The poop grenade

I want to talk about poop for a moment.

Yes, you read right. Poop. Because I've decided poop is worse than a grenade. Specifically, a grenade of horror that can come out of your sweet, potty training toddler at any moment. And, not only can it go off IN YOUR HAND, you never really know when it is coming. You just know it IS coming, so you better prepare yourself and hope you are fast enough to make it to a bathroom before... KABOOM!

Last week I wrote about our first (mis)adventures with potty training. It started out pretty rough but with some tips from commenters (HOLLA K. Elizabeth!) we nixed the pull-ups (too absorbent for Kate to notice when she was going potty) to panties (Yeah... feel that running down your leg little one? That is pee pee and it is GROSS) and she quickly began to realize the feeling of needing to go potty. We were going gang busters and I was patting myself on the back for potty training in, like, THREE DAYS (am I a bad ass or what?) when the poop grenade went off and blew me straight off my high horse. 

We spent most of the first week of training at the house. That allowed for quick access to a toilet and quick access to our sticker chart (REWARDS! FOR NOT PEEING ON YOURSELF! YAY!) but by the end of the week, I was going stir crazy so we headed to Target for a quick shopping excursion. 

We took care of "business" and I figured we had about an hour to get through the store before we'd have to worry about any potty-related activities. We cruised through the dollar section, checked out a few books and were making our way through clothing to hit groceries when disaster struck. And by disaster, I mean poop.

Kate randomly ran to hide behind a three-way mirror on our way through clothing and as I rounded the corner to get her I saw her face scrunched up in her "Leave me alone I'm working on something here!!" face. "ARE YOU POOPING??" I stupidly asked her. She shook her head no and grunted as she pushed something fierce and I saw my life flash before my eyes. Kaboom.

I grabbed her up and ran off down the aisle, dodging carts and innocent shoppers, all while chanting, "Hold on, we are almost to the bathroom, hold on and you can go like a big girl, hold on FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY!"

Yeah. There was nothing holy about what waited for me in her panties when we got to the bathroom. We bundled into a small little stall and I squatted down as much as a seven month pregnant woman can and checked out the damage. My hopes of a few little nuggets I could toss into the toilet were erased by the man-sized poop grenade that my daughter had innocently set off in my face. I set to work trying to minimize the damage, while my daughter tried to do everything in her power to make me cry. 

I asked her why she didn't tell me she had to go. She just repeated, "I'm so sorry mommy" over and over while I bit my tongue to keep from telling her she had a shitty (haha) way of showing me she was sorry. I told her it was okay as I tried to scrape poop off her backside with the THINNEST TOILET TISSUE ON THE PLANET (thanks for that Target). But, while I was busy reminding her not to touch anything, she was busy reaching around to see what I was doing and she got poop on her hand. 

"So, so yucky" she said as she WIPED HER HAND ON HER SHIRT before I could even react. I may or may not have said some curse words in front of my sweet innocent at that moment, but the REAL low-point for me was when, after repeating 200 times "Mommy said DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING" as she grabbed for the toilet seat, her panties, my face, and the tissue dispenser, I saw her start to put her fingers in her mouth (a comfort issue because mommy was being so nutzo I'm sure). In a panic, I popped her little naked hiney and shrieked "I SAID DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING AND DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN YOUR MOUTH." I mean, I'm sorry, but poop fingers in the mouth can't be good for ANYONE and I just reacted.

Since I never have touched the child in any kind of frustration before, this little tap on the bottom sent her  STRAIGHT over the edge. That and mommy's yelling and crazy eyes. She stood perfectly still for a good five minutes wailing while I got her panties washed out in the sink, got our hands (and legs, shirt, etc.) as clean as possible and basically patted myself on the back for so traumatizing my daughter she would NEVER go poop in public ever, ever again. Like, running home from work when you are 30 so you can take a dooce type trauma. Yay for me, Mommy of the Year!

