Okay, so remember all that talk about OH POTTY TRAINING’S NOT THAT BAD!
Well, I take it back, people. I TAKE IT BACK. I am not built for this, I’m afraid. In fact, I just looked it up on WebMD, and I’m pretty sure it’s fatal.
If you don’t believe my hyperbolic proclamations, then 1. you’ve been here before, haven’t you?! and 2. let me offer some proof.
First, a run-down of the supplies that this household has acquired in an attempt to get one stubborn three-year old out of diapers:
1. One immediately-rejected, music-playing training potty.
2. One somewhat-tolerable kid-sized potty seat.
3. Another more decorative,and apparently less-tolerable kid-sized potty seat. (Should’ve stuck with #1…it’s not like you can return them.
4. A Travel potty, for the day we felt brave enough to venture further than 10 feet from our home bathroom.
5. Travel potty covers. (I’m not even sure how to use them.)
6. Pull-ups. I caved.
7. Several packages of big boy “underdies,” which are just as much fun to poop in as diapers!
8. Sticker chart, complete with the COOLEST stickers EVER.
9. One basket full of potty-time-only books.
10.And, a piddle-pad, for the car seat. Because sometimes, your kids are kind of like un-housebroken puppies.
But, unfortunately, this spectacular collection has not cracked him in the slightest, I’m afraid. So we’ve resorted to mind-bending. Oh, that’s right. I’m not above mild psychological experimentation. AAAAND, SCENE!
*****
Me: [*knock, knock*] ARE YOU IN THE BATHROOM, DADDY?!
The Hub: [Muffled voice bellowing from behind closed door.] YES, I AM! I’M IN THE BATHROOM, MOMMY!
Me: OH, BOY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!
The Hub: I’M GOING PEE PEE ON THE POTTY!
Me: WOW! YOU SURE ARE LUCKY!
The Hub: THAT’S RIGHT! GOING PEE PEE ON THE POTTY SURE IS FUN!
[Dear God. Look at what has become of us.]
[Shaking my pride to the floor,I peer stealthily around the corner to see if my toddler has been swayed by the commotion. He glances at me, and for a moment, I am hopeful...The Hub emerges, drying his hands on a small towel.]
The Hub: Hey, bud!
Plus One: Daddy? Why are you shouting at Momma?
Me: Oh, nono…Daddy wasn’t shouting…he was just, eh, excited about going potty, and…uhm…
The Hub: You need to go potty, buddy? Don’t you want some Spider Man stickers?
Plus One: [Nervous.] Umm, no thank you. [Scurries away.]
I’m pretty sure we’re doing this wrong. Next step? Pull up the carpeting and let him run around like a nudist. (Then call on grandma to watch him while I check myself into a, ah, “spa treatment facility.”)
“Don’t stare at the potty-training mother, kids. It’s RUDE.”
When I was still pregnant with my first child, I remember chatting with my friend, Lisa, about her 7 year-old daughter. They’d gone out for some school clothes shopping in the midst of the back-to-school rush. She got quiet suddenly and smirked as she told me about an embarrassing moment during their outing:
Lisa: So, we were standing on line waiting to check out and I CALLED HER BY HER BABY NICKNAME IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.
Me: Umm? That’s embarrassing? Wimp.
Lisa: Oh, COME ON! The nicknames you come up with for your kids are beyond logic or self-control; they’re ridiculous and not to be shared with the public.
Me: Riight.
*****
[Fast forward about 6 months.]
[Setting:My newborn son's room. I am just finishing nursing him, which means I've been in there for at least an hour. Dude liked to EAT.]
The Hub: [Walks past the doorway, stops, and then grabs the door frame to pull himself back to my line of view.] Wait, what was that? What’d you just say?
Me: [Snapping my bra back into place and shifting the Boppy.] Nothing. I was just mumbling to the baby.
The Hub: Right…that’s what I mean. What did you call him?
