Guys, I think I can finally claim that we’re almost done with potty training. At this point, Plus One is wearing undies all day and only puts a pull-up on for nap and bedtime. (We figured we’d conquer the AWAKE thing first.)
Yesterday afternoon, after he woke up from his daily slumber, I let his eyes adjust to the light before reminding him to use the potty. He was still half-asleep, I think. He looked at me, but his thoughts were still elsewhere.
To help move things along, I went into the bathroom to fetch his underwear. When I emerged with them, Plus One seemed to snap out of his reverie.
“Mommy! Oh, FANK you! FANK you!” he exclaimed. Upon taking them from my hand, he turned away and embraced his underwear. Oh, that’s right. He cradled them up to his chest as gentle as a momma would her newborn baby. As he headed toward the bathroom, I heard, “Oh, I missed you SO MUCH. You’re my FAVORITE.”
It appears my work here is done, eh? My son is slowly losing his sanity inhibitions and even goes to the bathroom without prompting! VICTORY!
(Stay tuned for the nighttime report! I may be the one cuddling inanimate objects after this is over with.)
Forget about the kids’ milestones for a minute, because I just had a parental milestone. One that is leaving me feeling a bit uneasy, disillusioned, and prone to fits of bipolar episodes.
My 3 1/2 year old learned the F word. YES. THAT WORD.
Now of course HE, the child, is not to blame. In fact, it’s a wonder he made it vernacularly untainted this long. My husband is in the, ahem, military, and I myself could be a stand-in double for … well, I dunno … someone who curses a lot. I was going to say maybe that Girl Gone Child momma, but I don’t know if she curses and she’s got much better fashion sense than myself. Maybe dooce? Eh, my thighs betray me there.
Whatever. Point is: I’m prone to cursing, although I’ve curtailed it dramatically since having children. MOVING ON.
The other evening my husband, myself, and Plus One were sitting in the living room. Us parents were having a conversation about some details of the day while the child played with a car on the carpet below us.
Husband: Oh, MAN. I just realized I forgot gabbaleygoop at work! [I cannot remember AT ALL what we were actually talking about, for obvious reasons.]
Plus One: [Mimicking Daddy] OH FUUUCK!
Me/Hub: Whhhhaa…?
Me: [Grimacing and reaching for anxiety meds.] Oh, BUDDY. We DON’T say that WORD!
Hub: [Mildly concerned.] PLUS ONE, did you just say a word we aren’t supposed to say?
Plus One: Oh, yeah, I fink so. I sayyy….foooooxxxxxessssssss.
You guys. Did you see that right there? FOXes? He totally lied. How awful. And goddamn CLEVER!
What happened after this was a back-and-forth exchange between my husband and I where one of us would lose control and put our heads in our hands to stifle the inappropriate giggling. The other would continue the discipline of Plus One while shooting the other disapproving, angry, pleading, somewhat smirky looks.
What a bunch of AMATEURS! I wanted to slap us both several times. PULL *smack* YOURSELF *smack* TOGETHER *smack*
In the end, Plus One fessed up to the crime once we threatened him with a lie detector test and the maximum penalty allowed by law. Doc Hudson’s law, that is.
And here I am, a week later, still thinking about the incident, disappointed in myself for contributing to my son’s exposure to humanity’s dirty underbelly. But also with a bit of perspective. His vocabulary base may have been contaminated, but his spirit, his smile, his innocence?
It’s always been part of the bedtime routine. When he was a newborn, he’d fall asleep soon after nursing. A full belly and a baby smirk sent him off to twitchy-baby-dream land. Food coma does run in the family; just ask my husband.
Now that T9 is older, drinking whole milk, getting the occasional bottle, and scoping out which of his brother’s toys he’ll DESTROY next, this feed-and-slumber is still part of the routine. About an hour after dinner, I slide his chubby legs into his footsie pajamas, grab his favorite blankie, and then head to the kitchen to pour him a nightcap.
Which, in this case, is milk warmed for exactly 33 seconds in the microwave. (No, 30 seconds is NOT enough time, actually. This is what I *do* people.)
Sure, the articles tell you not to do this–not to combine the bottle with nighttime. But, eh. It’s not like I’m laying him down with the thing. Neither of my kids have ever had an ear infection, either. So in the end, I’m never above plugging my ears and LALALALA-ing the great faceless THEY who preach such things. My bottom line for you? Giving a kid a bottle before bed will not lower his IQ, keep him awake all night, or make him hate his parents. This all happens much later. In college.
