10) There are M&M's in the freezer for more than one day. (I've made the error of preemptively consuming the prize when in the midst of potty training and boy does that conversation with the toddler go down hill fast). This is chocolate I am not even VAGUELY tempted to eat.
9) Endzone dances after success are allowed, though I try to shorten them. It's quite a treat to hear "I did it. I did it. Yeah Oh Yeah Oh Yeah!" through the bathroom door.
8) She says after one accident, "I want to quit." and you have to summon your inner "Nothing is over until we say it's over" motivational speech.
7) Every errand gets weighed based on how long you will be out, and whether there is an acceptable bathroom available for emergency needs. The answer is always no. Stay home.
6) You offer the equivalent of The Price is Right Showcase Showdown for said child to be okay with going to a bathroom away from home. The answer is always no. And then a demand for payment.
5) Any dreams of reducing the budget by the cost of a case of diapers is drowned by the need to perpetually purchase new five packs of underoos for the weeks of training.
4) The scream, "I need to go." heard anywhere in the house leads to instant racing to get said child to the facilities. Anyone attempting to usurp the favored bathroom of the potty trainee, shall be evicted without mercy.
3) Diaper bags are back with a vengeance. They include an entire new ensemble for the potty training child, and a spare set of pants for Mom just in case said potty training toddler was sitting on her lap at the time.
2) Every other kid who hoped to cash in on training the child to use the bathroom steps forward to claim credit.
1) You haven't left the house in 8 days and may be suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency in addition to a loss of sanity, as you say to your daughter with a straight face, "Do you want your Frozen (TM) underwear?" and only afterwards think about what that could mean.
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Showing posts with label potty training. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Friday, January 23, 2015
Back to Comedy
Today's piece is over at Eat Sleep Write, but my original source material may be finally maturing such that these sorts of gems may become a thing of the past. That's right, Day 4 of a 4 year old potty training, and now, Mr. Paul is showing signs that diapers may finally get off the grocery list. It may be premature but I'll celebrate anyway!
Yes. 1000 people singing Ode to Joy is not too over the top. I've been diapering kiddos without a break since 1993.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Not Yet Trained
For my sister and me...
Potty training isn't simply a skill, it's the first time as parent, you impose a demand on your kiddo across the board and the only way victory is achieved, is when they comply and oblige every time without fail. It is for many children if not most, the first time they hit the non negotiable wall. That surrender and discipline is for many, a hard truth that takes a long time to accept. But maybe I just raise stubborn children.
I started thinking about the places I struggle with my children, bedtimes, homework, potty training, practicing music, for some, reading, for many, vegetables, getting up, getting dressed, accepting criticism about choices, or suggestions they should be reading. I had to wonder if my whole parenting technique is the issue, not the issues themselves, as all of them are struggles between what I know they need to do and what they want.
Yesterday, I felt the pain looking at my almost six year old son not being potty trained. He starts special kindergarten this year. Up until now, there's always been the glimmer of hope that we would get there before school. But school starts next week, and while he will sit and has at least on three occasions, successfully used the facilities, it is not something he seeks. Perhaps we should push harder, but it is hard to know. My youngest daughter is 3 1/2. She also isn't potty trained, but she knows what's up and has begun naming her terms. So far, they include a red cake just like the one she had for her 3rd birthday, and a t-shirt with an owl on it that shines and lights up the sky. I don't know how she came up with that image, but I'm on the hunt for it. For my own sanity, I've adopted the Catholic church perspective. I constantly propose, I do not impose. Here's hoping one day, they embrace the suggestion to go to the bathroom.
Regardless of the age, children think they want endless time, endless activity, endless leisure, (but they don't really). Children think they want to stay up forever. They don't. They think they want cotton candy at the fair, but find it sticky and oddly without any taste, as they chew on it hoping for some taste that isn't there. The more they eat, the more dissatisfied they become with the experience, and yet they ask for more. Sometimes, the art of parenting is letting them try imposing their will and discovering it's not for them, and other times, we get the job of holding firm no matter what. They think they don't want to read books or learn a new skill, but the triumph in their eyes when they do, tells me otherwise.
When you're a parent of many, the question is always, which situation is this? I can let the 15 year old bike to the Sports Authority to shop, but not the 10 year old to the McDonald's. The three oldest can watch this movie, the others cannot. She can handle an extra activity. He can't. She needs to be put in honors classes and pushed. This other one needs to be held back, given the opportunity to be the age she is and not the age her older sister is. It's a constant juggling, is this when I push? Is this when I pull? Is this when I talk? Is this when I listen? Is this when I draw a line and hold firm? Is it time to be disciplined or the time to be flexible? It changes from situation to situation, child to child, moment to moment. For me, all of parenting is learning to surrender, my priorities for theirs, my time for theirs, and to give them my judgment, my time, and my efforts and to do all of it without hesitation and with full joy even when it is a total pain. (Like potty training, teaching driving, and running extra errands because of the demands of an extra curricular activity).
The only thing that doesn't change is the need to pray through it. Or pray after it because I didn't pray through it. And I realize, I'm not yet parent trained, or surrendering and submitting and serving wouldn't still be a constant battle within my head to know what to do and will to do it. God keeps asking me to things He knows would make me healthier and happier and holier, and He's having no more luck with me than I am with my own toddlers.
We are a stubborn and stiff necked people. But we are also a people of hope, so maybe today will be the day we harden not our hearts and miracles happen.
Potty training isn't simply a skill, it's the first time as parent, you impose a demand on your kiddo across the board and the only way victory is achieved, is when they comply and oblige every time without fail. It is for many children if not most, the first time they hit the non negotiable wall. That surrender and discipline is for many, a hard truth that takes a long time to accept. But maybe I just raise stubborn children.
I started thinking about the places I struggle with my children, bedtimes, homework, potty training, practicing music, for some, reading, for many, vegetables, getting up, getting dressed, accepting criticism about choices, or suggestions they should be reading. I had to wonder if my whole parenting technique is the issue, not the issues themselves, as all of them are struggles between what I know they need to do and what they want.
Yesterday, I felt the pain looking at my almost six year old son not being potty trained. He starts special kindergarten this year. Up until now, there's always been the glimmer of hope that we would get there before school. But school starts next week, and while he will sit and has at least on three occasions, successfully used the facilities, it is not something he seeks. Perhaps we should push harder, but it is hard to know. My youngest daughter is 3 1/2. She also isn't potty trained, but she knows what's up and has begun naming her terms. So far, they include a red cake just like the one she had for her 3rd birthday, and a t-shirt with an owl on it that shines and lights up the sky. I don't know how she came up with that image, but I'm on the hunt for it. For my own sanity, I've adopted the Catholic church perspective. I constantly propose, I do not impose. Here's hoping one day, they embrace the suggestion to go to the bathroom.
Regardless of the age, children think they want endless time, endless activity, endless leisure, (but they don't really). Children think they want to stay up forever. They don't. They think they want cotton candy at the fair, but find it sticky and oddly without any taste, as they chew on it hoping for some taste that isn't there. The more they eat, the more dissatisfied they become with the experience, and yet they ask for more. Sometimes, the art of parenting is letting them try imposing their will and discovering it's not for them, and other times, we get the job of holding firm no matter what. They think they don't want to read books or learn a new skill, but the triumph in their eyes when they do, tells me otherwise.
When you're a parent of many, the question is always, which situation is this? I can let the 15 year old bike to the Sports Authority to shop, but not the 10 year old to the McDonald's. The three oldest can watch this movie, the others cannot. She can handle an extra activity. He can't. She needs to be put in honors classes and pushed. This other one needs to be held back, given the opportunity to be the age she is and not the age her older sister is. It's a constant juggling, is this when I push? Is this when I pull? Is this when I talk? Is this when I listen? Is this when I draw a line and hold firm? Is it time to be disciplined or the time to be flexible? It changes from situation to situation, child to child, moment to moment. For me, all of parenting is learning to surrender, my priorities for theirs, my time for theirs, and to give them my judgment, my time, and my efforts and to do all of it without hesitation and with full joy even when it is a total pain. (Like potty training, teaching driving, and running extra errands because of the demands of an extra curricular activity).
The only thing that doesn't change is the need to pray through it. Or pray after it because I didn't pray through it. And I realize, I'm not yet parent trained, or surrendering and submitting and serving wouldn't still be a constant battle within my head to know what to do and will to do it. God keeps asking me to things He knows would make me healthier and happier and holier, and He's having no more luck with me than I am with my own toddlers.
We are a stubborn and stiff necked people. But we are also a people of hope, so maybe today will be the day we harden not our hearts and miracles happen.
Friday, February 7, 2014
The Potty Wars: Episodes IX and X The Never Ending Story
Even with 2 decades of parenting under my belt, I remain a mere Padawan
about the means by which one housebreaks a toddler. Somehow, eight of them
mastered the basics of personal hygiene despite my best efforts. The problem of
getting non rational beings to control their bladders and bowels rest squarely
in the arena of getting them to take their first step into a larger universe,
but I seem to have only birthed Han Solos.
Yesterday, my older of the youngest two, had unsolicited victory. Twice. Once at his pre-school, once at home. I thought, "This is it! He's got it!" "We got lucky." my husband posited, "it's the only explanation for the ease of this experience." I shook my head, "You call that easy?" We've been at this for years. Foolish woman that I am, (and yes, ever hopeful), I went out immediately and purchased Starwars 4T underwear and boy pull-ups for the young Jedi. I hoped to prove to their father the power of this fully operational toddler.