Me: [Suddenly, blushblushblush.] Uhhh…I think I said, um…
The Hub: Lady, did you call him BOOBER?!
Me: Uhmm, yep! [Nervous laughter.] I do believe I called him BOOBER.
[What?! He was ALWAYS on the boob! It just came out!]
Well, I should start by apologizing for my absence around here as of late. The winter months are a bit of a marathon in my household. My youngest turned one before Thanksgiving:
Then, there was Thanksgiving:
And Christmas:
Then, my eldest turned three:
And, of course, there was New Year’s:
And finally, we commenced potty training.
And really, that last part right there? Try to read that part again with some dramatic film music or some slow-motion zooming or something. Because that last part should kind of say it all. And while I’m sure potty training is relatively far from many of your minds, I think at least some of you have already considered it. And if you’re anything like me, another half of you are already fearing it.
But before you start to hate me, let me point out that while I am usually the dramatic type, I am NOT the JUST-YOU-WAIT-IT-GETS-SO-MUCH-WORSE-! type. So I’m not about to whine and preach about the torments of motherhood. I’m actually here to tell you that it’s not really all that awful. Sure, it takes some time and pateince, but that’s kind of a given at this point, right? Haven’t you already been peed on? Puked on? Washed poop off your clothing and/or fingers?
The difference, I suppose, is that once you remove the diaper, there’s a bit more of a, um, probability-of-mess quotient. It naturally follows, then, that there’s the getting-used-to-the-smell-of-urine part.
But, I like to equate it to smelling your own farts. They’re never as terrible as your husband proclaims. And that’s kind of how the potty training goes. It looks oh-so-awful in your mind, and when it’s happening to others. And, it kind of has it’s moments of oh-no-I-smell-poop-and-you’re-not-wearing-a-diaper! But in the end, it’s never really as bad when it’s your own kid’s urine.
The other day, my mother was over to spend some time with the kids while I booked a one-way ticket out of crazy town got some things done around the house. After lunch, we sat around chit-chatting when my 11 month-old suddenly got very chatty.
Baby: Bah Bah Bah…BAH! BAH BAH!
Me: You talking to Momma, little baby?
Baby: BAH! Bahbahbahbahgahbahdah…dahgahdabuhbah.
Grandma: Did you hear that, Kristine?!
Me: What, mother?
Grandma: He said bye-bye!
Me: Um…I didn’t hear that, exactly, no.
Grandma: Come on, baby! Say, BYE BYE Grandma! BYE BYE!
Baby: BahbahBUHBAH!
Grandma: SEE?! Right there! He SAID IT!
Me: Right. I’ll go mark the calendar, Mom.
I can’t be certain, but I would’ve sworn I saw her Googling “Harvard Admissions” later that evening.
It’s like the Holy Grail of early motherhood. The shiny toy at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. The Pharaoh’s treasure.
Yes, ladies. I’m talking about the burp. Of all my motherly neurosis, I think the burp has a firm grip in the Top Five spot. Because, really? It’s kind of ridiculous. Having said that, it was not uncommon for my evenings to go something like this:
And let’s not forget about the directives I’d leave for the babysitter. Which were followed up by texts. And, ultimately, a phone call:
Babysitter: [Surprised.] Oh, hi Mrs. C…just got your text here.
Me: [Anxious.] Hi! Yeah, well just wanted to follow up in case…you know. So, did he drink his bottle? You warmed it up like I asked, right? And he had his blanket? After jammie time? And with a clean diaper?
Babysitter: [Stifled sigh.] Yeah, I did all that. And he drank 6 ounces.
Me: [Alarmed.] ONLY SIX?! Well, did he have to burp? You burped him, didn’t you?! PLEASE TELL ME YOU BURPED HIM.
Babysitter: [Audible sigh.] Yes, Mrs. C. He burped. And I offered it again, but he wasn’t interested.
Me: [Dramatic sigh.] Well, I guess he’ll be fine. One ounce [yes, really] shouldn’t make too much of a difference. But he did burp, right? Because sometimes he even has to burp tw—
Babysitter: [Sternly.] He. burped. twice. Mrs. C.