We got home and mommy apologized for being a whack job and we snuggled and all was forgiven. Although I was still positive that she would never, ever poop in public again.

So imagine my complete surprise, joy and overall HELL TO THE YEAH when Kate ran off the playground yesterday to do the toddler "I gotta go" dance for me. I picked her up and ran (waddled quickly) to the nearest bathroom where I swear a chorus of angels SANG for her as she pooped in the big girl potty. I gave her a hug and a high five and nearly cried tears of joy because despite my parenting failures Kate is a sweet, smart and well-adjusted kiddo. Who can drop a poop grenade in the potty. 

And I must say, that is pretty freaking awesome.

Love letter to a hater

Okay, so social media is a forum for over-sharing. And when you over-share, you open yourself up to all kinds of feedback. Positive, negative and just plain wacky and weird. I totally get it, and because I've often found myself talking about things like bodily fluids, fearing the penis and digging cookies out of the trash, I  really kind of deserve a good tongue lashing every now and again for being WILDLY inappropriate.

However, once in a while a comment just really needles me. You know, the kind that in your mind is so unfair, so undeserved, you just sit stunned for a second and then feel desperate to respond because you KNOW you have been wronged and if you just had an opportunity to provide a rebuttal everyone would see things your way?

Yeah. I had one of those comments today (sorry, not on the blog but another fabulous form of social media so you'll just have to use your imagination instead of finding actual comment). It was a comment to a totally innocuous question that came off as extremely judgmental. Maybe it was made in jest, but LORD HELP ME there wasn't a smiley face or any other emoticon that might indicate a little levity, so I was fairly ready to plant my fist in someones face after reading it.

I wrote several theoretical comebacks. Some had smileys, some were a little more pointed, and one version was just, "EAT ME" but I erased all of them. I just tried to keep telling myself that by engaging said person in some sort of verbal scuffle, I was giving what they said, and their hateful thoughts, too much importance. 

But hours later it is still eating at me. However meaningless this comment was, something about it made me feel LESS. Feel SMALL. Hours later, I'm still chewing on it, so this is what I want to say:

Don't judge me. Don't judge my lifestyle, my family, how we spend our time or how we spend our money. You have no right.


I'm proud of my family. I'm proud of our life, our home, our love and our respect for one another. I'm proud of how we've chosen to prioritize our time, energy and money to create this life. I'm proud of what we've accomplished, what we've built here. And I'm thankful. I'm thankful for it all. 


I'm not perfect. I'm not the perfect wife. I'm not the perfect mother. I'm me, but I'm doing a damn good job of being me, and that is the best thing I can do for my husband and for my children. 


So don't you dare judge me. You have no right.

Oh, and P.S.

EAT ME.

Life's a beach

Last week, Kate, Ben and I joined his family and my parents for a week at Navarre Beach, Florida. What a wonderful week! Kate and her cousins were so joyful to be together and at the ocean, I had plenty of time to relax and let my poor tired body rest, and we all enjoyed each other so much.

I have a million photographs of the vacation, but the ones I want to share were taken by my brother-in-law, Chris Strange. We spent one evening down at the beach with the kiddos, trying to get some cute shots but instead it became an evening of tag, splash in the ocean and hide-and-go-seek. 

I will always remember that evening; their laughs and giggles as they ran from each other, fell face first in the sand and made mud pies. We are blessed with such an amazing family and I will always be thankful for the moments we have together, hopefully moments that Kate will remember as she grows into an adult.

Potty training is for the dogs

In my adult life, I've potty trained two dogs. And, yeah, I know parenting a human isn't quite the same thing as dogs but I have seen some VERY similar parallels (SPIT THAT OUT. DON'T LICK THAT. GET DOWN.) so I had hoped my successful canine track record might translate to a toddler.

It didn't.

I know, shocking, right?

Kate has had a potty in her bathroom for the last six months or so. She goes on it every night before bed, and sometimes during the day if she thinks of it, or if mommy is trying to go to the bathroom (HELLO CHILD, GOODBYE PRIVACY). So I'm all, "Kate is TOTALLY ready for potty training" and the universe is all, "HAHAHAHA, LAUGHING MY ASS OFF!"