Daringly (and proof I've yet to learn squat about squatters squatting in my two decades of managing minors), I acquired Hello Kitty panties and pink psuedo diapers for my three year old daughter as well. Lastly, I grabbed a bag of M&M's as a reward for successes. I didn't hear Admiral Ackbar's warning, "It's a trap!"
My son liked his underwear. But he wasn't in it for the revolution or for me, he was in it for the candy and equated it with peeing and not where you pee. So much so, we went through the whole 7 pack of underoos in about three hours. I put him in pull ups, determined not to lose ground. All I lost was my patience and a few overpriced disposable nappies to his happy kidneys. I found him in the kitchen later, having sweet talked an older sister into breaking out the candy for a snack. "This is for toilet training! These are not the snacks you're looking for, move along!" I explained. My expression must have given a signal of scary Darth Maul Mom, as she immediately put the treat back and muttered something about having to do homework before vanishing to her room. My son just looked at me with his sweet blue eyes and ecstatic smile as he revealed the chocolate had indeed melted in his mouth.
But, I thought, there's always "Sister." and went to introduce her to the new world order. My daughter has always been something of an imperial soul. Despite being the youngest of a large horde of people, she commands attention and her words are often treated as law. She finds their lack of obedience disturbing. She owns two stuffed kittens owing to her expressing a love of felines. I thought Hello Kitty the perfect segway to bring her out of the diaper set and into the toilet trained. I forgot that like the creatures she favors, she remains forever aloof and fickle. Seeing my intent, she put her hand out and said, "Stop. No. I don't want Hello Kitty. No Kitties. No underwear." She brought me a diaper. "Maybe we could try it later?" I offered. "No. Never." she announced, but I heard, "You're far too trusting." and something akin to "I'll never join you. Never!"
So now I sit with a pile full of unused underwear tucked in her drawer, hoping one day she'll reconsider her edict, and a pile of dirty laundry proving my perpetual hope against experience. Teaching them the ways of the force would require I "let go." In the meantime, I remain at the beck and call of two undomesticated ewoks.
Cursing my internal Yoda, I took the load to the wash and did the only thing I could do, hope that one day my young apprentice would one day be a master, eat the M&Ms and pray the sequels to this episode would be less painful, but come soon.
Yesterday, my older of the youngest two, had unsolicited victory. Twice. Once at his pre-school, once at home. I thought, "This is it! He's got it!" "We got lucky." my husband posited, "it's the only explanation for the ease of this experience." I shook my head, "You call that easy?" We've been at this for years. Foolish woman that I am, (and yes, ever hopeful), I went out immediately and purchased Starwars 4T underwear and boy pull-ups for the young Jedi. I hoped to prove to their father the power of this fully operational toddler.
Daringly (and proof I've yet to learn squat about squatters squatting in my two decades of managing minors), I acquired Hello Kitty panties and pink psuedo diapers for my three year old daughter as well. Lastly, I grabbed a bag of M&M's as a reward for successes. I didn't hear Admiral Ackbar's warning, "It's a trap!"
My son liked his underwear. But he wasn't in it for the revolution or for me, he was in it for the candy and equated it with peeing and not where you pee. So much so, we went through the whole 7 pack of underoos in about three hours. I put him in pull ups, determined not to lose ground. All I lost was my patience and a few overpriced disposable nappies to his happy kidneys. I found him in the kitchen later, having sweet talked an older sister into breaking out the candy for a snack. "This is for toilet training! These are not the snacks you're looking for, move along!" I explained. My expression must have given a signal of scary Darth Maul Mom, as she immediately put the treat back and muttered something about having to do homework before vanishing to her room. My son just looked at me with his sweet blue eyes and ecstatic smile as he revealed the chocolate had indeed melted in his mouth.
But, I thought, there's always "Sister." and went to introduce her to the new world order. My daughter has always been something of an imperial soul. Despite being the youngest of a large horde of people, she commands attention and her words are often treated as law. She finds their lack of obedience disturbing. She owns two stuffed kittens owing to her expressing a love of felines. I thought Hello Kitty the perfect segway to bring her out of the diaper set and into the toilet trained. I forgot that like the creatures she favors, she remains forever aloof and fickle. Seeing my intent, she put her hand out and said, "Stop. No. I don't want Hello Kitty. No Kitties. No underwear." She brought me a diaper. "Maybe we could try it later?" I offered. "No. Never." she announced, but I heard, "You're far too trusting." and something akin to "I'll never join you. Never!"
So now I sit with a pile full of unused underwear tucked in her drawer, hoping one day she'll reconsider her edict, and a pile of dirty laundry proving my perpetual hope against experience. Teaching them the ways of the force would require I "let go." In the meantime, I remain at the beck and call of two undomesticated ewoks.
Cursing my internal Yoda, I took the load to the wash and did the only thing I could do, hope that one day my young apprentice would one day be a master, eat the M&Ms and pray the sequels to this episode would be less painful, but come soon.
__________________
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Ten Signs You're a Potty Training Parent
10) You have accidentally washed a Pull-up in the laundry. (You don't have to raise your hands but I know you did it).
9) All errands are plotted according to their proximity to friendly retailers who will allow you to pull an emergency pit stop.
8) Bedtime sans protective gear is a form of parent roulette.
7) Rock Paper Scissors is a spousal approved method of doing the morning wake and check run. Hint, brush up on the tips to win here.
6) You begin daydreaming about what you will do with that extra 20$ per week.
5) M&M's are consumed at a much slower pace than the norm.
4) 45 minutes are added into all routines for repeated false starts.
3) The debate of "Just diaper him this time" vs. "We'll set him back by months" takes on a religious overtone, between the liberal (I don't want to have this happen in public) and conservative (I don't want to start over). For best results, try Rock Paper Scissors.*
*If you win the initial bet, but are proven wrong in the aftermath, i.e. the kid wets in public or ceases potty training altogether, having won the initial R-P-S trial does not immunize you from "I told you so" harangues by the loser of said R-P-S trial.
2) Expect a panic attack when the diaper box is empty. Purchase one more box for those "Just in Case" moments which like insurance, you hope you never use, and also like insurance, will need desperately if you don't own already.
1) Victory for you will be greater than for said child, but resist the urge to Facebook, blog or tweet about such matters. We've only just begun to recognize the Internet has a long memory, and not discussing when little Johnny learned to use the bathroom will probably lead to easier teenager years.
9) All errands are plotted according to their proximity to friendly retailers who will allow you to pull an emergency pit stop.
8) Bedtime sans protective gear is a form of parent roulette.
7) Rock Paper Scissors is a spousal approved method of doing the morning wake and check run. Hint, brush up on the tips to win here.
6) You begin daydreaming about what you will do with that extra 20$ per week.
5) M&M's are consumed at a much slower pace than the norm.
4) 45 minutes are added into all routines for repeated false starts.
3) The debate of "Just diaper him this time" vs. "We'll set him back by months" takes on a religious overtone, between the liberal (I don't want to have this happen in public) and conservative (I don't want to start over). For best results, try Rock Paper Scissors.*
*If you win the initial bet, but are proven wrong in the aftermath, i.e. the kid wets in public or ceases potty training altogether, having won the initial R-P-S trial does not immunize you from "I told you so" harangues by the loser of said R-P-S trial.
2) Expect a panic attack when the diaper box is empty. Purchase one more box for those "Just in Case" moments which like insurance, you hope you never use, and also like insurance, will need desperately if you don't own already.
1) Victory for you will be greater than for said child, but resist the urge to Facebook, blog or tweet about such matters. We've only just begun to recognize the Internet has a long memory, and not discussing when little Johnny learned to use the bathroom will probably lead to easier teenager years.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Ask and Ye Shall Receive...
Friday, I'd had it. I posted my little note about pottying and decided "No More."
I put her in underwear and vowed we'd be cloistered until she showed we could go out in public.
Four hours into the day and two accidents later, my mother called and told me she'd been to adoration and prayed for each of my children, but added a special petition for my soon to be 4 year old. We were still waiting for our first success. My will was close to breaking.
To distract myself, I picked up a book I'd been reading, Peter Kreeft's "Catholic Christianity" The chapter on the Our Father is particularly fine and as I read two sentences in particular. "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of." and "If God let us see all the difference every one of our prayers made, througout all of history and all of humanity, we probably would be unable to ever get up off our knees again," my daughter called out urgently, "MOM!"
I went to her summons. She was in the bathroom and the first success documented as true, had a witness. I'd banned McDonald's until she was potty trained and two weeks into the ban her sister had attempted to secretly substitue her own (ahem) sample for her sister to get Mom to drive to Mickey D's for some happy meals. But this time, there was no mistaking that smile of ownership. Cue Music!
I put her in underwear and vowed we'd be cloistered until she showed we could go out in public.
Four hours into the day and two accidents later, my mother called and told me she'd been to adoration and prayed for each of my children, but added a special petition for my soon to be 4 year old. We were still waiting for our first success. My will was close to breaking.
To distract myself, I picked up a book I'd been reading, Peter Kreeft's "Catholic Christianity" The chapter on the Our Father is particularly fine and as I read two sentences in particular. "More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of." and "If God let us see all the difference every one of our prayers made, througout all of history and all of humanity, we probably would be unable to ever get up off our knees again," my daughter called out urgently, "MOM!"
I went to her summons. She was in the bathroom and the first success documented as true, had a witness. I'd banned McDonald's until she was potty trained and two weeks into the ban her sister had attempted to secretly substitue her own (ahem) sample for her sister to get Mom to drive to Mickey D's for some happy meals. But this time, there was no mistaking that smile of ownership. Cue Music!
I called my mom. "Why haven't you asked before????" I asked. She said she had.