Me: [Resigned, embarrassed, ordering wine.] Alright then! Well, just wanted to check in! We’ll let you know when we’re on our way ba—
Babysitter: OKAY! BYE! *click*
(Next week, I’ll offer my tips on how to hire and keep a babysitter.)
The other day I was at the nail salon for like the first time in three years. And I remembered why I use to love going. Other than the nice Asian lady who massages your neck while your nails dry, there’s the other patrons who cluck about like no one in the world can hear them talk about their hernia.
During this particular visit, two women recognized each other. The woman sitting next to me in a pedicure chair was about eight months pregnant. The other, was a 50-60 year old tanner with a predilection for the young adult section of the clothing department. She was also a new grandma. I could surmise from their conversation that they had maybe once worked together or something.
I knew this would be a remarkable conversation within minutes. NO new grandmother can resist unsolicited advice for the pregnant, people. NONE.
Soon they were talking about preperations for the new baby:
TanGrandma: So do you know what you’re having?
PregnantLady: No, we don’t!
TG: [Not believing.] Really?! I always thought it was so much better to know ahead of time. That way you can prepare.
PL: Well, we’re still prepared…gender doesn’t really matter in that department. I’ve been spending all my free time stocking the nursery and—
TG: Oh, don’t even BOTHER. I mean, why stress yourself? You don’t even USE that thing for months!
PL: [Getting bothered.] Well, it’s just this urge I have. I just want to have things set up…
TG: [ROLLS EYES.] Yeah, they call it NESTING. So bird-like. Kinda gross, huh?
I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to butt in.
Me: Sorry to eavesdrop [read: it's impossible NOT to, really], but I just wanted to let you know that I was the same way with both my babies. I wanted everything set up ahead of time.
PL: [Big smile.] RIGHT?! My husband thinks I’m crazy, but …
TG: [Rolls eyes AGAIN.] Oh, I don’t know…
Me: Well, it’s clearly a PERSONAL choice [eyeballs TanGrandma]. And I actually used our nursery almost immediately. I mean, who wants to be stocking drawers and closets after just having GIVEN BIRTH?
TG: [Snaps gum. Adjusts Ugg boots.]
PL: Exactly!
And that kind of winded down the unsolicited advice portion of their conversation. Maybe it was rude of me to interrupt, but I sure as hell would’ve high-fived the crap out of anyone that had come to my rescue in a similar situation. Clearly, I am a martyr.
Anyway, to all you pregnant Mommas out there, the Anti-Unsolicited-Advice Team is alive and well. It can be treacherous territory, but rest assured that your comrades surround you in spirit.
(Beware, you cynical Mommas, Grandmas, and Spinsters.)
Alright, I’ll go first. When I was pregnant, I totally wanted to be pregnant with a baby BOY. Not a girl–no way, thankyouverymuch. I know how I was growing up, and there’s no WAY I wanted to be near that strain of my karmic payback.
As it turned out, I did have a boy. In fact, I had two.
(And now I realize that my karmic payback came in the form of daily hazardous waste cleanups.)
But when I was a few months pregnant, I was still having fun guessing which gender my child might be. I kind of had a “gut feeling” that it was a boy, and my coworkers and friends were convincing me that this was probably accurate. So, good; at least my gut is trustworthy. (Too bad it hates my jeans and is constantly trying to roll out. But now I’m getting off topic…and maybe gross).
But all this talk was making even more curious and I was entirely too impatient to wait for my sonogram. Naturally, I turned to Google, which is “up there” in the trust zone with my gut and sound medical advice.
After a few clicks…BEHOLD! I’d found the Chinese Pregnancy Chart!
After talking again with my co-workers, prodding for inappropriate information (”So, what month were you fornicating with your husband…wait, it was your husband, right? Actually, never mind…just the month is good.”) I crunched some numbers (okay, more like I made up a number) and concluded that this thing was like 90% accurate! (50% of the time!)
