Big surprise, Ben pooped in his underwear again today.
However, this time Jake was on hand to serve as the papparazzi. He had his little toy phone that also has a "camera" in it. He presses the right button and it makes the picture-taking sound and everything. As I was cleaning Ben's bottom, Jake rushed in with his camera phone.
"Mommy, watch out. I take a picture."
"What are you taking a picture of, Jakey?"
"Ben's poop," he replied, twisting and getting just the right angle to capture the moment on his phone.
After a few shots, he must have realized how gross the concept of taking poo pictures really was.
"Ben, you make me sick," Jakey told him.
Just to confirm what he really said, I asked Jake exactly what made him sick.
"Ben's poop," he replied, with a duh implied. "It makes me sick."
Ben gazed up and smiled at him, completely pleased with himself and not comprehending any of it. Then again, maybe that's not really the case.
Even Jake's ready for this stage to be over.
A haphazard and inconsistent collection of melodramatic musings and quasi-intelligent insights we've gained in the chaos that is life... how's that for quirky and humble?
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sing me a song
I have a confession.
I've tried to keep it secret from most of you for months. My cheeks have burned in embarrassment. My head hung low in shame.
But there's no point keeping it from you any longer. It'd just be a matter of time before you found out anyway.
I sing ridiculous songs to the boys at every single naptime and bedtime.
Not because I choose them. Not because I want to. Because if I don't, the little terrors will throw a hissy fit and refuse to go to sleep. Two ridiculous songs for Ben, two ridiculous songs for Jake, and off I go, tail tucked between my legs. It's the price I pay for them drifting to sleep soon after (that's the plan, anyway).
What's so bad about this, you say? Sarah, don't be so dramatic, you're thinking. Singing bedtime stories to your children is a beautiful thing. A peaceful, loving time they'll remember for the rest of their lives.
Except that at our house, that's not the way it works.
First of all, the song choices. Here are their current top four favorites:
1. The Poo-Poo song (a song I regrettably made up in total desperation to get the boys to poop on the potty. It's lyrics revolve around "Poo-poo, poo-poo come out of my bottom")
2. Take Me Out to the Ballgame (I REALLY don't care if I ever come back)
3. A song about a rabbit needing to come inside someone's house before the hunters "shoot him dead"
4. The Horsey Song, aka Camptown Races (doo-da, doo-da)
Now, admittedly, someone had to teach them these songs, and that someone was me. I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps, that they wouldn't choose them for bedtime songs. And truth be told, they do request some other more traditional, soothing songs. But these are their top hits, for sure.
But I'm still not painting you a clear enough picture of what the bedtime singing is like. With few exceptions, during my singing (which is made even more pathetic by the fact that I cannot carry a tune), the boys are flopping around on their beds, snickering, talking loudly, hanging off their beds, and slinging their loveys around. Hello, rude? I try to keep order, but shouting out "Jacob, STOP THAT!" and "Ben, I will spank your bottom if you do that one more time" mid-verse during Jesus Love Me kind of ruins the moment.
Here's another favorite humbling strategy of theirs: refusing to pick a song or picking out songs that don't exist, such as "The Pillow Song" or "The Ceiling Song" or whatever madness strikes their fancy. Ben one time pointed to one of the railing pieces on his headboard and requested to sing "that one." As if the piece of wood was a song. Now here, dear reader, is where a real pushover could get into quite a mess. Take for instance.... my dad (sorry, Dad). Some time back, the boys convinced my dad to sing a song about candy canes (this was quite possibly the same ill-fated night they were able to coerce him to change their PJ outfits three times). Except there is no such song. But that didn't really matter, because poor Boppaw caved and made up a song. About candy canes. And at the next bedtime, I had not a clue what the "Cane Song" was. (Dad, if you're reading, perhaps you could post those snappy lyrics here?)
And then there's the most infuriating tactic they have in their bag of tricks, which involves me being forced to pick out a song for them, starting into the song and then being interrupted by screams of "No! I want to pick the song out!" and then the child picking out the very song I was just singing and having to start the song over again. When this happens, I literally have to hold onto the bed to keep my hands from strangling them.
Why do I put up with this? Why not just shut the door and say goodnight? I ask myself the same things nearly every time. And although part of it is just me trying to keep the peace because I simply don't have the energy to wean them off the routine, part of it is also me knowing that in a short time, they won't want me in their room at all. I won't be cool enough to sing any songs. And I'll be begging them to let me tuck them in. So I deal with the nonsense, keep the singing as part of our routine, and watch them sigh with satisfaction once they've had their two songs each. And then I close the door and run down the hallway with my head ducked to avoid having to face my husband, who has heard every bit of it next door in his office.
