Got Prunes?

For those of you who've noticed there's lately been a lack of poop blogs here, there's a reason for that (and for those of you who've actually missed the frequent poop blogs... you're disgusting).

I don't want to celebrate it too early, but I think it's nearly official: Ben is pretty close to becoming a certified Potty Pooper (not to be confused with Party Pooper, although he is proficient in this area, as well).

I've said it before, but it's not an exaggeration, and it bears repeating again. This is a miracle, folks. This is God at work, and I am not trying to be flip. There is no other reason. The child poops on the potty.... and all God's people said "Amen."

So hopefully the poopyness of this blog will wear off and there will be other funny things to write about (the thought of poop being the only funny thing in my life makes me want to eat a bottle of antidepressants). But until then.... a short poop story.

Ben has major constipation issues-- at one point he was telling us his poop was stuck "way up in his head." We've discovered that Miralax is just a wee bit too effective, but prunes... prunes are just the right amount of power. I don't know if you've ever seen a dried prune, but they're dark, sticky, squishy, and look just like turds. And the boys think they're delicious.

Needless to say, we let Ben eat as many of those nasty things as he wants, but we ration out Jake's carefully because... well, Jake doesn't need any help in the pooping department. We've learned our lesson that one per day is just about all he needs.

"Mommy, I want a prune," Jake pleaded with me.

"No, Jake, you've already had enough for today. You can't eat too many."

"Yeah.... I might poop all over myself," he reluctantly agreed, walking off.

Perhaps one day he'll be old and gray and able to eat as many prunes as his little heart desires.

Jesus 101

While Hilton's been out of town, the boys and I have been staying with Mom and Dad for the past few days. And during our stay, Mom has learned this truth regarding the boys and future presents for them stashed away in the house: unless it is hidden in a deep, dark corner or under lock and key, nothing is safe from them. Nothing. They practically have a radar for these sorts of things, and all they have to catch is a slight glimpse of the brightly-colored packaging of a child's toy, and it's all over.

So I've had to explain to them that yes, those are their toys, but we have to wait until Christmas to open them.

Christmas. Ah, yes, Christmas. Somehow I'd forgotten they are now at the age where they can comprehend things just enough to get myself stuck in conversations where there is no logical or good way out of it. Ben is the master of such conversations. Here's an example:

"What's what?"

"It's the sky, Ben."

"What you do with sky?"

I know it's mean, but I used to think he had the dumbest questions. Questions that made no sense whatsoever. But now I realize, he's just methodically following his ultimate plan to drive me insane.

But anyway, the Christmas presents..... to the boys, presents equal birthdays, and for the first time, they wanted to know just exactly whose birthday was on Christmas.

"Christmas is Jesus's birthday," I blurted out, never fathoming the consquences that would immediately be unleashed upon me with this innocent statement. We say our prayers to Jesus, read books about Jesus, sing songs about Jesus, go to church.... but as far as making any connections about him having a birthday that equaled presents for everybody.... we hadn't gotten that far yet (and to be honest, it's not really how I planned their first real idea of Jesus).

The following are just snippets of the verbal onslaught that ensued (all kids' dialogue should be read while imagining very loud and excited toddler voices).

After a brief, stunned silence, the first question came, not surprisingly, from Ben.

"Where did Jesus go?"

Well, that's a good one, I thought to myself. Here I am, all alone, and I have to answer this question of all questions.

"Well.... he's in heaven now," I stammered. "He's watching over you. But once he was a little baby, born in a barn. Remember the story we read? That was Jesus's birthday." There. I was shaken but glad that was over with.

"Jesus is a little baby," Ben proclaimed.

"No, Jesus used to be a little baby. Then he grew up to be a man, and now he's in heaven watching over you and Jake." The whole crucifixtion and resurrection concept was probably a little bit over their heads, I decided.

"No, he's a cute little baby," Ben retorted.

"Mommy, Jesus keep Ben and Jake safe from the sharks?" inquired Jake.


More Jesus drama followed upstairs after bathtime.

"Is Jesus downstairs?" asked Guess Who.

"No, Ben, he's in heaven, watching over you.

"Jesus in his house?"

My mind thought fast. Too fast.

"Well, Jesus's house is the church. All the churches are Jesus's houses."

That rocked his world for about two seconds. Then it was on again.

"Jesus has toys at his house? We play with them?"

And for the grand finale, this from Ben up in the loft, watching me downstairs getting their bedtime snack ready:

"Mommy, you go with Jesus!"

"Excuse me?"

"You go with Jesus! You go to my new house. You need some gloves to hop over the hills!" he ordered, hopping up and down for emphasis and gazing out the window into the woods.


At least he didn't tell me the other place to go.

Hang a right at the potties

Part of the joy of renovating an older home is building a collection of old items that accumulate in a dark corner of the basement. Things that are too nasty for anyone else to want and too unwieldly to simply throw in the trashcan.

Like old ceiling fans.

And sinks.

And.... toilets.

Back in Lexington, we never could have gotten away with sitting a potty out by the curb for the trashman to take away. First of all, we would have been cited by the homeowner's association within three hours. Second, the job of a trashman in Lexington has become so sophisticated and technologically savvy that they rarely exit the vehicle. They press a button and a huge arm reaches over, dump, and off it goes.