But it was still a reminder, All things, great and small....
P.S. Told my sister. She began singing Handel, inspired this post.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Everything Old is New Again
POTTY WARS ADDENDUM...from 2007
It's not going well.
Indisposed, daughter (who is two), knocks. "Don't come in!" I urge. She opens the door and very gently puts down a box of baby wipes. "Here you go Mom." She says and walks away.
It's really not going well.
Me: You should use the potty J.
"No Mom."
Me: Why not?
"Then I'll get my beautiful potty all dirty."
It's not going well at all.
At the grocery store, "We need diapers Mom! Don't forget diapers Mom."
Nice lady listening: "Don't you want to be a big boy and use underwear and go to school?" I nod my head eagerly in agreement.
"NO. Then I'd have to leave Mom alone with the baby!"
Mind you, this gent potty trained 3 days before he became 4 because I told him it was illegal to celebrate his 4th birthday if he Wasn't potty trained ---he never used a diaper or had an accident from that point forward, not once. No....I know I may be spending time in purgatory for this one but I still am not sorry.
Fast Forward to 2011, 45 days until she turns 4...
She is watching Dora. Dora is currently the spokeswoman for the Potty Dance, a movement (if you will) to help parents with persuading their toddler set to use the facilities. The commercial came on and cued by the reminder, her father asked, "Don't you want to do the potty dance?"
She curled up in the fetal position. She didn't say it but I believe her body language said, "Et Tu Dora?"
It's not going well.
Indisposed, daughter (who is two), knocks. "Don't come in!" I urge. She opens the door and very gently puts down a box of baby wipes. "Here you go Mom." She says and walks away.
It's really not going well.
Me: You should use the potty J.
"No Mom."
Me: Why not?
"Then I'll get my beautiful potty all dirty."
It's not going well at all.
At the grocery store, "We need diapers Mom! Don't forget diapers Mom."
Nice lady listening: "Don't you want to be a big boy and use underwear and go to school?" I nod my head eagerly in agreement.
"NO. Then I'd have to leave Mom alone with the baby!"
Mind you, this gent potty trained 3 days before he became 4 because I told him it was illegal to celebrate his 4th birthday if he Wasn't potty trained ---he never used a diaper or had an accident from that point forward, not once. No....I know I may be spending time in purgatory for this one but I still am not sorry.
Fast Forward to 2011, 45 days until she turns 4...
She is watching Dora. Dora is currently the spokeswoman for the Potty Dance, a movement (if you will) to help parents with persuading their toddler set to use the facilities. The commercial came on and cued by the reminder, her father asked, "Don't you want to do the potty dance?"
She curled up in the fetal position. She didn't say it but I believe her body language said, "Et Tu Dora?"
Friday, February 25, 2011
Graceful States and Less So of Potty Training
I'm beginning to wish my daughter had less of a sterling character. She is closing in on 4 (two months away) and has shown no willingness whatsoever to be bribed into potty training. She maintains her integrity and her diaper.
"You can have a new bike."
"I have one." She points to her hand me down bike. It's true. She has a ride and thus is not covetous of more or so vain as to desire exclusivity of her wheels.
"You can earn M&m's." I thought I had her as she is a chocolate fiend like her mother. Alas, she is also resourceful and has mastered at the age of 3 3/4 how to open a ziplock bag of mini chocolate chips and help herself, and how to sweet talk siblings into sharing cookies, candy, ice cream and thus my quarantine on chocolatey goodness is much harder to enforce than one might imagine.
Modeling is supposed to be a good motivator for kids. "Hey Gina, if you went potty, you could go to school like a big kid, like your sister." Her sister pulls out her backpack and showcases her pencil case complete with bright colors and markers. "No thanks." and she goes to the art bin and takes out the broken bits, inspired to create a masterpiece herself without the strings attached of wearing underwear.
So I tried to motivate her through sibling rivalry. "Hey Paul!"(Paul is two). "Do you want to potty train?" He nods his head "Yes." with a smile. We'll make a go of it with him because of that, but his older sister who I hoped to inspire to action, hugged her brother and said, "That's great Paul! You can go first."
Lures of Greed, Gluttony, Envy and Pride have not been successful. I'm not sure how I could tempt her with Sloth, Wrath or Lust. I consulted scripture and paraphrased, "You may do all that you want in this house except use the potty."
"Ok." She responded.
Guess I'll be stuck in this diaper Eden a bit longer. All I know is whatever bite of the tree of knowledge I got, didn't include potty training. Lord, I wish this wasn't a completely true story.
"You can have a new bike."
"I have one." She points to her hand me down bike. It's true. She has a ride and thus is not covetous of more or so vain as to desire exclusivity of her wheels.
"You can earn M&m's." I thought I had her as she is a chocolate fiend like her mother. Alas, she is also resourceful and has mastered at the age of 3 3/4 how to open a ziplock bag of mini chocolate chips and help herself, and how to sweet talk siblings into sharing cookies, candy, ice cream and thus my quarantine on chocolatey goodness is much harder to enforce than one might imagine.
Modeling is supposed to be a good motivator for kids. "Hey Gina, if you went potty, you could go to school like a big kid, like your sister." Her sister pulls out her backpack and showcases her pencil case complete with bright colors and markers. "No thanks." and she goes to the art bin and takes out the broken bits, inspired to create a masterpiece herself without the strings attached of wearing underwear.
So I tried to motivate her through sibling rivalry. "Hey Paul!"(Paul is two). "Do you want to potty train?" He nods his head "Yes." with a smile. We'll make a go of it with him because of that, but his older sister who I hoped to inspire to action, hugged her brother and said, "That's great Paul! You can go first."
Lures of Greed, Gluttony, Envy and Pride have not been successful. I'm not sure how I could tempt her with Sloth, Wrath or Lust. I consulted scripture and paraphrased, "You may do all that you want in this house except use the potty."
"Ok." She responded.
Guess I'll be stuck in this diaper Eden a bit longer. All I know is whatever bite of the tree of knowledge I got, didn't include potty training. Lord, I wish this wasn't a completely true story.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Small Success Thursday
1) I started taking on the basement. I'm only allowing myself to work on it for an hour at a time, but the slow progress is bearing fruit. Trust me, it still is a pit of despair, but now, it's only mild despair and I'm feeling hopeful that we can reach the pit of mere dull disorder or mild chaos soon.
2) I wrote a bit more than I thought, and submitted a piece. It had been a while since I'd felt able to do that; for some reason, the will to finish a piece and send it out for acceptance or rejection had been low.
3) Started working on potty training again with my daughter. She's not terribly interested, but we're going to keep presenting the opportunity.
4) Booked flights for my son to visit three separate colleges. Now, he's excited and working on the college aps. Yeah!
5) Youngest son said, "Go." today while playing with a Thomas the Tank Engine and track. He is a very useful engine indeed.
6) Diabetic sugars seem to be in control.
7) Remembered to call a friend when things got draggy. (I just don't pick up the phone as a matter of habit).
2) I wrote a bit more than I thought, and submitted a piece. It had been a while since I'd felt able to do that; for some reason, the will to finish a piece and send it out for acceptance or rejection had been low.
3) Started working on potty training again with my daughter. She's not terribly interested, but we're going to keep presenting the opportunity.
4) Booked flights for my son to visit three separate colleges. Now, he's excited and working on the college aps. Yeah!
5) Youngest son said, "Go." today while playing with a Thomas the Tank Engine and track. He is a very useful engine indeed.
6) Diabetic sugars seem to be in control.
7) Remembered to call a friend when things got draggy. (I just don't pick up the phone as a matter of habit).
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Three Year Old Thinking
I took my daughter to the bathroom this morning. We have been working on potty training, meaning I keep taking her and she keeps looking at me like "Okay if that's what you want to do."
Today, I started our routine and after I sat her down, she looked at me for a moment and said, "I need you to leave Mom."
"Oh!" I could barely stop beaming at the idea, "You mean you want me to go so you can have privacy?" I asked.
"No." She looked puzzled as that thought had not occurred to her, "I need you to go get my chocolate."
That's MY girl.
Today, I started our routine and after I sat her down, she looked at me for a moment and said, "I need you to leave Mom."
"Oh!" I could barely stop beaming at the idea, "You mean you want me to go so you can have privacy?" I asked.
"No." She looked puzzled as that thought had not occurred to her, "I need you to go get my chocolate."
That's MY girl.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Some Heresy is in the Eyes of the Beholder
This isn't what you think. I haven't plunged into a gnostic or relativistic way of being. I've merely learned what constitutes gospel to a three year old. Like most heretics, I learned by running afoul of her professed orthodoxy. My daughter loves Dora the Explorer and I have promoted and enabled this love via daily showings when I want a few minutes off to make a list and gather my thoughts for the day.
This morning she was holding a stuffed musical monkey before her baby brother and saying, "Ariba up, Abaho down" as she illustrated. I mused about whether or not we needed to cut her off from central supply or at least Nick Jr. for a while since I knew she had memorized a serious number of songs. But I let it slide. She's three and she loves it; and given that this little girl was once so silent we arranged for speech, I did not want to crush her love.
Now as any parent knows, if you want a toddler to do something, you must play the game "Guess my motivation." and I thought I'd come up with a winner to pair what she liked with what I wanted. "What could be better?" I thought. We already had the Dora the Explorer Potty Ring, I could sing a little Dora the Explorer song about the map to the bathroom and sing, "When you know you gotta go, there's a place that you should know..." and I could even work in Swiper about hand washing if I wanted to; it was perfect! I made my pitch to begin potty training. "Hey Gina! If you get potty trained like Dora, you can have some Dora the Explorer pull ups and underwear! Wouldn't that be great?"