We decided to get started on this little project yesterday. In preparation, we purchased some pull-ups, some big-girl panties and I made... wait for it... this little jewel of craftiness (don't be jealous, I'll TOTALLY make you one of these for your birthday, what color glitter do you like?):

If you can't read it, it says "Kate's Potty" which was supposed to be "Kate's Potty Chart" but I ran out of room and didn't have the time, patience or give-a-damn to create a second sticker/glitter chart. Especially because Kate CAN'T READ.

The whole idea was that every time Kate went on the potty, she would get stickers for everything she did right (i.e. wiping, flushing, washing hands). I read this strategy online, and even got the template for the chart, so NO, I didn't make this shit up. Which means, it should totally work, right?

Sigh.

It started out fine. She went potty first thing in the morning and we put on a "big girl diaper" (pull-up). But a toddler in training is like a ticking time bomb, so I found myself asking her every ten minutes if she had to go potty, and I swear, at some point she started rolling her eyes. After her first little accident where she TOLD me she didn't have to go, but went in her pull-up anyways, I decided to up the ante... I offered her CANDY if she would go on the potty. So about every five minutes she was running to the potty seat and STRAINING to get a little water to come out, followed by sticking her adorable (but greedy) little hand into my face for her promised candy. Like, NOW. Okaaaay, so that backfired a little, but at least she didn't pee on my sofa again.

Today I woke up refreshed and ready to tackle the potty again. But, VERY quickly I realized another full day at home chained to a potty was not going to go well. For me. Because I was tired of playing pretend with Kate's dolls, especially since they had such a limited vocabulary (we covered breakfast, lunch, dinner, clothes, hair, favorite playgrounds, the Easter Bunny and bubbles. And that is where Kate and her doll ran out of topics so we would start all over. About 500 times. And frankly, I can only talk about eggs, slides and hot dogs so many times in one hour).

I decided to take Kate out to the playground to burn some energy and get away from those devil dolls. Once there, she immediately pooped and then peed in two different "big girl diapers" while never giving any indication that she needed to go to the potty. Back at the house she has been good again, going on the potty when asked to, but since I filched on the whole candy promise (due to her overzealous candy-related urination), she STILL isn't indicating when her bladder might be full.

So tell me, oh wise women (and men) how does this all work? Do I need to become a mind (er, bladder) reader? Keep on beating my head against the wall for a few more days to see if she comes around? Or take my favorite action, pretend this all never happened, call this a failed experiment and chalk it up to... MAYBE she LIKES going in her diaper and I should just leave her the hell alone? You know, at least until high school?

I can't help but feel she is mocking me and my "potty chart" in this picture. But then again, she is all hopped up on candy so she could just be a little over-excited.

Just snip the tip

I really thought that having already had a baby, there wasn't a lot that could surprise me this go around. Except the whole "He is a boy and has boy parts" thing, which I mentioned scares me just a little. Because I am a girl. With girl parts. So, you know, the penis is a slightly foreign thing to me (Yes you jokers, I HAVE seen one thank you very much. But I haven't spent too much time pondering exactly what its like to have one ATTACHED TO MY BODY. Well, not really, although I have really questioned the whole "where does it go when you run" thing. I mean, isn't that uncomfortable? Doesn't it slow you down, kind of get in the way? Aaaaaaand, moving on).

Anyways, what I'm learning is that there is OH SO MUCH to be considered when it comes to little boy penis' (Penises? Peni?) In fact, the infant penis is a hot bed of debate these days. I'm talking about the dreaded C (that is circumcision for you lay people out there). I mean, go to any parenting forum or web site and search for a discussion about circumcision and you will find an eye-full of extremely passionate and angry citizens sticking up for their viewpoint.