As you've probably guessed, pretty much anything goes here in good ole EK. So we were surprised when our set of old potties set by the road was rejected by our trashpeople today. Perhaps they were more civilized here than we thought. A call to the local sanitation department cleared that up. They'll certainly pick it up; however, the pick-up must be specifically scheduled.

But until then, a photo opportunity existed that I simply could not resist.

For your information, Jake was terrified of this proposition of sitting on a nasty old toilet in the front yard. I think the sentiment was more along the lines of I am embarrassed to call you my parents. That is, until a ride on the four-wheeler after bathtime was promised.

I can't make this stuff up.

Church music

Driving the boys to preschool today, I was just a teensy bit tired of listening to the childrens' music CDs that make me want to drive off the road. So I popped in a CD I'd made in my past life of some of my faves and started bopping along to the B-52s "Love Shack."

In my rearview mirror I caught Jakey nodding his head in tune to the music, waving his scrawny arms around a little.

"Mommy, I like this song," he said.

"You do?"

"Yeah, we sing this song at church." Head nodding and arm waving continues.


To cut poor Jake some slack, we've been trying out several different churches since moving to Eastern Kentucky... and honestly, he might be telling the truth.

Victory

This is going to be short and to the point.

Today, a miracle occurred at our house. A true miracle.

(make sure you're sitting down)



Ben pooped in the potty.

And there was much rejoicing.

All hail the poop.


(Just be glad I didn't take a photo and post it here, because I was thisclose.... and then as I went to get the camera, I said to myself, who am I that I am going to take a photo of poop and post it on the internet?).

You be the Judge

When I went to pick Ben and Jake up from preschool yesterday, the first thing one of the teachers did was ask me if we owned four dogs. Excuse me? Apparently they had been talking about dogs in class, and the boys informed everyone fairly convincingly that we owned four dogs. I set the teacher straight on exactly how many dogs we owned (one), and she just laughed hysterically and walked off.

Later that afternoon I tried to figure out exactly what the dialogue had been in preschool.

"Jake, Ben, how many dogs did you tell your preschool teacher we have?"

"Four dogs," Ben answered promptly.

Instant pandemonium ensued as both clamored for my attention, each trying to say the most outrageous thing. The following are the only sentences I actually understood.

"I have 69 dogs!" exclaimed Jake, a look of Beat that! on his face.

"I have LOTS OF MONEY!" countered Ben.

Now that was even more of a lie than the one about the dogs.

"Well, Ben, what are you going to do with all that money?" I asked.

"I go to the pet store, and I buy lots of puppy dogs and kitty cats and TURTLES!"

Don't we all wish life was that simple again? When what we said was what we truly believed? When what we dreamed of felt so close that in our hearts, it was already real?

Or maybe they're just a couple of pathological liars in the making.

Who knows?

All in an Evening's Work

I promise to you that I am not posting this blog to get your pity. I swear.

Over a week has passed since I survived what was a particularly dicey evening, even by my standards. I now feel like I can laugh about it, but at the time-- not so much.

It started with dinner plans that fell through soon after arriving home with groceries from Walmart, closely followed by my poor husband getting a rare migraine. Off to bed he went, and it was pretty much game on from that point onward. (By the way, I always remark that I never realize how loud the boys are until I take them out in public. As it turns out, the very same phenomenon happens to occur when someone in the house is suffering from a migraine).

Here's a timeline of the evening:

5:45pm Drag kids to the dinner table to eat. Attempt to scarf down food and simultaneously plead with them to eat theirs.
5:50pm Escort Jake to the potty to poop and clean up the mess that was his bottom.
5:55pm Sit back down and realize I'm not so hungry anymore.
5:56 Realize Jake is missing
5:57pm See Jake reappear in room and realize his underwear is full of diarrhea. Apparently he had unfinished business from his initial trip the potty. Undergo a lengthy cleaning and disinfecting process.
6:10pm Throw my dinner in the trash. Soon after give up the boys eating as well.
6:15pm Enter family room where boys are and catch a whiff of poo. Check both boys and determine Jake needs to be cleaned again.
6:23pm Hear husband (can't imagine what might have woken him) demand where the unholy stench is coming from. Search for poo ensues. Jake is once again dragged off for a thorough cleaning.
6:30pm Realize the culprit is Ben, who has been sitting on the couch on his flattened wad of poo. Drag him off for cleaning.
6:45pm Declare bathtime is beginning. As preparing bath vaguely hear Jake muttering about peeing on himself a little bit.
7:30pm Tell boys goodnight.
7:32pm Hear Jake requesting another trip to the bathroom. Again. Off to the potty, where Jake proceeds to have massive diarrhea.
7:40pm Tell boys goodnight. Again.
7:42pm Clean up the kitchen, playroom, and family room. Go to the laundry room to dump off dirty dishtowels and walk into a huge puddle. That would be the "little bit of pee" Jake was referring to earlier. Get on hands and knees to clean and disinfect floor.
7:50pm Sit down in family room with computer.
7:51pm Receive phone call from poor husband down the hall. Do we have any 7up and saltines? Of course we don't, but I'll run down the gas station right now and get some.


The above is a true story.

Recipe For Cheap Summer Fun

Take one unbearably hot afternoon

Add two whining bored children

Fill one large bucket with water

Dump in a ridiculous amount of dishsoap

Provide two pair of husband's old underwear

Grab a camera, stand back at a safe distance, and be prepared for the neighbors' reactions

Enjoy

I told you we were getting redneck living here.