That time around 11:30 yesterday morning, when you gritted your teeth but didn't know why? That was the beginning of her response. A deep breath. A long wail followed by a deeper breath. "DORA...ISN'T...POTTY...TRAINED!" She bit her teeth in between each word. Tears streamed. I was in partial shock as she balled her hands into fists and stomped, approaching me with barely contained three year old hulk smash fury. "NO POTTY TRAINING! NOT DORA! DORA ISN'T POTTY TRAINED! SHE NOT! SHE'S NOT! SHE'S NOT! SHE...DOESN'T...EVEN...GO...TO...THE...BATHROOM!"
My four year old attempted damage control in a surprisingly rational manner. "Gina, Dora HAS to be potty trained. She's on underwear and pull-ups. She doesn't wear diapers on TV. And, I have Dora underwear." For her the matter was settled. This second undermining of my daughter's world was more than she could bear. She ran into her room and shut the door.
Mom pursued. Okay, I did call my mom who assured me, "You'll think of something."
"Gina?" I put on my solicitous mom voice. "Gina?"
She gave me a suspicious look like "you aren't going to proselytize that potty training lie again are you?" She had her thumb poised just outside her closed pouty mouth as if to have it on call in case of further emergency.
"Gina, I want you to listen to me." I prayed I'd have the right pitch to get through the next three minutes without causing further despair or permanent damage. "Gina, Dora wasn't Always potty trained. She used diapers and then pull ups and then underwear and she wants you to do the same thing. Just like Dora did." She put down her thumb and looked into my eyes. Her face was still streaked with tears but she gave a slight nod that my explanation was at the very least, acceptable. A few hugs and all was right as rain until we came down the stairs. She handed me the remote and asked for a bit of TV.
"What are we watching?" my other daughter asked?
I scrolled through the offerings. "Max and Ruby kids." I announced, and peace reigned....for now.
'
This morning she was holding a stuffed musical monkey before her baby brother and saying, "Ariba up, Abaho down" as she illustrated. I mused about whether or not we needed to cut her off from central supply or at least Nick Jr. for a while since I knew she had memorized a serious number of songs. But I let it slide. She's three and she loves it; and given that this little girl was once so silent we arranged for speech, I did not want to crush her love.
Now as any parent knows, if you want a toddler to do something, you must play the game "Guess my motivation." and I thought I'd come up with a winner to pair what she liked with what I wanted. "What could be better?" I thought. We already had the Dora the Explorer Potty Ring, I could sing a little Dora the Explorer song about the map to the bathroom and sing, "When you know you gotta go, there's a place that you should know..." and I could even work in Swiper about hand washing if I wanted to; it was perfect! I made my pitch to begin potty training. "Hey Gina! If you get potty trained like Dora, you can have some Dora the Explorer pull ups and underwear! Wouldn't that be great?"
That time around 11:30 yesterday morning, when you gritted your teeth but didn't know why? That was the beginning of her response. A deep breath. A long wail followed by a deeper breath. "DORA...ISN'T...POTTY...TRAINED!" She bit her teeth in between each word. Tears streamed. I was in partial shock as she balled her hands into fists and stomped, approaching me with barely contained three year old hulk smash fury. "NO POTTY TRAINING! NOT DORA! DORA ISN'T POTTY TRAINED! SHE NOT! SHE'S NOT! SHE'S NOT! SHE...DOESN'T...EVEN...GO...TO...THE...BATHROOM!"
My four year old attempted damage control in a surprisingly rational manner. "Gina, Dora HAS to be potty trained. She's on underwear and pull-ups. She doesn't wear diapers on TV. And, I have Dora underwear." For her the matter was settled. This second undermining of my daughter's world was more than she could bear. She ran into her room and shut the door.
Mom pursued. Okay, I did call my mom who assured me, "You'll think of something."
"Gina?" I put on my solicitous mom voice. "Gina?"
She gave me a suspicious look like "you aren't going to proselytize that potty training lie again are you?" She had her thumb poised just outside her closed pouty mouth as if to have it on call in case of further emergency.
"Gina, I want you to listen to me." I prayed I'd have the right pitch to get through the next three minutes without causing further despair or permanent damage. "Gina, Dora wasn't Always potty trained. She used diapers and then pull ups and then underwear and she wants you to do the same thing. Just like Dora did." She put down her thumb and looked into my eyes. Her face was still streaked with tears but she gave a slight nod that my explanation was at the very least, acceptable. A few hugs and all was right as rain until we came down the stairs. She handed me the remote and asked for a bit of TV.
"What are we watching?" my other daughter asked?
I scrolled through the offerings. "Max and Ruby kids." I announced, and peace reigned....for now.
'
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Disciplining Cupie Doll
If children define themselves by what they are called most often, my toddler’s first name is No!
No! Baby! She just drew with blue marker on the walls in her room.
No! Sweetie! She tried to pick up her sister.
No! Stop. Bad Idea! She pushed a chair over to the refrigerator to get at the chocolate syrup.
No! No! No! No! She just unrolled a whole spool of toilet tissue and ran with it streaming behind her when I discovered her fun.
Fortunately, she still has that super cute toddler power to prevent parents from being too outraged, just overwhelmed.
The parent magazines say to try and catch the toddler “being good.” This is a silly statement. It’s not like I’m going to happen upon my two year old donating her piggy bank to the Salvation Army or find her on the phone soliciting funds for the March of Dimes. She’s two for crying out loud. She has two modes of operation, mischief and sleep. At least I think she sleeps sometimes.
That she sometimes doesn’t spike the wooden block on her brother’s head when they are playing together is not an incident of her “being good.” It’s the baseline. I expect them not to intentionally injure each other while playing.
These same helpful rags maintain that children this young don’t know what cause and effect is. So why does she run like lightning when she hears me start to yell NO! as she’s climbed up to the sink and turned on the tap? It seems to me she’s got a firm grasp on the boundaries of life she routinely exceeds. I’m not buying it. A kid that can climb onto the table to get the M&m’s and unwrap the rubber band holding them closed to get at the contraband chocolate she hasn’t earned because she didn’t potty, is sentient enough to be told “Knock it off!”
The discipline gurus stress that under two should not be put in time out for more than 2 minutes, as they have no sense of time. I need at least those two minutes plus to regain composure. I believe in punitive minutes for excessive destruction. I don't care if they're for me.
They also maintain that spankings are taboo and ineffective. So the kid can pull all the clothing out of a closet, pour grape juice on the carpet and push over a vase of flowers, and open the Oreos inside the pantry to feast before breakfast while I’m making kids lunches, and the proper discipline approach should be told ”No no no…” in an indoor calm voice. I don’t think so.
I’ve figured out a better way to discipline a toddler.
Sibling rivalry. I bet your brother can clean his room before you do….he’s so much bigger after all…off she goes…
Tom Sawyer rules. Scrubbing the colored walls with Mr. Clean sponges. “Wow, this is so much FUN!” “Let me! Let me! Let me! My Turn!”
Political spin: If only we could get this table cleared, we could play Candyland, but oh, woe, it’s just so much work. Put hand on head as if to swoon. “Help!” said with an overly dramatic helpless Southern accent, “What ever will I do?” “I’ll help Mom.” Says my son. “Help Mom.” Says my toddler.
And when they are engaged in a truly lethal action, like fencing on the pool table with the pool cues, I pull out the “NO!” that sounds vaguely possessed and is loud enough to shake the foundation of our home.
Oddly enough, they bug out fast to this sort of thing. Wonder if Parents magazine would be interested in my discipline tips for toddlers?
No! Baby! She just drew with blue marker on the walls in her room.
No! Sweetie! She tried to pick up her sister.
No! Stop. Bad Idea! She pushed a chair over to the refrigerator to get at the chocolate syrup.
No! No! No! No! She just unrolled a whole spool of toilet tissue and ran with it streaming behind her when I discovered her fun.
Fortunately, she still has that super cute toddler power to prevent parents from being too outraged, just overwhelmed.
The parent magazines say to try and catch the toddler “being good.” This is a silly statement. It’s not like I’m going to happen upon my two year old donating her piggy bank to the Salvation Army or find her on the phone soliciting funds for the March of Dimes. She’s two for crying out loud. She has two modes of operation, mischief and sleep. At least I think she sleeps sometimes.
That she sometimes doesn’t spike the wooden block on her brother’s head when they are playing together is not an incident of her “being good.” It’s the baseline. I expect them not to intentionally injure each other while playing.
These same helpful rags maintain that children this young don’t know what cause and effect is. So why does she run like lightning when she hears me start to yell NO! as she’s climbed up to the sink and turned on the tap? It seems to me she’s got a firm grasp on the boundaries of life she routinely exceeds. I’m not buying it. A kid that can climb onto the table to get the M&m’s and unwrap the rubber band holding them closed to get at the contraband chocolate she hasn’t earned because she didn’t potty, is sentient enough to be told “Knock it off!”
The discipline gurus stress that under two should not be put in time out for more than 2 minutes, as they have no sense of time. I need at least those two minutes plus to regain composure. I believe in punitive minutes for excessive destruction. I don't care if they're for me.
They also maintain that spankings are taboo and ineffective. So the kid can pull all the clothing out of a closet, pour grape juice on the carpet and push over a vase of flowers, and open the Oreos inside the pantry to feast before breakfast while I’m making kids lunches, and the proper discipline approach should be told ”No no no…” in an indoor calm voice. I don’t think so.
I’ve figured out a better way to discipline a toddler.