• IF YOU DO IT YOUR BABY BOY WILL HATE YOU LATER (he will likely hate us when he is a teenager anyway). 
• IF YOU DON'T DO IT YOUR BABY BOY WILL CONTRACT AN STD OR PENILE CANCER WHEN HE IS OLDER (if he gets penile cancer, that would suck. If he gets an STD, I will kill him). 

You get the idea. Like any good debate, there are people on both sides of the fence, trying to scream the loudest. And I, in all my sensitivity, am like, "Dude. They aren't attractive no matter how you dress 'em up, just matters if they work, right? So what is all the fuss??" To which my husband sputtered a little, then muttered something under his breath and finally chose not to engage me in a discussion that would surely just annoy him and amuse me.

I'm not going to get into what side of the fence I'm on here. I could tell you what we've decided, but poor little baby E2 doesn't need a classmate to find post this some day and share with the WHOLE WORLD whether his parents decided to snip the tip or not. Besides, since according to Ben our son will be a world class athlete, his many teammates will already know whats going on down there (don't lie guys, I truly don't believe you change and shower in a locker room and NEVER check what the other guy is packing, if for no other reason but simply for comparison's sake).

So why did I even bring this up? Well, I guess what I'm sharing with you all is that I am realizing how much even a second-time parent has to learn. I'm sure this isn't going to be the last surprise after all. I'm sure babies are supposed to sleep differently, eat differently and poop differently (no? oh, good, pooping is the same these days? WHEW!) than when Kate was an infant. Which is kind of exciting and scary all at the same time. "Cause we all know how poised, elegant and classy I can be when faced with a parenting challenge. So baby E2, I'm ready for you. Penis and all.

BRING IT.

Next time, I'll do better

Parenting is rife with opportunities for failure. I often experience these moments of messiness with a "I can do better next time!" type of attitude. No, no that is not how I respond. Not really. In real life, I often respond by cussing like a sailor, stomping around and waving my arms like a pissy pants and topping off my melt down by drinking. Like, an entire bottle of wine (PRE-pregnancy folks, simmer down now). Oh, and sometimes I laugh after I'm done yelling, crying and drinking. Laugh at the absurdity of it all, because frankly if you can't wear a mixture of baby poop and vomit on your brand new white pants without chuckling a little, you probably never should have become a parent in the first place.

However, sometimes you have those little "oopsies" that you can't quite find a chuckle out of. You know, the mess-ups that make your heart tighten up for a moment because even though it turned out okay, it truly could have turned out really NOT OKAY. That happened to me this morning.

To start the story, I have to back up a month ago or so to the Great Edelbrock Sick-Pocalypse of 2011. This featured the three of us passing around every cold and sinus infection known to man so that at least one of us were ill for a consecutive six weeks. It was pretty miserable. So drugs (over-the-counter, totally legal mind you) drugs were flying around like candy. At the same time, I realized that Kate DID think pills looked a lot like candy, which isn't surprising considering their size and shape. So I became vigilante about getting all our medicine in one container, far away from a certain child's sticky fingers.

At the same time, my husband was just trying to stay awake/alert enough to bring home the bacon. So he stuck pills in his pants pockets, his coat pockets, up his nose (kidding, sort of) or any place he might get a quick fix when needed. I "reminded" (ie nagged) him to keep medicine out of the reach of Kate on a fairly regular basis. Still, one day Kate was pretending to "drive" his car, and I looked down and saw a small pharmacy in the cup holder. In frustration, I picked up all the pills and shoved them in the change pocket of my wallet before Kate could notice the "candy" in daddy's car.

Fast forward to this morning. I have not opened the change purse in my wallet since that day (not joking, I never use real cash anymore so I never have change to put in it). So imagine my SHOCK and FREAKING SURPRISE when I came back from putting laundry in the drier to see Kate sitting on the sofa, playing with my wallet and surrounded by pills. HOLYSONOFABSUCKHELLDAMN!!!!!!

In my sheer panic, I simply yelled at my daughter. Soooooo, mom of the year there. She dropped my wallet (in what I can only assume was a "what IS your problem lady??" reaction) and I swooped down on the pills and demanded she tell me if she ate any of them. She told me, in a small voice and with VERY wide eyes, "No mommy..." Yeah, I would say "No" too if I had a crazy lady virtually attacking me. "Tell me the truth!" I said. "YOU CAN"T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" she yelled back.

Haha, no she didn't. Sorry, basically she kept telling me she didn't eat any of the pills, medicine, candy, whatever I called it, she assured me none of them had not passed her lips.

Not to call my daughter a liar or anything, but I chose to go ahead and pretend she HAD eaten at least one and called poison control. The lady on the other end quizzed me about the number of pills originally in my wallet (if I knew that, I would likely know if she had EATEN ANY, right??) what kind they were, etc. I ended up repeating "I don't know" a bunch of times and telling her repeatedly about the pills in the cup holder so she would know I don't just leave drugs LAYING AROUND FOR MY DAUGHTER TO NOSH ON. That I was PROTECTING HER when I put those in my wallet. Damn it.

We finally got to a point where she told me that unless Kate hoovered 10 pills in the literally two minutes I was gone, she was going to be fine. To watch her for drowsiness or upset tummy. Since I knew there weren't THAT many pills in my wallet, I felt much better. And after a morning at the park, I pretty much figured she hadn't eaten a single pill. But seriously, for a good 15 minutes there, it was really touch and go.

Boring story? Kind of. It didn't end with an ambulance ride, a huge medical bill or anything else that would create a truly good episode of Grey's Anatomy. But it really terrified me. Because often I forget how fragile it all is, how lucky we are to be entrusted with these little disasters. How we sometimes act as the only barrier between our loved ones and certain disaster (injury or death) on a regular basis. So this time, instead of my normal cursing and stomping, I really did think, "Next time I'll do better" and MAN. I can't stress how much I mean it.

Fishing for compliments

I've recently been reminded why fishing for compliments, especially with one's spouse, can be a bad idea. This happened after meeting a couple in our neighborhood who were also having a kiddo in August. They were out walking (exercising). We were (obviously) NOT exercising, but instead watching our daughter spin in circles in the front yard and taking bets on whether she would puke when she was done, or just fall down.

Ben: I need to start walking with you. We should make that a "thing" like last time you were pregnant. You know, walking, you getting exercise.

Oh, yeah, chasing a two-year old isn't exercise at all. Good thing I have you to help me "work out" 

Me: Yeah, it would be good for me to get out and walk more.

Ben: Man, that is crazy she is due the same day as you.

I'm due seven days later, but whatever, this seems close enough so I'll give him the point.

Me: Yep, that is pretty crazy.

Still focusing on the "you need to work out" thing and feeling slightly insulted/insecure in my belly-ness. I'll let him redeem himself here.

Me: Do you think she looked better than me?

LOADED QUESTION. Do. Not. Get. This. Wrong.

Ben: No

Good man.

Ben: I mean, she was smaller than you.

Wait. WHAT?


Ben: I mean, she had a smaller frame.

As in, I'm NORMALLY fatter than exercise lady, so I can't help being fatter in pregnancy??


Ben: And this is her first kid.

So, since I'm already a mom its OKAY that I'm fatter?

Ben: Plus, she was wearing work out clothes, you know, tighter fitting, instead of a big flowing dress.

But I'm not wearing a dress! I'm wearing pretty tight fitting jeans. I don't understand what is happening here? Where is my compliment? Where is my "You look fantastic honey" or "You are the most beautiful pregnant person I've ever seen." WHERE IS IT?!


Me: But... (insert bewildered and wild stare here) I'm not even WEARING a big flowing dress...

Ben: Yeah, but you know what I mean.


What?! What do you MEAN?? No I don't know WHAT YOU MEAN.


Me: Um...


Alternating between crying inside and imagining my fist in his face. Must. Seem. Non-Hormonal...


Me: Sooooooo, what's for dessert?