But anyway, the other day, as I was bringing T9 around to say goodnight to his DAH-DEE and BRAH-VAH (”brother” that is. My son sometimes slips into foreign tongues). As I handed him to his dad, however, the boy clung to me like a monkey. One hand grabbed my shirt (and breast, unfortunately. OW.), the other my hair, and I’m pretty sure his big toe was tangled in a belt loop. He may have a future in movies folks. If they ever need a new Gollum, that is.
So it was in this moment that my husband and I simultaneously noticed that the boy was forming an—say, unhealthy? absurd? PAINFUL?–attachment to his bottle. I looked at it in my hand, connected the dots to T9’s focused gaze, and frowned a bit. AFTER releasing my boob from his clutch.
I pouted not because of the challenge that lay ahead, but because my world had become a bit darker with the realization that the bah-bah bonding time was coming to an end. T9’s, however, apparently became brighter. Bright white, to be precise: cool, white, dripping with milk, and topped with a latex nipple. In fact, there appeared to be one attached to my husband’s head, as T9 more or less tried to suck on it rather than offer up his typical MMM-AH! goodnight kiss.
Houston? Um, this is awkward.
So that was it. A decision had been made. It was time to get T9 completely off the bottle. It wasn’t going to be a total shock, as he’d already been getting sippy cups throughout the day. Bottles, you see, were strictly still a sleepytime thing. A sleepytime, let-mama-pretend-you’re-still-a-newborn-as-I-rock-you-and-grasp-to-your-last-ounces-of-infancy kind of thing.
Perhaps *mine* was the unhealthy attachment.
Ahem.
The next day, I tried it out at nap time. T9 looked at the cup, then looked at me. “Bah-bah?” he asked.
I corrected him, “MILK.”
He nodded. “MIYL.” Then he grabbed it and walked toward his bedroom.
And that? That was it.
Did the kid protest? Of course not. He’s still trying to figure out how to remove his toes once he gets his shoes and socks off.
Did I protest? Damn straight I did. I was all, “BUT MAH BAYBEEE! *sniffle* *snort* WAIT–I have an idea! Quick! Hit him with a tranq dark or something to stunt his growth and development. Oh FORGET IT! WAHHH.”
This was mental protesting, I should add. I hadn’t yet gotten out the poster board or fully launched my Twitter ribbon campaign.
And here we are. Day 3 off the bottle. And he’s still a snuggle bear with a reverse bald spot who can barely chew meat.
I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing the wet tangles out of my hair. Plus One heard the familiar noise and realized I was done with my shower.
I heard him stampede down the hall and then tip-toe into the doorway.
“Momma! You all done? You all done with your shower?”
“I’m done, Snuggle Bug.”
Then he bellied-up to the sink, placing his fingers over the edge and peering around to see what he could see. I eyed him suspiciously. You see, this has once before ended with a quick grab of Daddy’s razor and a “Look! I’m brushing my hair!”
WITH A RAZOR (!!!)
But this time, right before I clicked on my hairdryer, I saw him point to something in the corner of the vanity.
“Look, Mom, it’s Baby Tom! Does that mean Baby Tom?” He was referring to his little brother.
I wrinkled my brow and saw that he was pointing to Daddy’s (hippie) deodorant:
Tom's of Maine, teaching kids to read since 2010.
People, he was reading. Like, for real. My three year-old boy, who can barely hold his bowels is reading.
I nearly dropped my hairdryer in my efforts to punctuate the moment for him.
GOOD BOY, BUDDY! MOMMY IS SO SO SO PROUD OF YOU! YOU’RE READING! I screamed, while leaping about and high-fiving him into next week.
It was blissful, glorious, and exciting! Well, you know, for about thirty seconds or so.
“It says Thomas! I’m reading! Hooray!” He said, while dancing in a circle.
“Yes, buddy! Good job! Though, this says T-O-M, which is short for Thomas, right?”
What followed, in summary, was something along the lines of, “Oh, no, mother, you blaspheming egghead. That is not right. Not right in the least. And you shall repent your wrongs. Mark. My. Words.
[With a deep, growling, raspy, going-to-have-a-sore-throat voice.] “NOOOO! IIIIT SAAAAYYS THOOOOMMMMAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSS I SAAAAIIID.”
And with that, the celebration abruptly halted as my son through a tantrum that likely shifted the house off its foundation. Sigh. It was as proud a moment as they come for a three year-old.
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.”
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.
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.)
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“Mommy! Oh, FANK you! FANK you!” he exclaimed. Upon taking them from my hand, he turned away and embraced his underwear. Oh, that’s right. He cradled them up to his chest as gentle as a momma would her newborn baby. As he headed toward the bathroom, I heard, “Oh, I missed you SO MUCH. You’re my FAVORITE.”
Houston? Um, this is awkward.