Sibling rivalry. I bet your brother can clean his room before you do….he’s so much bigger after all…off she goes…
Tom Sawyer rules. Scrubbing the colored walls with Mr. Clean sponges. “Wow, this is so much FUN!” “Let me! Let me! Let me! My Turn!”
Political spin: If only we could get this table cleared, we could play Candyland, but oh, woe, it’s just so much work. Put hand on head as if to swoon. “Help!” said with an overly dramatic helpless Southern accent, “What ever will I do?” “I’ll help Mom.” Says my son. “Help Mom.” Says my toddler.
And when they are engaged in a truly lethal action, like fencing on the pool table with the pool cues, I pull out the “NO!” that sounds vaguely possessed and is loud enough to shake the foundation of our home.
Oddly enough, they bug out fast to this sort of thing. Wonder if Parents magazine would be interested in my discipline tips for toddlers?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
OVER Rated clap clap clap clap clap
My writing habit began with my father's suggestion that I write out my frustrations about potty training. It lead to a book of stories, "THE POTTY WARS." Since its inceception, I've added two more chapters revealing just how impossible this task remains for me in parenting. Two more children have made it to the point of no return but given my poor track record, I recognize I must jump when the opportunity beckons no matter how painful.
Monday, my two oldest girls have softball practice. It's already a full day with school and afterschool band, meaning I am throwing dinner together some time after 7 and homework is done in the car and anywhere I can persuade someone to sit down with a paper and pencil. Mondays are nightmares.
The plus side is I get to (while the weather is pleasant) take all my children not playing softball to a very nice playground. There are slides and rock walls and balance beams and monkey bars and everyone down to the baby (who happily pats the leaves and rolls in the grass) enjoys the break in the action.
Last week, the play time was cut short when a child needed to use the facilities which necessitated rounding up six children of varing degrees of willingness and marshalling them all to the oposite side of the field to the open school enterance and the boy and girl bathrooms. People were understandably upset.
So this week, trying to prevent such a catastrophe, I pre-emptively took everyone to the restrooms before going to the playground. Feeling like "Haha, you smart mommy you, now we can enjoy this experience," I fearlessly left the stroller in the car to be less burdened by things as we played.
Ten minutes of pure playground induced bliss and my son is dancing in his pants. I consider my options. "Use a tree." I offered. He readily complied while I winced at contributing to the crassness of my son but the memory of dragging two toddlers, one baby and two very irritated older siblings along so he could use the potty last time overrode the civility protocols.
Ten more minutes pass.
My son returns, doing a different dance.
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go." He says meaningfully.
"You just went." I'm impatient, he'd been annoying his sister by following her and her friend and I thought this was just another ploy.
"Can I use the tree for this?" and he points to his posterior.
I began collecting toddlers.
Dragging five unhappy people to satisfy one feels like bad math but by the time we get there, everyone else has decided, "Now that I'm here..." including my two year old who wears diapers. "Go potty Mom." I thought it was a command. "ME." she pointed at her chest. If this had been my first, second, even my fifth, I probably would have done a back hand spring, high fived and spent the next few minutes hearing the Halleluiah chorus.
But she's my 8th, and I'm holding my ninth. I can't help her on the potty if I'm holding a baby. "But you wear diapers." I try.
She insists that she needs to go. Steeling myself with the chide, "You can't ignore this or else you deserve another year of Huggies." I slung the baby onto one hip and one arm disrobed her. Using that same arm like a crane, I hoisted her up and onto the potty. It sounds much more seamless than it was. I waited expectantly, almost wanting praise for my part in the matter.
She sits and looks at me and after a moment narrows her eyes. "Go away Mom." she orders. "Shut the door."
I go out and wash my hands one at a time, shifting the happy squirmy baby, wondering how I'll diaper her back up. She then calls me to see that she has done nothing.
Potty training. "OVER-rated! Clap clap clap clap clap."
Monday, my two oldest girls have softball practice. It's already a full day with school and afterschool band, meaning I am throwing dinner together some time after 7 and homework is done in the car and anywhere I can persuade someone to sit down with a paper and pencil. Mondays are nightmares.
The plus side is I get to (while the weather is pleasant) take all my children not playing softball to a very nice playground. There are slides and rock walls and balance beams and monkey bars and everyone down to the baby (who happily pats the leaves and rolls in the grass) enjoys the break in the action.
Last week, the play time was cut short when a child needed to use the facilities which necessitated rounding up six children of varing degrees of willingness and marshalling them all to the oposite side of the field to the open school enterance and the boy and girl bathrooms. People were understandably upset.
So this week, trying to prevent such a catastrophe, I pre-emptively took everyone to the restrooms before going to the playground. Feeling like "Haha, you smart mommy you, now we can enjoy this experience," I fearlessly left the stroller in the car to be less burdened by things as we played.
Ten minutes of pure playground induced bliss and my son is dancing in his pants. I consider my options. "Use a tree." I offered. He readily complied while I winced at contributing to the crassness of my son but the memory of dragging two toddlers, one baby and two very irritated older siblings along so he could use the potty last time overrode the civility protocols.
Ten more minutes pass.
My son returns, doing a different dance.
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go." He says meaningfully.
"You just went." I'm impatient, he'd been annoying his sister by following her and her friend and I thought this was just another ploy.
"Can I use the tree for this?" and he points to his posterior.
I began collecting toddlers.
Dragging five unhappy people to satisfy one feels like bad math but by the time we get there, everyone else has decided, "Now that I'm here..." including my two year old who wears diapers. "Go potty Mom." I thought it was a command. "ME." she pointed at her chest. If this had been my first, second, even my fifth, I probably would have done a back hand spring, high fived and spent the next few minutes hearing the Halleluiah chorus.
But she's my 8th, and I'm holding my ninth. I can't help her on the potty if I'm holding a baby. "But you wear diapers." I try.
She insists that she needs to go. Steeling myself with the chide, "You can't ignore this or else you deserve another year of Huggies." I slung the baby onto one hip and one arm disrobed her. Using that same arm like a crane, I hoisted her up and onto the potty. It sounds much more seamless than it was. I waited expectantly, almost wanting praise for my part in the matter.
She sits and looks at me and after a moment narrows her eyes. "Go away Mom." she orders. "Shut the door."
I go out and wash my hands one at a time, shifting the happy squirmy baby, wondering how I'll diaper her back up. She then calls me to see that she has done nothing.
Potty training. "OVER-rated! Clap clap clap clap clap."
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Queen
Most of my stuff is slightly altered to create fiction out of what would otherwise be embarrassing reality. I want my kids to still speak to me when they're adults. Some of the crafting of stories for blog entrees are hard to polish. Others are easy. Then there are those that quite literally, get dropped into your...
My nearly two year old often mistakes me for a chair. Being a toddler, she considers herself the Queen of my lap.
I am her favorite spot to think.
She also is considering the prospects of testing pottying. More than once, she has "tested" the seat in imitation of her older sister.
Today, she sat on me and after giving a fierce hug, said, "Spssssssst." "Spssssssst."
Then she got up and toddled off.
"I think she was pretending." I said as I got up in a hurry.
"So do I." My husband responded.
"I may substitute for a throne but not that kind."
"Cheer up, at least it was number 1."
Long live the Queen.
My nearly two year old often mistakes me for a chair. Being a toddler, she considers herself the Queen of my lap.
I am her favorite spot to think.
She also is considering the prospects of testing pottying. More than once, she has "tested" the seat in imitation of her older sister.
Today, she sat on me and after giving a fierce hug, said, "Spssssssst." "Spssssssst."
Then she got up and toddled off.
"I think she was pretending." I said as I got up in a hurry.
"So do I." My husband responded.
"I may substitute for a throne but not that kind."
"Cheer up, at least it was number 1."
Long live the Queen.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Out of the Mouths of Babes
Every Saturday I load up the car with three of my girls for ballet lessons. Today I was relaxed about this because I had located the tutus, shoes and leotards and tights yesterday. I'm slowly learning to preempt my stress.
The older child adores her class and is ready at 7 am for her 10:15 Ballet/Tap course. The younger sister earned her slot in the First Steps Ballet class at 10:30 by becoming potty trained. "Ballerinas don't wear diapers." I explained.
There are a lot of Moms in the waiting room with only one or two children. One mom asked me today, "You're an expert with having so many kids and all...how do you potty train?"
After I stopped laughing manically, (I think I spooked her), virtually every Mom was all ears as I admitted that numbers do not an expert make. Numbers just provide cover for most of my weaknesses. (My house is a mess. It was a mess when I had only one, but now I can blame it on sheer volume). I hate homework. Numbers now require that anyone over third grade be self sufficient for the most part. Organization is a decent skill. Neatness is not. I stress over being late but I'm not punctual.
Basically, I explained that while six children have come through potty training unscathed, their mother has not. Potty training involved the child becoming self willing of the act and thus far, none of my children had willingly submitted to the indignity of self imposed body control without a mighty struggle. Others might have better ideas I volunteered.
Several Moms offered suggestions but basically, all of us said, "Wait until Summer." (The Mom in question is expecting a baby any day now). The dancers interrupted the conversation as class was over.
My daughters came up to me and started sharing the candy they got from the teacher at the end of class. This week's treat was "Smarties," Those sweet and tart little candies that come in a roll stacked like pennies and look like vaguely tinted Tylenols.
As I took off my dauther's tutu and put on her cover ups, she began putting the candies in my mouth. "What are you doing?" I asked. (There were about six she was trying to shove in there).
"Making you smarter." She explained and then gave me a kiss.
"Better give me a whole roll." I quipped as I put on her shoes.