No, but really, it totally lined up with both my boys.
But also, I was starting to feel a little silly. I mean, what if my gut (you bastard) was wrong? Or the calendar? Could I really sue the Chinese? Because what if it didn’t work out?
Doctor: Congratulations! It’s a boy!
Parents: Ah, rats. So much for that. Eh, we’ll keep it anyway.
Doctor: …
This kind of internal soul-searching called for some MORE googling (yes, it’s a problem) and I found a SLEW more of these gender-predicting techniques. Some of my favorites:
Sexual position–missionary will help you concieve a girl, and (yes, I quote) “doggie-style” for a boy. Why? Because girls are boring and men are, um, dogs? Is it just me, or does this feel sexist? It’s making me want to burn my bra or something. But not my nice, lacy one from Victoria’s Secret. Maybe that one from Target, however.
Sperm Prediction–Is this even true? Female sperm are “hardier” (good LORD) than male sperm? Because one site tells us that having sex a few days before you ovulate will, ahem, “weed out” the skimpy male sperm and the females (the dying ones, presumably) will be left to catch that egg! Um, yikes.
Caloric intake–more calories will result in a boy and fewer, a girl. What? Like, after the fact? Bitch, PLEASE. We are not picking up what you are laying down. (Did you test this with extra intake of Captain Crunch and cookies?)
Of course, science and technology suggest it’s only a matter of time before we can, in fact, choose our baby’s gender. Which would’ve been cool if I were planning on taking over the world or something. It seems like it would be a bit reminiscent of building an army of clones.
But really, a vending machine would be the MOST convenient, in case any of you scientists out there are listening. *wink*
When I first found out I was pregnant, one of the more exciting things was realizing I was finally going to put to use all those names I’d been collecting over the years.
Me at age 17: Oh, Jeremy…I like that one…Jacob, too! Adeline is pretty for a girl, right?
Oh shut it. Like you DIDN’T do that in between all those games of MASH. Besides, it was less “I-want-to-have-a-kid” and more “naming-things-is-fun.”
Heh.
Anyway, when it was actually go-time, I started to feel the pressure. My husband didn’t like some of them, and the rest no longer seemed PERFECT. [Read: DON'T NAME BABY AFTER EX-BOYFRIENDS] So I searched online. I bought books. I made lists. And, people, the names I was coming up with…?
I had somehow gotten it into my head that my son/daughter’s name would have to be UNIQUE and ORIGINAL and if I heard any prospective name in casual conversation, it’d be dramatically struken of my list:
Friend: Yeah, so then Sam–my brother–told me about this girl he met at the ba–…
Me: HOLD THE PHONE, sister. Your slutty brother is named Samuel?! GODDAMMIT.
(I’m not really such a great friend, it turns out.)
This? This ridiculous behavior? That’s why we end up with children named:
Shithead (Prononuced Sha-teed)
Orangejello (Pronounced Ohrannj-alloh)
and, of course, Apple.
Really.*
But I still couldn’t quite shake the PRESSURE of name-finding. And it only seemed to increase toward the end of my pregnancy. My husband and I still hadn’t decided on a name, but the rest of the world was apparently tired of waiting. WHO KNEW. At work, I was getting inquiries constantly. One conversation is a story I still tell today:
Her: SOOOOO?! What are you going to NAME him?!
Me: Oh…yeah. [Smiling awkwardly.] Well, actually we’re not sure yet! I think we’re going to wait to meet him and then decide between a few.
Her: Oh. Well I guess you can do that.
She guesses?
Her: Well, what are the options?
Me: [Dodging.] Uhmm, to be honest, they kind of change every day.
Her: [Annoyed.] Well, let me tell you. My niece just named her son Tyler. And I really like that name SO much. You can use that one. Make sure you add it to your list.
I CAN USE IT?!
People, it was all I could do to lob my puffy, pregnant hand across her pompous, chubby cheek.