I've tried to keep it secret from most of you for months. My cheeks have burned in embarrassment. My head hung low in shame.
But there's no point keeping it from you any longer. It'd just be a matter of time before you found out anyway.
I sing ridiculous songs to the boys at every single naptime and bedtime.
Not because I choose them. Not because I want to. Because if I don't, the little terrors will throw a hissy fit and refuse to go to sleep. Two ridiculous songs for Ben, two ridiculous songs for Jake, and off I go, tail tucked between my legs. It's the price I pay for them drifting to sleep soon after (that's the plan, anyway).
What's so bad about this, you say? Sarah, don't be so dramatic, you're thinking. Singing bedtime stories to your children is a beautiful thing. A peaceful, loving time they'll remember for the rest of their lives.
Except that at our house, that's not the way it works.
First of all, the song choices. Here are their current top four favorites:
1. The Poo-Poo song (a song I regrettably made up in total desperation to get the boys to poop on the potty. It's lyrics revolve around "Poo-poo, poo-poo come out of my bottom")
2. Take Me Out to the Ballgame (I REALLY don't care if I ever come back)
3. A song about a rabbit needing to come inside someone's house before the hunters "shoot him dead"
4. The Horsey Song, aka Camptown Races (doo-da, doo-da)
Now, admittedly, someone had to teach them these songs, and that someone was me. I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps, that they wouldn't choose them for bedtime songs. And truth be told, they do request some other more traditional, soothing songs. But these are their top hits, for sure.
But I'm still not painting you a clear enough picture of what the bedtime singing is like. With few exceptions, during my singing (which is made even more pathetic by the fact that I cannot carry a tune), the boys are flopping around on their beds, snickering, talking loudly, hanging off their beds, and slinging their loveys around. Hello, rude? I try to keep order, but shouting out "Jacob, STOP THAT!" and "Ben, I will spank your bottom if you do that one more time" mid-verse during Jesus Love Me kind of ruins the moment.
Here's another favorite humbling strategy of theirs: refusing to pick a song or picking out songs that don't exist, such as "The Pillow Song" or "The Ceiling Song" or whatever madness strikes their fancy. Ben one time pointed to one of the railing pieces on his headboard and requested to sing "that one." As if the piece of wood was a song. Now here, dear reader, is where a real pushover could get into quite a mess. Take for instance.... my dad (sorry, Dad). Some time back, the boys convinced my dad to sing a song about candy canes (this was quite possibly the same ill-fated night they were able to coerce him to change their PJ outfits three times). Except there is no such song. But that didn't really matter, because poor Boppaw caved and made up a song. About candy canes. And at the next bedtime, I had not a clue what the "Cane Song" was. (Dad, if you're reading, perhaps you could post those snappy lyrics here?)
And then there's the most infuriating tactic they have in their bag of tricks, which involves me being forced to pick out a song for them, starting into the song and then being interrupted by screams of "No! I want to pick the song out!" and then the child picking out the very song I was just singing and having to start the song over again. When this happens, I literally have to hold onto the bed to keep my hands from strangling them.
Why do I put up with this? Why not just shut the door and say goodnight? I ask myself the same things nearly every time. And although part of it is just me trying to keep the peace because I simply don't have the energy to wean them off the routine, part of it is also me knowing that in a short time, they won't want me in their room at all. I won't be cool enough to sing any songs. And I'll be begging them to let me tuck them in. So I deal with the nonsense, keep the singing as part of our routine, and watch them sigh with satisfaction once they've had their two songs each. And then I close the door and run down the hallway with my head ducked to avoid having to face my husband, who has heard every bit of it next door in his office.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Freeze
This afternoon I was desperate to help the boys burn off some energy (which I swear, if I put them on an electricity-generating treadmill, could power up our small town). I decided to teach them the game where you dance to music until the music stops, and then you freeze into a statue until the music starts again. They thought this was hilarious.
After an actually pleasant dinner for two three-year-old boys, I rewarded them each with a bowl of Jello (incidentally, it was brought to my attention recently that the boys have been deprived of Jello their whole lives, and they are now very much in love with it).