I then turned to her sister to get her ready. The youngest girl was testing out the class; she is considering potty training. This little one almost sucks her thumb. She holds it to her mouth but does not put it in. Likewise, she sits on the potty but that's it. After class, she needed her coat and shoes too.
The first toddler daughter returned and very solemly tapped my shoulder.
She had gone back to the teacher and returned with three "Smartie" rolls.
"Here." she said. "That should do it."
I popped a roll into my mouth and hoped that maybe, it would help me get through the next girl's potty training with minimum of psychological scarring.
The older child adores her class and is ready at 7 am for her 10:15 Ballet/Tap course. The younger sister earned her slot in the First Steps Ballet class at 10:30 by becoming potty trained. "Ballerinas don't wear diapers." I explained.
There are a lot of Moms in the waiting room with only one or two children. One mom asked me today, "You're an expert with having so many kids and all...how do you potty train?"
After I stopped laughing manically, (I think I spooked her), virtually every Mom was all ears as I admitted that numbers do not an expert make. Numbers just provide cover for most of my weaknesses. (My house is a mess. It was a mess when I had only one, but now I can blame it on sheer volume). I hate homework. Numbers now require that anyone over third grade be self sufficient for the most part. Organization is a decent skill. Neatness is not. I stress over being late but I'm not punctual.
Basically, I explained that while six children have come through potty training unscathed, their mother has not. Potty training involved the child becoming self willing of the act and thus far, none of my children had willingly submitted to the indignity of self imposed body control without a mighty struggle. Others might have better ideas I volunteered.
Several Moms offered suggestions but basically, all of us said, "Wait until Summer." (The Mom in question is expecting a baby any day now). The dancers interrupted the conversation as class was over.
My daughters came up to me and started sharing the candy they got from the teacher at the end of class. This week's treat was "Smarties," Those sweet and tart little candies that come in a roll stacked like pennies and look like vaguely tinted Tylenols.
As I took off my dauther's tutu and put on her cover ups, she began putting the candies in my mouth. "What are you doing?" I asked. (There were about six she was trying to shove in there).
"Making you smarter." She explained and then gave me a kiss.
"Better give me a whole roll." I quipped as I put on her shoes.
I then turned to her sister to get her ready. The youngest girl was testing out the class; she is considering potty training. This little one almost sucks her thumb. She holds it to her mouth but does not put it in. Likewise, she sits on the potty but that's it. After class, she needed her coat and shoes too.
The first toddler daughter returned and very solemly tapped my shoulder.
She had gone back to the teacher and returned with three "Smartie" rolls.
"Here." she said. "That should do it."
I popped a roll into my mouth and hoped that maybe, it would help me get through the next girl's potty training with minimum of psychological scarring.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Pottying by Numbers
Because we have one newly trained toddler, I'm now trying for two. My apologies to anyone eating breakfast or lunch or even thinking about eating while reading this blog. You have been warned. I will try to be delicate.
There are three problems with introducing a young toddler to the art of going the bathroom.
1) They will show no interest and you will be frustrated.
2) They will show excessive interest in the products and you will be appalled.
3) They will show no interest in going and tons of interest in the product and you will be both frustrated and appalled.
Guess which one I got.
We were giving showers and my new potty trainer had gone. While I was stripping her for the shower, her younger sister toddled in, delighted to see that a shower was pending. She began to strip of her own accord. Checking the water and preparing the first, I had not yet emptied the pot. Then from the corner of my eyes, I saw someone...painting...on my door.
"There is No Painting with Pee!" I managed to get out before grabbing the brush and tossing it in the trash. I decided not to answer "Why?" despite repeated requests.
The first daughter got in the shower. I took off the diaper of the second daughter and caught her in the act and decided to plop her on the potty. It would be a fake success, but visually undeniable. She didn't want to sit, she wanted to squat, but I wouldn't let her move. It took five minutes, by which time; the first daughter explained she wanted to see.
I toweled off the first, thinking she could reinforce the praise I heaped on the second. "She made a butterfly." my newly showered daughter said. "My poop is just rocks." There was a touch of envy. The creator was curious and considering what this strange thing might be. One could see the wheels turning...where's my paint brush...followed by a hint of trauma as I swooped in to throw out the proof before too much fascination was shown. It was then my second daughter got her shower.
Evidently, this whole experience was too much for her, as she finished her business in a diaper to avoid any further scrutiny of her bowel movements. I for one appreciated her discretion and have tabled further potty training sessions for the younger for the time being. But I do know one thing, her motivational prize...a pack of water colors and a pad of paper, but I'm going to eliminate the yellow and brown paints just to be safe.
There are three problems with introducing a young toddler to the art of going the bathroom.
1) They will show no interest and you will be frustrated.
2) They will show excessive interest in the products and you will be appalled.
3) They will show no interest in going and tons of interest in the product and you will be both frustrated and appalled.
Guess which one I got.
We were giving showers and my new potty trainer had gone. While I was stripping her for the shower, her younger sister toddled in, delighted to see that a shower was pending. She began to strip of her own accord. Checking the water and preparing the first, I had not yet emptied the pot. Then from the corner of my eyes, I saw someone...painting...on my door.
"There is No Painting with Pee!" I managed to get out before grabbing the brush and tossing it in the trash. I decided not to answer "Why?" despite repeated requests.
The first daughter got in the shower. I took off the diaper of the second daughter and caught her in the act and decided to plop her on the potty. It would be a fake success, but visually undeniable. She didn't want to sit, she wanted to squat, but I wouldn't let her move. It took five minutes, by which time; the first daughter explained she wanted to see.
I toweled off the first, thinking she could reinforce the praise I heaped on the second. "She made a butterfly." my newly showered daughter said. "My poop is just rocks." There was a touch of envy. The creator was curious and considering what this strange thing might be. One could see the wheels turning...where's my paint brush...followed by a hint of trauma as I swooped in to throw out the proof before too much fascination was shown. It was then my second daughter got her shower.
Evidently, this whole experience was too much for her, as she finished her business in a diaper to avoid any further scrutiny of her bowel movements. I for one appreciated her discretion and have tabled further potty training sessions for the younger for the time being. But I do know one thing, her motivational prize...a pack of water colors and a pad of paper, but I'm going to eliminate the yellow and brown paints just to be safe.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Gotta Dance
Today was my daughter’s first ballet lesson. She’s been aching to dance since I took her to see the Nutcracker and told her I’d signed her up. Every morning, she would ask, “Is today my dance lesson?” and we’d check the calendar. This morning, she got up, got dressed and fixed herself breakfast to be sure she wouldn’t be late. She asked me all the way there if we were late and even after we had arrived and were waiting for her class to start, she worried we’d missed it.
Stepping into the room walled with mirrors and meeting two Ms. Sarahs, she nearly swooned. Putting on her tap shoes –it is a ballet/tap class intro course, she almost exploded with joy when the teacher announced there would be a recital with costumes at the end of the semester. I took her younger sister and baby brother back to the waiting room after watching a few shuffle steps.
On the first floor of the dance studio, a “First Steps” class was beginning.
Parents were coming in with two, three and four year olds and in some cases, practically crowbaring the children off their legs. One daughter pouted at her father and refused to go into the room. It was probably a bad call on the instructor’s part to have them dancing to “Maybe” from Annie.
My daughter however, was enchanted. The director told her she could watch. After five minutes, my three year old, who isn’t really the “watching” type, immersed herself in the class. The instructor didn’t mind but I saw an opportunity. “This is a one time deal.” I explained. “Why?” she asked.
“Because ballerinas don’t wear diapers.” This may seem cruel but all’s fair in love and potty wars. My daughter nodded her head and returned to the class. There, she danced and flipped and followed directions. She outshone all the other students with her sheer joy and willingness to do whatever the instructor said.
The director saw an opportunity too. When the class was over, she handed my daughter a white leotard in a plastic bag. “You can have this. Wear it when you’re potty trained." Her teacher smiled and said "We’ll see you in class.”
The director and instructor had just earned my undying love and loyalty with their backing me up.
My daughter reverently took the bag and held it tight to her heart. She explained to me that she was going to be in this class this coming Saturday because she would be a big girl and wear underwear.
She went home and that’s just what she did.
I don’t know about my three year old but personally, I “GOTTA DANCE.”
Stepping into the room walled with mirrors and meeting two Ms. Sarahs, she nearly swooned. Putting on her tap shoes –it is a ballet/tap class intro course, she almost exploded with joy when the teacher announced there would be a recital with costumes at the end of the semester. I took her younger sister and baby brother back to the waiting room after watching a few shuffle steps.
On the first floor of the dance studio, a “First Steps” class was beginning.
Parents were coming in with two, three and four year olds and in some cases, practically crowbaring the children off their legs. One daughter pouted at her father and refused to go into the room. It was probably a bad call on the instructor’s part to have them dancing to “Maybe” from Annie.
My daughter however, was enchanted. The director told her she could watch. After five minutes, my three year old, who isn’t really the “watching” type, immersed herself in the class. The instructor didn’t mind but I saw an opportunity. “This is a one time deal.” I explained. “Why?” she asked.
“Because ballerinas don’t wear diapers.” This may seem cruel but all’s fair in love and potty wars. My daughter nodded her head and returned to the class. There, she danced and flipped and followed directions. She outshone all the other students with her sheer joy and willingness to do whatever the instructor said.
The director saw an opportunity too. When the class was over, she handed my daughter a white leotard in a plastic bag. “You can have this. Wear it when you’re potty trained." Her teacher smiled and said "We’ll see you in class.”
The director and instructor had just earned my undying love and loyalty with their backing me up.
My daughter reverently took the bag and held it tight to her heart. She explained to me that she was going to be in this class this coming Saturday because she would be a big girl and wear underwear.
She went home and that’s just what she did.
I don’t know about my three year old but personally, I “GOTTA DANCE.”
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Velveteen Parent
When you can identify the sound of mini-chocolate chips cascading from their yellow bag into a red bucket in your no longer sleeping infant’s playpen, as being dumped by her older toddler sister for a snack, while awakening from a dead sleep, it’s safe to declare one’s self a veteran.
There are still areas of parenting within which I am a rookie. Dating. College tuition. Cars. Curiously enough, the magazines that cater to adults trying to civilize non adults, avoid addressing these later issues in extensive detail unless it’s to tell you that you should relax and not worry about the boys or the girls, sell all your cars and hire a chauffeur and have started saving money before you yourself hit puberty.
And so, one might wonder why I still subscribe to Parenting magazine. I know about time outs, mini-meals, setting aside a homework time, over scheduling, potty training…well, okay, I know the theory behind that one. What more is there that the experts could teach that I haven’t already experienced by trial? I keep the magazine to comprehend something of the ideal as personified in an incident free life.
If I were a Parenting magazine mom, the television would only be turned on for educational material that supplemented the reading I intended to present that evening…say the speeches by JFK, after viewing a brief history documentary of the Cuban missile crisis. If I were a Parenting approved mom, we would serve fresh black berries we had picked yesterday on top of homemade waffles today as I taught about maple syrup and the sugaring process while locating Vermont on a map and reading from Little House in the Big Woods. If I were a Choosy Mother’s Chose Jiff magazine certified mom, the kids would be used to fish tacos and green peppers, beg for carrot sticks and raisins and each have a shelf of the awards and certificates they had amassed over the years, complete with the write up in the local paper. They’d play on select teams and have fresh pressed uniforms every day and matching socks too.
Examining my life style with the parenting magazine’s parent, it’s clear I’m a C- student stuck in the honors class. Honor parents do not own cars that are the residence of 25 pounds of slowly fossilizing French fries, 1.47 cents in pennies and about a Pinto size pile of miscellaneous toys. Honor parents get all their kids to bed by 7:30 complete with hair washed, teeth brushed, three bed time stories and a lullaby. The teens, they lovingly dismiss to their rooms, tucking a new book of Shakespeare under their hand as they say good night. They are archetypes of the archetypes in my world. They are the ideal.
But I’m not.
Honor student parents don’t raise their voices or deliberately spend twenty minutes locked in the bathroom pretending “I can’t hear you…” hoping the stall tactic will bore the kids enough to make them forget what they were tattling about. Honor student parents don’t consider buying a large stuffed tiger that growls to put outside their toddler’s room and tell the kid, the tiger comes to life at night if you get up. We didn’t…but we did put the tiger back on the shelf with some regret.
Reading these stories and techniques, it’s like a reverse of the Velveteen Rabbit. I can’t help but wonder if these people as “experts” who say “What not to say…” have ever had a day when getting down on their eye level and speaking in a calm controlled voice just didn’t satisfy. “I know you’re upset that your brother got invited to the party but, there’s no reason for you to smack down on his head. You should be happy for him.” The kid may quiet down for that sort of speech, but very very few –and I would submit, none, become suddenly self aware and think, “I’m not really mad at my brother for being my brother, I just wish I had all the cool things he had going on…so I’m actually envious and need to stop because that’s not right or healthy.” If my kids are anything like I was, they’re thinking…right….I’ll get him later…but how?
It’s not that I don’t want my kids clean, on time, well spoken, well educated, well read, polished, accomplished and civil. I want all of these things for all eight of them, but sometimes, the best I can manage is a screech owl version of “HEY, KNOCK IT OFF OR I’M GETTING INTO IT!” that results in a five minute suspended silence born of real fear that the person driving may not be entirely stable. What galls me is that someday, when they grow up, they won’t remember when I hit the mark and got them to piano, softball and still managed to make sure they got their homework done, had a bed time story and closed down the upstairs by 8:30 p.m. They won’t remember when I made banana splits for dinner that night because everyone had had a bad day. They’ll talk about the time Mom’s face turned purple when we played Starwars with French fries in the back seat on the beltway.
Those will be the moments remembered, when the Velveteen Parent became real.
There are still areas of parenting within which I am a rookie. Dating. College tuition. Cars. Curiously enough, the magazines that cater to adults trying to civilize non adults, avoid addressing these later issues in extensive detail unless it’s to tell you that you should relax and not worry about the boys or the girls, sell all your cars and hire a chauffeur and have started saving money before you yourself hit puberty.
And so, one might wonder why I still subscribe to Parenting magazine. I know about time outs, mini-meals, setting aside a homework time, over scheduling, potty training…well, okay, I know the theory behind that one. What more is there that the experts could teach that I haven’t already experienced by trial? I keep the magazine to comprehend something of the ideal as personified in an incident free life.
If I were a Parenting magazine mom, the television would only be turned on for educational material that supplemented the reading I intended to present that evening…say the speeches by JFK, after viewing a brief history documentary of the Cuban missile crisis. If I were a Parenting approved mom, we would serve fresh black berries we had picked yesterday on top of homemade waffles today as I taught about maple syrup and the sugaring process while locating Vermont on a map and reading from Little House in the Big Woods. If I were a Choosy Mother’s Chose Jiff magazine certified mom, the kids would be used to fish tacos and green peppers, beg for carrot sticks and raisins and each have a shelf of the awards and certificates they had amassed over the years, complete with the write up in the local paper. They’d play on select teams and have fresh pressed uniforms every day and matching socks too.
Examining my life style with the parenting magazine’s parent, it’s clear I’m a C- student stuck in the honors class. Honor parents do not own cars that are the residence of 25 pounds of slowly fossilizing French fries, 1.47 cents in pennies and about a Pinto size pile of miscellaneous toys. Honor parents get all their kids to bed by 7:30 complete with hair washed, teeth brushed, three bed time stories and a lullaby. The teens, they lovingly dismiss to their rooms, tucking a new book of Shakespeare under their hand as they say good night. They are archetypes of the archetypes in my world. They are the ideal.
But I’m not.
Honor student parents don’t raise their voices or deliberately spend twenty minutes locked in the bathroom pretending “I can’t hear you…” hoping the stall tactic will bore the kids enough to make them forget what they were tattling about. Honor student parents don’t consider buying a large stuffed tiger that growls to put outside their toddler’s room and tell the kid, the tiger comes to life at night if you get up. We didn’t…but we did put the tiger back on the shelf with some regret.
Reading these stories and techniques, it’s like a reverse of the Velveteen Rabbit. I can’t help but wonder if these people as “experts” who say “What not to say…” have ever had a day when getting down on their eye level and speaking in a calm controlled voice just didn’t satisfy. “I know you’re upset that your brother got invited to the party but, there’s no reason for you to smack down on his head. You should be happy for him.” The kid may quiet down for that sort of speech, but very very few –and I would submit, none, become suddenly self aware and think, “I’m not really mad at my brother for being my brother, I just wish I had all the cool things he had going on…so I’m actually envious and need to stop because that’s not right or healthy.” If my kids are anything like I was, they’re thinking…right….I’ll get him later…but how?
It’s not that I don’t want my kids clean, on time, well spoken, well educated, well read, polished, accomplished and civil. I want all of these things for all eight of them, but sometimes, the best I can manage is a screech owl version of “HEY, KNOCK IT OFF OR I’M GETTING INTO IT!” that results in a five minute suspended silence born of real fear that the person driving may not be entirely stable. What galls me is that someday, when they grow up, they won’t remember when I hit the mark and got them to piano, softball and still managed to make sure they got their homework done, had a bed time story and closed down the upstairs by 8:30 p.m. They won’t remember when I made banana splits for dinner that night because everyone had had a bad day. They’ll talk about the time Mom’s face turned purple when we played Starwars with French fries in the back seat on the beltway.
Those will be the moments remembered, when the Velveteen Parent became real.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Declaration of Independence
The Right to Liberty
The other day was Prize day. We awarded our almost four year old with a cool metal swivel seat tricycle (think big wheel) for becoming potty trained. He has about an accident a day but diapers are no longer part of the routine. No longer a toddler, he was a full fledged “kid” with all the rights and privileges therein, allowance, solo baths, and his own not a hand me down bike.
The Pursuit of Happiness
Picking up the box, hearing the parts inside shift, I knew I was in for it, but the vision of my son’s happy eyes when he feasted on the red and black shiny new wheels over road my common sense. I would be Ubermom for a few minutes in my son’s eyes.
Johnny Boo was at pre-school. When I picked him up, I explained there was a big treat waiting for him. He pestered me all the way home for clues. Amazingly, saying it had three wheels elicited the deductive guess of a Robot Dinosaur which sent me mentally scurrying and worrying, would there be let down?
No, the box picture was sufficient to earn “Thank you! It’s my favors. My very favors thing.” From him. Satisfied, I opened the box and momentarily hyperventilated at the eight screws, sixteen washers, two large bolts and several metal components that resembled a fossil dig of bicycle parts. The directions were alas, only in Spanish, which I never learned.
Freedom of Speech
When I explained this might be difficult to my son, he brightly answered, “I speak Spanish…Hola.”
Okay, with translator help like that, I could still follow the pictures. Self censorship followed for the next twenty minutes.
Right to Assemble Peacefully
By this point outside on the first Spring feeling day of 2008, my daughter wanted to help too. She kept picking up the parts, leading me to scramble to keep everything together. The wind sent the box and directions flying, sending Johnny Boo and me running in opposite directions while Cupie Doll examined the screws and washers undeterred.