In the end, we selected a name after I gave birth. And it all seemed perfect. I almost didn’t even mind that my husband had more or less decided on this name months prior.
Almost.
__________
*Consult Malcom Gladwell for more on peculiar baby names. He’s got some interesting stuff to say on the matter.
Ah, milestones. Those little achievements that mark the maturation of baby into boy (or girl), and for some mothers, even grounds for some in-your-face my-baby-is-better-than-yours bragging rights.
*LOVE* those moms.
But while there are the standard milestones that our pediatricians and books tell us to look out for, there are some that I find to be much more noteworthy. For example, both T9 (aged 11 months) and Plus One (aged, 2 and 5/6 years) have recently come upon some really amazing accomplishments. Please excuse the dramatic introduction…they’re really just THAT exciting to me:
T9’s FONTANEL is shrinking! Oh, that’s right, this boy has had a crater in his head…a crater that THROBS…for AGES. And it has grossed. me. out. Also? Induced anxiety. Because, really…is it SUPPOSED to throb that much? Is he dehydrated? DOESN’T THAT HURT?! But as he ages, the hole is getting much less noticeable. Also, he has a bit of a patch of hair up there now, so that helps, too.
And Plus One?! Plus One has reached the “Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?” age! (!!)
Yeah, okay, this one is not exactly exciting. Acutally it’s devastating. But he still says things like “pampake” (pancake) and “perrrr-sick!” (perfect!) so that totally (mostly) makes up for the incessant talking.
And, as much as I absolutely HATED when people would tell me to “ENJOY IT!” when I first announced my kids’ births (ENJOY IT?! I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN 10 MONTHS!), I totally get it now. My babies have up and left and these two little boys have come and taken their places! If they weren’t so cute and agreeable (well…), I might have to call the authorities. But we’ll give it a month…see how it goes.
(And *this* is totally how you get tricked into having MORE BABIES.)
I subscribe to the recall list for children’s products because it’s good to know if their beds are actually deathtraps in disguise, or if their teething rings have in fact been pumped full of rat poison. Plus, it makes me look really important because I’m more or less guaranteed an email once weekly.
But it also brings to light the stark contrast between today’s sense of child safety and that of, say my safety when I was a child. Take for example a recent conversation with my mother:
Me: But this catalogue is over the top, Ma. You can’t really think Plus One needs a frigging shampoo visor.
My Mother: Well, maybe not that, but this ear and throat exam kit might be helpful for the baby.
Me: Mom, you’re not lucid. I’m not a doctor! No. What the hell would I even be looking for in there? A Mucinex doll?
My Mother: Well, we just didn’t have things like this when you guys were little. We didn’t even have car seats, really.
Me: What do you mean you didn’t have them, really?
My Mother: Well, I mean, we kind of did…it was like a box that we’d put you in when you were real little…but…
Me: A box?
Yeah, so I did some research on this because I mainly wanted to see if this box was cardboard or what. Well, as it turns out, other people want to know how they survived their childhood as well because I found some pictures of some 1980s car seats (a little after my time but not by much).
Behold:
First: Wow, that’s a lot of nicely-styled hair.
Second: I fully remember a similar couch and blanket (and pillow!) from my childhood…which brings me to #3
Third: I’m pretty sure that kid could possibly be my brother and maybe my parents’ storage shed has been robbed.
But last: Uh, Mother? That doesn’t look like a BOX to me! I mean, sure, it looks completely unstable and a little like Stephen Hawking’s chair, but it’s not a BOX!(?)
Which begs the question…what the hell WAS my mother putting us in? Maybe I’m better off not knowing. At least she didn’t let us stay up late, go to the candy store owned by a pedophile, do heroin.
__________
*PS: I have to apologize for offending the delicate sensibilities of anyone who tuned in to hear my appearance on the Man Time Show. We were *supposed* to be talking about parenting, but, eh…discussed other matters.
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Soon they were talking about preperations for the new baby:
