downsides, but I can say, without hesitation, that they are not just like us.

The Mental Patient

So, for anyone that knows me, I loooove my kids. They are what get me out of bed in the morning...  Literally.  

Well, the fact that they wake me up before 7am, is not actually the part I love, but I look at their faces and often see what's right in the world in their eyes.  

That said, it can't be overlooked that I absolutely feel like my daily conversations with my 3 year old are similar to those you might have with mental patient.  Now, before you start to judge me for calling my sweet, innocent boy a mental patient, let me present you with exhibit A:

Me:  Tommy, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  Roooooaar!!!

Me:  Okay Mr. Tiger, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  I'm not a tiger, I'm a wolf soldier!  (a Kung Fu Panda 2 reference, FYI)

Now mind you, I'm probably still working on getting my coffee infused in my system, so I really just want to friggin' know what he wants for friggin' breakfast.

Me:  Got it.  Sorry.  Wolf Soldier, what do you want for breakfast?

T:  I don't know.  I'm thinking about it.

(I wait, assuming - a thing you should never do with a mental patient or a 3 year old apparently, see the similarity? - that an idea for breakfast will erupt forth.)

Nothing.

The good news is that this pause has allowed me to sip a little of my coffee.  

Nothing.  It's okay, we only have to be at camp in an hour.

Nothing.

Me:  Okay, I'm making you cheese eggs.

T:  Nooooooo! (then, tumbling into a crying, tantruming mess) I don't want cheese eggs!

Me:  Stop!  Reset.  (What?  It works with my computer!) What do you want?

T:  I don't want cheese eggs!

Me:  (In my best therapy voice)  I hear that you don't want cheese eggs.  What do you want?

T:  I don't want cheese eggs!!!  (Tears still)

Me:  (I get down in front of him and am now on my knees.  I too am yelling)  I won't make you eat cheese eggs!  That's off the table!  What do you want to eat?!?  (since he's irrational apparently I'm going to be too)

T:  I just don't want cheese eggs!!!  (for god's sake! I'm not running a prison camp here.)

I just stare silently at him willing him to stop whining.  (a Jedi mind trick)

T:  (quietly) I want cereal. 

It worked!  I had channeled Yoda, and it worked. 

Me:  (in my best Yoda voice) Cereal you will have young Tom. 

T:  huh?

Me:  never mind. 

The truth is that cereal is a perfectly reasonable request.  Its amazing we both had to get so worked up. 

T:  (teary) Mom, I just don't want cheese eggs.

Me:  (not wanting to go backwards) Yes, I think I understand that.

T:  I don't want cheese eggs.  Not off the table either.

Me:  Got it.  No cheese eggs.  Not on the table, not off the table. (I feel like I'm in the Dr. Suess book "Green Eggs and Ham")

Then, as if nothing has happened...  He goes back to "guys" and returns to battle.

See what I mean?  Mental patient.  

Exhibit B:

We had a sitter over who is great, but I was trying to figure out If Tommy had broken something the other day or if my sitter had.  

Me:  Tommy, what happened here?

T:  It broke

Me:  Yes, I see that.  What happened?

T:  I didn't do it.

Me:  Okay (I say breathing)  What happened?

T:  It broke. I think Carrie's mom did it.

Me:  Was Carrie's mom here? 

T:  No.

Mental Patient.  

These conversations are peppered with ones that make total sense, and I'm momentarily led to believe he's capable of adult reasoning.  

Then, I'm shot back to reality when I see him walk by my bedroom door naked and talking to his penis.

Waiting Room Angst

Now that I have two kids, theres really no excuse for a rookie move like going to the pediatrician for a regular check-up on a Saturday when you have other options during the week. That is a day designated for sick children and all the families who are unable to come on a weekday.  And there are a lot of them.  From both categories.  And they are all in the waiting room. Playing and hacking all over the toys so generously displayed.  I have the fortune of having a flexible job where I don't have to subject myself to the Saturday Horror Picture Show, and yet, I put this in my calendar willingly. 


Now I know lots of people say this, but I'm really not a germaphobe in the least.  My 8-month old crawls on a floor that is trafficked by a dog who gives a whole new meaning to shedding, a three-year old, and two adults.  The other day I found her crawling to me with what looked like a mustache, but was actually a tumbleweed of dog hair from under the fridge in her mouth. (she's a quick little thing, don't judge me)  Gross as this is, none of it had me investing in a Roomba and putting my daughter in a human hamster ball, but after my weekend jaunt to the pediatrician, I was really hoping to create a whole body antibacterial dip for my son. 



Not only is it busy in general with your average petri dish of a pre-schooler, it's also smattered with people who simply wouldn't be there if it wasn't for their poor luck of a sickness hitting on the weekend.  Therefore, when my son eagerly jumped into the pile of toys that I'm sure no one is rushing out to sanitize between strep, diarrhea, and stomach flu cases, I felt as though I was playing a very high stakes game of Russian roulette with his health. 


You know those Mucinex commercials with the little green cartoon guys representing phlegm balls? I'm pretty sure they were running a casting call for them from this waiting room.  


We survived, but since then, every time we go to the doctor, Tommy asks to play in the playroom, and I flinch at the flashbacks of that Saturday as I pass him the iPad to play Angry Birds.  The lesser of two evils, as I see it.


Bottom line, if you don't have to, avoid it like the plague. Literally.

I'm baa-ack!

So, you may or may not have noticed that my last post involved a very pregnant me waddling my way through getting on a train with 3-year-old, stroller and coffee in tow. That was 7 1/2 months ago, I think. Time seems to have a very shapeless form at the moment.

The good news, I did have the baby - it would be a sad state of affairs if she was still gestating, however, I'm convinced that given the option, she might still be in there. 16 days late - yeah, you heard me. ...and she still had to be kicked out via induction (but that story is for another time).

She was worth the wait.

The bad news is that seems to be the last time I had time to myself. I definitely should have enjoyed the hospital stay a little more. We slept, we ordered food, they brought it to us, and, we watched TV. What more could a girl ask for?!?

Needless to say, there hasn't been a lot of time to blog about anything, especially about jump starting my creative juices. The only juices I've jump started lately have resulted in leak stains through my shirt at very inopportune moments.  Being sleep deprived has me walking through my days like a zombie with a caffeine drip being the only thing to power me forward.

When I started this blog, I really hadn't planned on this being a "mom" blog, because, quite frankly, there are so many good ones out there, like this one and this one.  However, I'm truly in the thick of it.  "It" being motherhood.  Most of my life experiences lately seem to involve lack of sleep, spit up, or tantrums.  Sad as that may be, I must write about what I know in order to have a prayer of getting to the stuff in my head that I actually want to write about.  So, from here, I let the blog be what it will and see where it leads me.  Kinda fun, right?

Coping mechanism down!

I know, it's been a while since you've heard from me, but let me share a recent train ride that made me feel the angst of being a mom...  

Since I've been pregnant, especially in the last few weeks, I admit, my coping mechanism has been less than stellar. I feel more like my mother on days like these. Being like my mom isn't a bad thing, by the way, it's just that she isn't very zen when things go awry (I think/hope she'd agree) nor am I. I long for the calm and in control look that I see in some moms that have two kids, eight bags and a coffee in their hands. They seem to cope with such steel resilience. I, apparently, do not have that. At least not at the moment.  

Evidence is in Exhibit A:

Here was the plan: Tommy would come downtown with me on the train while my husband went to an interview that would overlap an hour into my workday and then he could come pick Tommy up and all would be good.  Simple enough, right?  Easy peasy. 

Well, yes, that is until I remembered all the crap that comes along with making an almost 3 year old happy at the office.  The trick was that in order for it to be there, I had to get it on the train.  This would be easy if I was traveling with a boy who actually is as "big boy" as he claims.  What I found out was that his motivation to be a big boy hasn't grown so big that it helps him conquer his fears.  He's only a big boy until he has to do something hard.  Then he's “just little” and has no shame in being carried.  So, along with two bags, a stroller, his Thomas the train backpack, which he promised he'd carry by the way, we waited for the train to approach hand in hand.

Our first attempt at the 8:51 was an epic fail.  To really provide full disclosure, I was also attempting to carry a full coffee amongst my many bags and stroller which, in hindsight, was a bad idea. So, at 38 weeks pregnant, I got three bags, a stroller and coffee on my person like an alpaca headed out for a climb of Mount Everest when suddenly my son is "little" and needs to be carried onto the train as well.  In my best “Im in charge” mom voice, I say no and hold his hand to walk up the stairs like a big boy.  But I'd forgotten about the secret weapon that my son has at his disposal.  The death scream. 

The scream being used to get his cousin
away from his cake on his birthday.
No, I didn't teach him that maneuver...

The death scream has a radius of about 1/2 a mile and can take down your average person in seconds.  He pulled it out just as we started to get on the train causing even the person cozily wrapped in a car far up front look up and cringe. As well, this was a rush hour train and it was filled to the brim with people who were embracing the quiet of the train because they had happily left their children at home.  It was then that I, cowardly, decided to abort the mission until the next, less crowded train came 30 minutes later.  The relief on people's faces as the train eased away was audible.  I, on the other hand, in response to my son's meltdown, decided to have my own on the phone to my unsuspecting husband. 

So, I turned around,head hung, with my son crying and yelling next to me, "you hurt me mama! You hurt me!" loud enough to summon DCFS.  Yes, I had probably squeezed his hand too hard when I saw that getting on the train wasn't going to happen, and perhaps less than gently, guided him down to the bench that would harbor us for the next half hour. Judge me if you will.  Don't worry, I'll willingly pay for it in therapy appointments down the road.  In a true life ending fashion, I told my husband that we couldn't come downtown and this was a disaster of epic proportions.  There was a silence on the phone of a man trying to find the right words, who truly realized that this had been a mistake to let his swollen bellied wife attempt, but she had insisted... unfortunately, there was no going back.  He was already half way downtown for an interview for a very much needed job for our family.  Now, he had to figure out how to make it better and cheerlead me through getting on the next train.

"I'm sorry about this babe.  We really shouldn't have planned it this way.  I'm sorry.  Next train, ask the conductor for help and if he doesn't help, get his name and I'll beat him up, I'll have words with Metra.  Seriously, promise me."

I hung up vowing to to do that and sat in silence, tears flowing down my face, my kid leaning against me with tears drying on his face, and drinking a coffee in 95 degree heat, sweating like Blagojevich on sentencing day. Defeated. 

The beauty of me, if I do say so myself is that I can get really down on a situation in one moment and then really buck up in the next.  I got five minutes of quiet from my son, finished my cup of coffee, and by the time the next train was approaching, I was determined to make this happen.  I loaded my stroller and my computer case on one arm, the Thomas backpack (did I mention that he said he'd carry it) and the diaper bag on another and, this time, when my son balked at getting on the train, I heaved him up on top of my large belly and got on the train.  It was much emptier than the previous one so we found a spot and hunkered down for the half hour ahead of us.  I sent a text: "Made it on the train. Sorry for the panic. Good luck!" hoping this would make my earlier scene a little better. 

I had conquered this episode of mommy-hood and felt pretty accomplished. I was one more step towards seasoned motherhood  So, when we got to the station, I put Tommy in the stroller for our 95 degree walk to my office, and I was actually able to have a giggle about the fact that my pregnant thighs were rubbing together to a most uncomfortable beat.