With my legs covering the washers and screws, the metal parts splayed over my lap, the directions weighted down by my cell phone and the wrench, with Cupie Doll and the baby strapped into the stroller howling in protest, I began the process of making a bike. I won’t say potty training was easier.
Right against Self Incrimination
Twenty five minutes later, the bike sat waiting it’s maiden voyage –but I sent the prize winner in to the bathroom, I thought it would be bad form if he christened it on it’s opening run.
The pedals were too far for his legs.
“I can’t reach.” He struggled, he wanted to enjoy the bike but it was essentially useless in this state.
Back over my legs again, fifteen minutes of hassle later, the bike was ready.
Johnny Boo had gone inside to watch cartoons.
Returning with the promise of cookies and juice as a snack, he got on the bike. The brake was a source of great interest and our first drive halted every two feet as he kept squeezing the handle. “I know how to stop!” he said delightedly. He then tried the pedals. His legs were still about an inch short for easy movement, but he could do it. His eyes glimmered with the knowledge, he had WHEELS.
Freedom of Petition
“Can we go for a ride?”
“Yes.” I pushed the stroller alongside him as we leisurely moved down the hill. “Can we go downtown?”
I should have asked a question at this point, but I was savoring the first of Spring sunshine and the cool breeze and the satisfaction of having made something work for a change...I was in my “I’m Ubermom” moment. Not quite listening, I said, “Yes.”
We came to the mail box and I made the turn for us to go back up the driveway.
Johnny Boo’s face darkened. “You said we could go downtown!” He folded his arms angrily.
That Ubermom feeling faded away.
“Downtown! Where Dad Works!” He sounded exasperated. How could Mom be this dense?
Due Process
Explaining that 20 miles on a tricycle in heavy traffic is not possible. He was three year old, he had a bike. That was supposed to mean freedom.
He felt betrayed.
After trying to reason with him, I opted for a 21st century solution and handed him the cell phone. “Here, talk to Dad.”
Freedom of the Press
As my two year old helped push him back up the hill while I pushed the stroller, he chatted with his father “I’m driving Dad, but Mom doesn’t know how to get to Downtown so I can’t come visit you.” He explained. I need a spin doctor.
Right to A Speedy Trial
Back at the house, I broke out the juice and cookie snack, “Do you like your prize?” I asked?
“Yes. But it can’t go downtown.” He said as he looked mournfully out the window at it parked on the driveway.
Woman’s Sufferage
My daughter had thoughtfully pocketed the tools needed to assemble his prize and stood next to his bike, pretending to fix it.
Maybe I’ll let her do it herself when she becomes potty trained. Visions of giving her a kid tool kit that she could play with made me briefly smile at the idea of her creative energies being channeled in a positive manner. I’d be an Ubermom again for providing her with the proper outlet for her intuitive curious nature. Her smile would beam and it would be a beautiful moment in mothering…
for more fully protected by the Constitution slices of humor, try http://www.humor-blog.com!
The other day was Prize day. We awarded our almost four year old with a cool metal swivel seat tricycle (think big wheel) for becoming potty trained. He has about an accident a day but diapers are no longer part of the routine. No longer a toddler, he was a full fledged “kid” with all the rights and privileges therein, allowance, solo baths, and his own not a hand me down bike.
The Pursuit of Happiness
Picking up the box, hearing the parts inside shift, I knew I was in for it, but the vision of my son’s happy eyes when he feasted on the red and black shiny new wheels over road my common sense. I would be Ubermom for a few minutes in my son’s eyes.
Johnny Boo was at pre-school. When I picked him up, I explained there was a big treat waiting for him. He pestered me all the way home for clues. Amazingly, saying it had three wheels elicited the deductive guess of a Robot Dinosaur which sent me mentally scurrying and worrying, would there be let down?
No, the box picture was sufficient to earn “Thank you! It’s my favors. My very favors thing.” From him. Satisfied, I opened the box and momentarily hyperventilated at the eight screws, sixteen washers, two large bolts and several metal components that resembled a fossil dig of bicycle parts. The directions were alas, only in Spanish, which I never learned.
Freedom of Speech
When I explained this might be difficult to my son, he brightly answered, “I speak Spanish…Hola.”
Okay, with translator help like that, I could still follow the pictures. Self censorship followed for the next twenty minutes.
Right to Assemble Peacefully
By this point outside on the first Spring feeling day of 2008, my daughter wanted to help too. She kept picking up the parts, leading me to scramble to keep everything together. The wind sent the box and directions flying, sending Johnny Boo and me running in opposite directions while Cupie Doll examined the screws and washers undeterred.
With my legs covering the washers and screws, the metal parts splayed over my lap, the directions weighted down by my cell phone and the wrench, with Cupie Doll and the baby strapped into the stroller howling in protest, I began the process of making a bike. I won’t say potty training was easier.
Right against Self Incrimination
Twenty five minutes later, the bike sat waiting it’s maiden voyage –but I sent the prize winner in to the bathroom, I thought it would be bad form if he christened it on it’s opening run.
The pedals were too far for his legs.
“I can’t reach.” He struggled, he wanted to enjoy the bike but it was essentially useless in this state.
Back over my legs again, fifteen minutes of hassle later, the bike was ready.
Johnny Boo had gone inside to watch cartoons.
Returning with the promise of cookies and juice as a snack, he got on the bike. The brake was a source of great interest and our first drive halted every two feet as he kept squeezing the handle. “I know how to stop!” he said delightedly. He then tried the pedals. His legs were still about an inch short for easy movement, but he could do it. His eyes glimmered with the knowledge, he had WHEELS.
Freedom of Petition
“Can we go for a ride?”
“Yes.” I pushed the stroller alongside him as we leisurely moved down the hill. “Can we go downtown?”
I should have asked a question at this point, but I was savoring the first of Spring sunshine and the cool breeze and the satisfaction of having made something work for a change...I was in my “I’m Ubermom” moment. Not quite listening, I said, “Yes.”
We came to the mail box and I made the turn for us to go back up the driveway.
Johnny Boo’s face darkened. “You said we could go downtown!” He folded his arms angrily.
That Ubermom feeling faded away.
“Downtown! Where Dad Works!” He sounded exasperated. How could Mom be this dense?
Due Process
Explaining that 20 miles on a tricycle in heavy traffic is not possible. He was three year old, he had a bike. That was supposed to mean freedom.
He felt betrayed.
After trying to reason with him, I opted for a 21st century solution and handed him the cell phone. “Here, talk to Dad.”
Freedom of the Press
As my two year old helped push him back up the hill while I pushed the stroller, he chatted with his father “I’m driving Dad, but Mom doesn’t know how to get to Downtown so I can’t come visit you.” He explained. I need a spin doctor.
Right to A Speedy Trial
Back at the house, I broke out the juice and cookie snack, “Do you like your prize?” I asked?
“Yes. But it can’t go downtown.” He said as he looked mournfully out the window at it parked on the driveway.
Woman’s Sufferage
My daughter had thoughtfully pocketed the tools needed to assemble his prize and stood next to his bike, pretending to fix it.
Maybe I’ll let her do it herself when she becomes potty trained. Visions of giving her a kid tool kit that she could play with made me briefly smile at the idea of her creative energies being channeled in a positive manner. I’d be an Ubermom again for providing her with the proper outlet for her intuitive curious nature. Her smile would beam and it would be a beautiful moment in mothering…
for more fully protected by the Constitution slices of humor, try http://www.humor-blog.com!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
My Original Sin
Desperation leads to desperate actions. After multiple bribes, systems, threats, promises, nagging days dictated by the timer, pull ups and readings of all the annoying books about learning to go…in three weeks, my son turns four.
Up to this point, he had refused to become potty trained.
I am sure when he becomes an adult, if he is so inclined, he can write a tell all book about me. In it, he can detail my certifiable insanity. In my defense, it’s not like I haven’t put in my time.
But I admit it, this was a new low, even for me. I know this isn't Parent Magazine approved.
I told him he couldn’t turn four if he wasn’t potty trained.
I told him it was against the law to turn four and not be potty trained. They’d revoke the birthday license and confiscate the cake and everything.
My son has been wearing underwear ever since.
While I refuse to celebrate until we go two days accident free, a tiny part of me is jumping up and down mentally at merely the possibility of potty training finally taking hold. It has been 1445 days of diapers for this guy alone.
For the record, I also refuse to repent as long as it’s working.
I suspect at the very least, I've committed a venal.
Wonder what I could say to motivate his sister…
For more humor that does not endanger the immortal soul, try http://www.humor-blogs.com!
Up to this point, he had refused to become potty trained.
I am sure when he becomes an adult, if he is so inclined, he can write a tell all book about me. In it, he can detail my certifiable insanity. In my defense, it’s not like I haven’t put in my time.
But I admit it, this was a new low, even for me. I know this isn't Parent Magazine approved.
I told him he couldn’t turn four if he wasn’t potty trained.
I told him it was against the law to turn four and not be potty trained. They’d revoke the birthday license and confiscate the cake and everything.
My son has been wearing underwear ever since.
While I refuse to celebrate until we go two days accident free, a tiny part of me is jumping up and down mentally at merely the possibility of potty training finally taking hold. It has been 1445 days of diapers for this guy alone.
For the record, I also refuse to repent as long as it’s working.
I suspect at the very least, I've committed a venal.
Wonder what I could say to motivate his sister…
For more humor that does not endanger the immortal soul, try http://www.humor-blogs.com!
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