Anyway, we were all quietly sitting at the kitchen table eating our Jello and listening to the cable music channel, Soundscapes, that I am addicted it. It's the most soothing, meditative, it's-all-going-to-be-okay music, and I have it on all the time. Ben was just really engrossed in his Jello eating, and he happened to look over at me. The look he had in his eyes -- joy, innocence, youth-- just caught me completely off guard and I had to quickly look away so he didn't catch on to the tears in my own eyes.
There are many days in my life that I just try to get through, one foot in front of the other. Those days are long and hard. But sometimes in the middle of those days a miracle like this will occur. A bright, shining moment of wonder and contentment. This was one of the best, but I'd be lying to you if I said the moment wasn't tinged with sadness and a sense of helplessness that this is all just happening way too fast. My babies aren't just little boys anymore... they may only be in the 5-10th percentile for weight and height, but they are becoming little men. It's incredible and it's incredibly frightening all at the same time. They're growing up, and there's not a single thing I can do about it. It's just happening. At night I go in to check on them in their beds, and as I watch them sleeping there, I silently plead, Please stop. Stop growing. Please don't get any bigger. Despite the huge responsibilities and inconveniences that come with taking care of them full-time, my heart literally aches with the reality that they won't stay like this.
There are so many times I just want to hit the fast forward button, but times like this today just make me want to live like this forever. I have to remind myself to hold these moments tight and keep making more of them, because this is life. It keeps on keeping on regardless of anything, and it's up to us to grab on and make the best of it.
As I looked away from Ben, I happened to glance at the TV and catch the info on the song we were listening to. The song title was "Beyond this Moment," from an album titled "So Flows the Current." And so it does. And so it does.
After an actually pleasant dinner for two three-year-old boys, I rewarded them each with a bowl of Jello (incidentally, it was brought to my attention recently that the boys have been deprived of Jello their whole lives, and they are now very much in love with it).
Anyway, we were all quietly sitting at the kitchen table eating our Jello and listening to the cable music channel, Soundscapes, that I am addicted it. It's the most soothing, meditative, it's-all-going-to-be-okay music, and I have it on all the time. Ben was just really engrossed in his Jello eating, and he happened to look over at me. The look he had in his eyes -- joy, innocence, youth-- just caught me completely off guard and I had to quickly look away so he didn't catch on to the tears in my own eyes.
There are many days in my life that I just try to get through, one foot in front of the other. Those days are long and hard. But sometimes in the middle of those days a miracle like this will occur. A bright, shining moment of wonder and contentment. This was one of the best, but I'd be lying to you if I said the moment wasn't tinged with sadness and a sense of helplessness that this is all just happening way too fast. My babies aren't just little boys anymore... they may only be in the 5-10th percentile for weight and height, but they are becoming little men. It's incredible and it's incredibly frightening all at the same time. They're growing up, and there's not a single thing I can do about it. It's just happening. At night I go in to check on them in their beds, and as I watch them sleeping there, I silently plead, Please stop. Stop growing. Please don't get any bigger. Despite the huge responsibilities and inconveniences that come with taking care of them full-time, my heart literally aches with the reality that they won't stay like this.
There are so many times I just want to hit the fast forward button, but times like this today just make me want to live like this forever. I have to remind myself to hold these moments tight and keep making more of them, because this is life. It keeps on keeping on regardless of anything, and it's up to us to grab on and make the best of it.
As I looked away from Ben, I happened to glance at the TV and catch the info on the song we were listening to. The song title was "Beyond this Moment," from an album titled "So Flows the Current." And so it does. And so it does.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Does it ever end?
I regret to inform you that I have yet another poop story.
Not suprisingly, the story is focused on Ben. In my mind and heart, I really try not to compare the boys, especially when it comes to this. It just makes me resentful toward Ben, and I don't want to do that. He can't help it that Jake figured it out first that wearing your poop is..... disgusting.
Ben dislikes the whole idea of pooping so much now that he procrastinates about it. He goes about every two days or so. When we know that it's been awhile and a poop is imminent, we brace ourselves. We used to constantly ask him if he needed to go, but we just kind of gave up. He won't tell us anyway. I know we're breaking all sort of potty-training rules, but this has been a war of attrition, and so far, he's winning.
So it was no surprise to me when he marched up from the basement this evening for bathtime and proudly announced, "I pooped in my underwear."
"You what?"
"I pooped in my underwear," he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis and smiling his evil little smile in pleasure. I nearly laughed but caught myself. To keep myself from getting furious, I tell myself that the poor child copes with his failure by using humor. I expressed my disappointment with zero response from Mr. Ben. Off to the bathroom.
It was pretty obvious that this was not a recent poo, and as I sat in the floor cleaning him up, I asked him exactly when he was going start pooping in the potty. Remembering our conversation earlier in the day about preschool (where they MUST be potty-trained) starting in two weeks, he decidedly answered me.
"In two weeks."
"Well, why don't you go ahead and start pooping in the potty before then?"
"No. I poop in the potty in two weeks."
Dude, you better be right. Or it's going to be a looonnnnng year when you get kicked out of preschool.
Meanwhile, Jake slid by me to go pee in the potty. As he stood on his stool to pee, he looked over at Ben and became so intrigued by the unholy mess on Ben's bottom that he just gaped. Completely forgetting where he even was, Jake peed a Lake of Pee directly to the left of the toilet. It immediately began creeping over to where I was sitting with Ben.
Cleaning Ben up the best I could quickly, I sent them off to clean up the toys in their bedroom while I mopped up the floor. Finally ready to start their bath, I went to retrieve them from their room. And there they sat on Jake's clean sheets, two little not-so-clean bare bottoms.
I'm so tired of the poop.
Not suprisingly, the story is focused on Ben. In my mind and heart, I really try not to compare the boys, especially when it comes to this. It just makes me resentful toward Ben, and I don't want to do that. He can't help it that Jake figured it out first that wearing your poop is..... disgusting.
Ben dislikes the whole idea of pooping so much now that he procrastinates about it. He goes about every two days or so. When we know that it's been awhile and a poop is imminent, we brace ourselves. We used to constantly ask him if he needed to go, but we just kind of gave up. He won't tell us anyway. I know we're breaking all sort of potty-training rules, but this has been a war of attrition, and so far, he's winning.
So it was no surprise to me when he marched up from the basement this evening for bathtime and proudly announced, "I pooped in my underwear."
"You what?"
"I pooped in my underwear," he repeated, nodding his head for emphasis and smiling his evil little smile in pleasure. I nearly laughed but caught myself. To keep myself from getting furious, I tell myself that the poor child copes with his failure by using humor. I expressed my disappointment with zero response from Mr. Ben. Off to the bathroom.
It was pretty obvious that this was not a recent poo, and as I sat in the floor cleaning him up, I asked him exactly when he was going start pooping in the potty. Remembering our conversation earlier in the day about preschool (where they MUST be potty-trained) starting in two weeks, he decidedly answered me.
"In two weeks."
"Well, why don't you go ahead and start pooping in the potty before then?"
"No. I poop in the potty in two weeks."
Dude, you better be right. Or it's going to be a looonnnnng year when you get kicked out of preschool.
Meanwhile, Jake slid by me to go pee in the potty. As he stood on his stool to pee, he looked over at Ben and became so intrigued by the unholy mess on Ben's bottom that he just gaped. Completely forgetting where he even was, Jake peed a Lake of Pee directly to the left of the toilet. It immediately began creeping over to where I was sitting with Ben.
Cleaning Ben up the best I could quickly, I sent them off to clean up the toys in their bedroom while I mopped up the floor. Finally ready to start their bath, I went to retrieve them from their room. And there they sat on Jake's clean sheets, two little not-so-clean bare bottoms.
I'm so tired of the poop.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Lost
Note: I was chastised not at all subtley by mom this evening that I have not been blogging all my funny stories to the world in a timely enough manner. I was miffed briefly, but I conceded she was right. I need to realize that even though I'm exhausted and emotionally spent 95% of my day, people want to know about my life. Like any other celebrity, I have chosen this life in the spotlight.
I also want to mention that after hearing that some of you have tried to leave comments and could not, I've turned off the security feature for leaving comments-- hopefully that will solve the problem. If not, you'll just have to tell me how wonderful I am in person.
Anyway. Let's get on with the funniness.
Last week I was in the haze of horrible sinus pain that made me feel like my skull was going to burst into a million pieces. I was practically claustrophobic trying to escape the pain (I haven't yet determined what's been going on with my sinuses, but I'm starting to think it's my brain trying to implode when dealing with the boys). In this state of mind, I did what I always do when I'm not thinking clearly: I decided to embark upon a stupid adventure with the boys that I had no business undertaking. My mission: Go to Hobby Lobby (mecca for crafty people) and take a "quicker" backroads way home. With eyes practically crossing in pain, I studied the Google map carefully and loaded up the kids.
The actual shopping venture in Hobby Lobby is really another blog. Let me just throw out some keywords and I'll leave the rest to your imagination: no stroller or shopping cart, lots of breakable items, a bazillion kids crafts to choose from, total sensory overload, meltdown. There you have it. We stopped briefly afterward at Petland (did you know they have potties there?) and were on our way home.
I don't know if it was the nasal decongestant meds kicking in or I was just happy to survive Hobby Lobby, but I was pretty pleased with myself as we cruised the backroads home. I was just zipping along on Rt. 5 when I passed an intersection that gave me pause. Hmmmm... As drove further and further, I got that slightly sick feeling I might have missed a crucial turn. But I continued to drive, not wanting to let on that I was lost to two highly sensitive three-year-olds. Finally, I pulled over and pulled up my GPS location on my Blackberry. It just so happened that the place I pulled up to was a red warehouse that closely resembled the inflatable playground place that is the boys' #2 favorite place in the world (behind the bowling alley, of course). Convinced we had arrived at "The Jumping Place," the boys were inconsolable when they realized we were, in fact, just lost.
The concept of being lost, apparently, was something the boys previously only knew of in terms of Dora the Explorer. But now they were learning it happened in real life, too, and I could tell they weren't sure what to make of that, despite the fact that they see Mommy screw up on a daily basis. I studied the map, and convinced that Rt. 5 would eventually take me to Rt. 60, I pulled back on the road and stayed the course. Fifteen minutes later, I realized that Rt. 5 takes you to Rt. 60 alright, but it's Rt. 6o out in the freaking middle of nowhere. I had never seen this Rt. 60 before. Now I was nauseated. Several more wrong turns and stops later, I headed back to Where We Done Came From and took the turn all the way back at that stupid initial intersection, all the while fielding questions from the backseat about being lost. Within 15 minutes of that turn, we were pulling into our driveway. Praise the Lord. Lunch and naptime for everyone.
"Mommy, you know where you are now"? asked Jakey.
A few days later, we were getting ready to merge onto the interstate to head east. In his work vehicle, Hilton happened to be getting ready to merge west on the interstate. Jakey noticed this discrepancy in the direction.
"Mommy, are you lost?"
"No, Jakey, Mommy's not lost today. I know where I'm going. The other day I was lost."
"Yeah, you not that good a driver."
Thanks, Jake.
I also want to mention that after hearing that some of you have tried to leave comments and could not, I've turned off the security feature for leaving comments-- hopefully that will solve the problem. If not, you'll just have to tell me how wonderful I am in person.
Anyway. Let's get on with the funniness.
Last week I was in the haze of horrible sinus pain that made me feel like my skull was going to burst into a million pieces. I was practically claustrophobic trying to escape the pain (I haven't yet determined what's been going on with my sinuses, but I'm starting to think it's my brain trying to implode when dealing with the boys). In this state of mind, I did what I always do when I'm not thinking clearly: I decided to embark upon a stupid adventure with the boys that I had no business undertaking. My mission: Go to Hobby Lobby (mecca for crafty people) and take a "quicker" backroads way home. With eyes practically crossing in pain, I studied the Google map carefully and loaded up the kids.
The actual shopping venture in Hobby Lobby is really another blog. Let me just throw out some keywords and I'll leave the rest to your imagination: no stroller or shopping cart, lots of breakable items, a bazillion kids crafts to choose from, total sensory overload, meltdown. There you have it. We stopped briefly afterward at Petland (did you know they have potties there?) and were on our way home.
I don't know if it was the nasal decongestant meds kicking in or I was just happy to survive Hobby Lobby, but I was pretty pleased with myself as we cruised the backroads home. I was just zipping along on Rt. 5 when I passed an intersection that gave me pause. Hmmmm... As drove further and further, I got that slightly sick feeling I might have missed a crucial turn. But I continued to drive, not wanting to let on that I was lost to two highly sensitive three-year-olds. Finally, I pulled over and pulled up my GPS location on my Blackberry. It just so happened that the place I pulled up to was a red warehouse that closely resembled the inflatable playground place that is the boys' #2 favorite place in the world (behind the bowling alley, of course). Convinced we had arrived at "The Jumping Place," the boys were inconsolable when they realized we were, in fact, just lost.
The concept of being lost, apparently, was something the boys previously only knew of in terms of Dora the Explorer. But now they were learning it happened in real life, too, and I could tell they weren't sure what to make of that, despite the fact that they see Mommy screw up on a daily basis. I studied the map, and convinced that Rt. 5 would eventually take me to Rt. 60, I pulled back on the road and stayed the course. Fifteen minutes later, I realized that Rt. 5 takes you to Rt. 60 alright, but it's Rt. 6o out in the freaking middle of nowhere. I had never seen this Rt. 60 before. Now I was nauseated. Several more wrong turns and stops later, I headed back to Where We Done Came From and took the turn all the way back at that stupid initial intersection, all the while fielding questions from the backseat about being lost. Within 15 minutes of that turn, we were pulling into our driveway. Praise the Lord. Lunch and naptime for everyone.
"Mommy, you know where you are now"? asked Jakey.
"Yes, Jakey, I know where we are."
But it gets better.A few days later, we were getting ready to merge onto the interstate to head east. In his work vehicle, Hilton happened to be getting ready to merge west on the interstate. Jakey noticed this discrepancy in the direction.
"Mommy, are you lost?"
"No, Jakey, Mommy's not lost today. I know where I'm going. The other day I was lost."
"Yeah, you not that good a driver."
Thanks, Jake.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Only a three-year-old
Only a three-year-old could sit at the kitchen table, observe the dog emtpying her entire stomach on the floor right beside him, and continue to eat his peach oatmeal like a champ, simply letting me know that the dog had "spit her yuckies out on the floor."
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Eastern Kentucky
To those who don't already know it, we've moved back closer to home. And I use the term "closer to home" because it's really not "home," as we formally knew it. It's Eastern Kentucky. And I will say right off the bat that in no way do I want this blog to come off slamming EK.... it is what it is, and there are already parts of it I love. But I had no idea the difference in culture just across the river, and wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't lived it first. One of my friends put it best: you need a passport to come here.
For your amusement and information, here are a few facts about the area we are now calling home. It is all true.
- Extended families live clustered in neighborhoods. To get to each other's houses, they don't drive their cars and they don't walk. They use one of the following: golfcart, John Deere gator, four-wheeler, or dune buggy. Having a license to drive one of these is optional.
- Everyone knows everyone. Don't try to fight it. Don't be surprised. Just accept it.
- A riding lawn mower is not a luxury here. It is a necessity. Again, don't fight it. Just fork over your savings account.
- On the subject of mowers, lawns are generally mown every six days at minimum. Why? Because most everyone is retired and has nothing else to do (it's the truth!!).
- Talking is a passion here. People want to talk to you. It's wonderful, and at the same time, a game of attrition, wearing you down to the point where you throw up your hands in mercy, back away, and make a break for your garage.
- You live in the world of wildlife. They do not live in your world. Seeing your neighbor chase a herd of deer of his lawn with a newspaper at 6am is not an uncommon event. Neither is watching a doe carefully stand on her backlegs as she grabs apples from the lower branches of your apple trees.
- Neighborhood brush bonfires are welcome, accepted, and an excuse to gather and --what else-- talk.
- It's not safe to go out driving past dusk. Not because of the crime rate, but because of the 75% chance you will hit a deer.
- Walmart is a place for meeting up with friends and neighbors in the aisles and socializing.
- If you proceed to chainsaw down three huge trees in your frontyard, no one will give it a second thought, and you'll likely have a neighbor or two show up to hold the tree while you saw.
And specifically, in our household:
- Clean-platers are no longer rewarded with candy or cookies after dinner. They're given four-wheeler rides around the property by Daddy.
- Hanging out on our front porch in their underwear and t-shirts with the neighbor's family of cats is perfectly acceptable behavior for the boys in this neighborhood.
- Apple trees are not something we read about in books anymore. We pick off the apples, take bites, and practice our throwing techniques with the teeny ones.
I have to say, I deeply miss parts of our life in Lexington, and there are times I wish we were living right back in our old true "hometown," but life here surely has its own flavor, too.
All about the poo
This is a warning: If you have a weak stomach, are currently eating, or don't like to read about poop, stop reading now.
If you don't fall into any of those categories, game on. I've stories about poop.
I haven't posted for a long time about my Adventures in Potty-Training, because frankly, like many aspects of my life in the last six months (such as drying my hair, working out, and watching TV), it had taken a back seat to all that moving back home has entailed. But with their third birthday in July and a preschool potty-training deadline of Sept. 2 looming like the End of Days over me, I decided about a month ago that enough was enough. On went the underpants, for better or for worse. The first few days were pretty awful, and then a miracle happened. Literally. Over the course of a couple of weeks, Jake pretty much trained himself fully. Praise the Lord.
Ben, on the other hand... oh little Ben. Ben is pretty much pee-trained (never thought I'd use that term). Poop.... let's just say he'd happily walk around for hours with a huge wad of poo in his underwear and not care to tell anyone, letting the smell speak for itself. He doesn't lie about it, he's not really upset about it, and he honestly doesn't give a crap. Again, literally.
Now, if you've ever experienced the difference between changing a poo diaper versus soiled underpants, you know that you'd rather change 10 diapers versus taking on the underpants situation. It's horrid and messy and ridiculous and time-consuming. Every time it happens I try to convince Ben how much easier to be for him to just use the potty. He just smirks. What does he care?
So when I found myself in this situation in the doctor's office last week, I was horrified. Thank God Hilton was there to stay with Jake in the room while I escorted an unconcerned Ben to the bathroom. When I pulled down his pants, I nearly died. It was the poo of all poos. It couldn't have been one of those flip-and-dump poos. No, friends. It was mostly diarrhea, and it was everywhere. Wipe, dump, flush. Wipe, dump, flush. I had to lay the child on the public restroom floor. We even desecrated the inside of the potty bowl, requiring -- what else -- cleaning. After scrubbing out his underwear in the sink, I gave up, threw them in the trash, put a new pair on him and dragged Ben (still smiling) back to the room, where the room still stank.
But the adventures continue.
Last night, on one of my rare evenings alone doing bathtime anymore, Ben took a dump in his underpants right before bathtime. Whatever, no worries. It was also huge, but it wasn't messy, so I flipped it into the potty, flushed and turned around to do something else. As I busied myself, I could hear random chattering in the background. I tend to block out a lot of the chattering during my day because it is constant and if I listen closely to every single bit of it, I will truly lose my mind. But every once in a while something will stand out like voices through radio static, and my blood will run cold.
"Mommy, potty not working. Potty not flushing."
Excuse me?
Nope. Potty definitely not working. Potty stopped up with giant poo. I have to tell you, I was surprised, because just a few days beforehand while I was on the phone, Jake filled up the very same potty with half a roll of toilet paper, and it took it like a champ with no complaints. But now, all was not well with Mr. Potty. I had to search the house for a plunger (in the garage? Seriously?). Then came Learning to Use a Plunger 101, because I'll admit I'd never used one before.
"Mommy, what you doing? What you doing, Mommy?" Over and over and over.
Finally, it would flush. But let me tell you, that poo was not giving up. No sirree, it stuck to the bottom of the bowl like a glued-on poo-cake that was simply not going anywhere in a hurry. Clearly, I was going to have to wedge it out with something. Like the handle of the plunger.
I won't go any further there, because to do so would be wrong. However, I will say that after disinfecting the plunger and running the wretched thing down the hall to the garage, I returned to a bathroom that had been thoroughly soaked -- walls, floor, bathmat -- with water from the bathtub where two little terrors sat.
The end.
If you don't fall into any of those categories, game on. I've stories about poop.
I haven't posted for a long time about my Adventures in Potty-Training, because frankly, like many aspects of my life in the last six months (such as drying my hair, working out, and watching TV), it had taken a back seat to all that moving back home has entailed. But with their third birthday in July and a preschool potty-training deadline of Sept. 2 looming like the End of Days over me, I decided about a month ago that enough was enough. On went the underpants, for better or for worse. The first few days were pretty awful, and then a miracle happened. Literally. Over the course of a couple of weeks, Jake pretty much trained himself fully. Praise the Lord.
Ben, on the other hand... oh little Ben. Ben is pretty much pee-trained (never thought I'd use that term). Poop.... let's just say he'd happily walk around for hours with a huge wad of poo in his underwear and not care to tell anyone, letting the smell speak for itself. He doesn't lie about it, he's not really upset about it, and he honestly doesn't give a crap. Again, literally.
Now, if you've ever experienced the difference between changing a poo diaper versus soiled underpants, you know that you'd rather change 10 diapers versus taking on the underpants situation. It's horrid and messy and ridiculous and time-consuming. Every time it happens I try to convince Ben how much easier to be for him to just use the potty. He just smirks. What does he care?
So when I found myself in this situation in the doctor's office last week, I was horrified. Thank God Hilton was there to stay with Jake in the room while I escorted an unconcerned Ben to the bathroom. When I pulled down his pants, I nearly died. It was the poo of all poos. It couldn't have been one of those flip-and-dump poos. No, friends. It was mostly diarrhea, and it was everywhere. Wipe, dump, flush. Wipe, dump, flush. I had to lay the child on the public restroom floor. We even desecrated the inside of the potty bowl, requiring -- what else -- cleaning. After scrubbing out his underwear in the sink, I gave up, threw them in the trash, put a new pair on him and dragged Ben (still smiling) back to the room, where the room still stank.
But the adventures continue.
Last night, on one of my rare evenings alone doing bathtime anymore, Ben took a dump in his underpants right before bathtime. Whatever, no worries. It was also huge, but it wasn't messy, so I flipped it into the potty, flushed and turned around to do something else. As I busied myself, I could hear random chattering in the background. I tend to block out a lot of the chattering during my day because it is constant and if I listen closely to every single bit of it, I will truly lose my mind. But every once in a while something will stand out like voices through radio static, and my blood will run cold.
"Mommy, potty not working. Potty not flushing."
Excuse me?
Nope. Potty definitely not working. Potty stopped up with giant poo. I have to tell you, I was surprised, because just a few days beforehand while I was on the phone, Jake filled up the very same potty with half a roll of toilet paper, and it took it like a champ with no complaints. But now, all was not well with Mr. Potty. I had to search the house for a plunger (in the garage? Seriously?). Then came Learning to Use a Plunger 101, because I'll admit I'd never used one before.
"Mommy, what you doing? What you doing, Mommy?" Over and over and over.
Finally, it would flush. But let me tell you, that poo was not giving up. No sirree, it stuck to the bottom of the bowl like a glued-on poo-cake that was simply not going anywhere in a hurry. Clearly, I was going to have to wedge it out with something. Like the handle of the plunger.
I won't go any further there, because to do so would be wrong. However, I will say that after disinfecting the plunger and running the wretched thing down the hall to the garage, I returned to a bathroom that had been thoroughly soaked -- walls, floor, bathmat -- with water from the bathtub where two little terrors sat.
The end.
Just put me to bed
Yesterday coming home from the YMCA, we had to make the dreaded stop at Walmart for my monthly prescription needs. After getting my butt kicked my a brutal Zumba class, dragging two 3-year-olds ready for lunch and a nap into the hell that is the Walmart pharmacy was not my idea of a good time. I toyed with the idea of going out after naptime and decided to run it by the boys in the backseat.
"Boys, do you want to go to Walmart right now or after naptime?"
"Go to Walmart right now," replied Jake.
Ben pondered the question and I asked him again.
"No, I not want to go to Walmart. Just put me to bed," said Ben. "Just drop me off. I go to bed now."
Buddy, I know how you feel.
"Boys, do you want to go to Walmart right now or after naptime?"
"Go to Walmart right now," replied Jake.
Ben pondered the question and I asked him again.
"No, I not want to go to Walmart. Just put me to bed," said Ben. "Just drop me off. I go to bed now."
Buddy, I know how you feel.
I'm back (sort of)
I recently deleted my newly acquired Facebook account, as well as my longstanding Myspace account. It was, as I described it to a friend, a "life decision" for me. My husband had gently pointed out that I had no willpower when it came to resisting the temptation of nosing around what everyone else was doing under the disguise of seeing if anyone cared what I was doing... all the while somewhat being oblivious to what was going on in my "real" life while I was on the computer.
I protested. I denied. I sulked. At 11pm while trying to fall asleep, I realized he was right. Feeling a combination of sad, sheepish, and liberated, I deleted my accounts. I knew I had to be intentional about it. If the accounts were still open, I simply could not be responsible enough to not log in and fall into the trap again.... but fear not, reader. Before deleting, I saved my precious blogs. I've decided to revive them here.
I can't promise I'll blog regularly. For those who've followed the one on my myspace account, you know it's been a good five months or so. More on that in another blog. But for now, I'll just say that I can't do without having some sort of outlet available should I need it. My life is simply too ironic and humiliating and crazy to not share it with those who want to read.
So here I am. Let's see where this goes.
I protested. I denied. I sulked. At 11pm while trying to fall asleep, I realized he was right. Feeling a combination of sad, sheepish, and liberated, I deleted my accounts. I knew I had to be intentional about it. If the accounts were still open, I simply could not be responsible enough to not log in and fall into the trap again.... but fear not, reader. Before deleting, I saved my precious blogs. I've decided to revive them here.
I can't promise I'll blog regularly. For those who've followed the one on my myspace account, you know it's been a good five months or so. More on that in another blog. But for now, I'll just say that I can't do without having some sort of outlet available should I need it. My life is simply too ironic and humiliating and crazy to not share it with those who want to read.
So here I am. Let's see where this goes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)