The War has been won!
21 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
Okay. It’s been about a month now so I’m somewhat confident I can post this. I think we are finally through potty training. Oh my gosh…I actually held my breath as I typed, terrified I may jinx myself. Let’s hope my child doesn’t read this blog and discover my sheer joy and excitement over the fact she now uses a real toilet. I think I’m in the clear…she still can’t tell the difference between the letter S and the number 2. But you never know what they’re teaching them on Nick Jr. these days. She can already hold short conversations with our downstairs buddy, Juan Carlos, thanks to Dora and Diego. Hola, amigo.
I have to give credit where credit is due: a huge thanks to my bestie, Tara, who sent me a very helpful article about fear of potty-training being caused partly by a need for control and partly by separation anxiety. Yes, separation anxiety over losing your poo. Out of your body. Gone forever. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? Really??? Yes…my strong-willed child who would hold her poop for days, negotiate her way out of pooping and into getting snacks anyway, and would scream at the top of her lungs that “It’s not FAIR!!!” when I made her sit on the potty was sad to let go of the poo. I know that sounds CRAZY, but when I actually considered helping her through the anxiety…voila! Potty trained!
So here’s my little speech playing to her little hearts concern over what happens to the poo:
“Hannah, when you say your belly hurts that’s because you have to poo-poo. The Poo-Poo (capitalized because he has now achieved a human persona)…the Poo-Poo wants to come out of your belly so he can go in the potty and get flushed. When you feel your belly hurting, that’s the Poo-Poo knocking on your tummy to tell you he needs to come out. Once you flush the Poo-Poo down the potty he gets to go to a poo-poo party (something like a birthday party?) with ALL his poo-poo friends.”
Okay, now I’m the crazy one.
Her response made me almost poo my own pants, and thankfully I did not, as that would have been somewhat counter-productive to my goal. She SMILED. No tears, no cries, no screams. Absolutely no defiance whatsoever! In fact, her little eyes gleamed with excitement as she climbed on the potty and asked me all sorts of questions. Why did the Poo-Poo live in her belly? Can he swim? What does he do at the poo-poo party? Will he be sad if he can’t see his friends? Do they have cake at their party? And then, my friends, Mr. Poo-Poo got to attend what only Hannah and I could have imagined to be a grand fiesta! (because of course, he speaks Spanish like Juan Carlos and Dora)
Whose crazy now?
She has done so well since that night! I am very proud! She never wears pull-ups, even at bedtime. She sometimes goes without me reminding her, or even better, she reminds ME. And she has only had one accident. ONE. In a month. About which she informed me that it was not she who pooped her pants, it was someone else. When I asked who, she blamed her cousin Jayden. Of course, nevermind he wasn’t even with her that day, she blames him for everything.
The Duck
11 Jul 2011 3 Comments
My life revolves around endless searching for two things: (1) my car keys, but more importantly, (2) this stuffed duck. Keeping up with this duck is a daily battle. He goes everywhere with us. He belongs to Hannah and has affectionately become known as “the one-eyed duck”.
He wasn’t always so shabby. At one time, he was a bright yellow, fully-stuffed, two-eyed cuddly companion. We acquired him just by chance at a random yard sale one day on our way home. As Jerry and I perused through a neighbor’s unwanted goodies, Hannah, who was just one at the time, toddled about pointing and naming items. The neighbor thought she was so irresistibly adorable that she went inside her home in search of a special gift to give her. When she returned, she handed a cute, fuzzy little stuffed duck to Hannah.
Now, although we smiled and thanked her as we got into the car, Jerry and I were exchanging meaningful looks to each other to signal that we were both thinking the same thing: this duck was destined for the trash. Poor Duck. Sad story. You see, Jerry and I were kinda weird about certain things like practical strangers giving random stuffed animals to our only child. I mean, we didn’t know anything about this duck: where he’d been, who’s mouth he had been in, what ulterior motives he had for our child…the usual. However, when we got home Hannah made it very clear, mostly through tears and screams, that she wanted to keep the duck. I think her exact words were, “Mine!!!” when her Daddy tried to take it away and replace it with another, known-to-us stuffed animal. So I washed the duck and they have been inseparable ever since.
Unfortunately for the duck, Hannah had a very strange habit at the time. She would pluck the fuzz off of her stuffed friends and shove it up her nose while sucking her thumb. I’m not sure why half-suffocating yourself with fuzz brings comfort, but I can tell you it makes for interesting and brightly-colored boogers. Countless washings have robbed the duck of his color, his one eye, and most of his stuffing. His neck bow is now tattered threads and he has a smell that a tank of chlorox bleach couldn’t kill. He’s quite possibly biohazardous at this point. It can be a little embarrassing when we are out and about and strangers curl their nose and comment on the duck or pick it up after she drops it like it’s saturated with a flesh-eating virus (which is entirely possible considering all the times he’s been dropped on the Walmart bathroom floor). My response is always the same: this duck has been very well loved!
Not by me, off course. This duck is the bane of my existence. I am constantly searching for the one-eyed duck that is inevitably lost or left behind at least ten times a day. Just tonight, in my absent-minded rush to get the girls home sometime before dawn after a long and weary 12 hour shift, I forgot to check if we had the duck. Hannah noticed his absence just as I was getting her settled onto the couch for bed. Perfect timing. She wailed for thirty minutes while I sent frantic text messages to her grandmother inquiring about the duck’s last whereabouts. Don’t worry, the duck was found safe and arrangements have been made for his drop-off in a secure, undisclosed location. I had to promise Hannah that we would retrieve him first thing in the morning before she would even consider closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep.
Although I will confess, being the great mother that I am, I do exploit her intense love for her fuzzy companion to my advantage sometimes. Every now and then, when Hannah is particularly naughty, the duck has to go in time out. That tactic works well for tantrums, potty training, and getting her to eat her veggies. Okay, I’m lying. McDonald’s doesn’t sell veggies, but you get my point. Actually, I have to admit I have grown quite fond of the duck. Rather, I sincerely appreciate the consistency of comfort he brings to my little one whose world has been so topsy-turvey of late. I dread the day we lose the duck forever, either because she doesn’t need him anymore or because we can’t find him (which is more likely considering I’m responsible for keeping track of him).
So my plea to you, my friends, is this: if you ever find this ratty duck at your house DO NOT don gloves and Lysol and dispose of him. Take a long, hard look at the little guy. He’s one of a kind. However, should you find a new, fluffy little duck that resembles him while you are out and about one day, buy one…or a dozen. Then take it home, rip it’s eye and most of it’s stuffing out, let your dog chew it, and back over it with your car a few times. Then send it my way!
Battle of Wills
14 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
We (meaning Hannah) have been potty training, and we (meaning I) have a deadline. A very important deadline. She has to be fully potty-trained to start Pre-K in the fall, which I think is unreasonable, but whatever. Actually, we’ve had several pretty important deadlines come and go and she still is not potty trained, like her 2 year birthday, 2 1/2, Katelynn’s birth, and so on. These deadlines are more for my convenience than hers, but I still don’t understand what is so scary about pooping in a toilet instead of your britches?
Something about the potty is terrifying to her, downright formidable at times. All I have to say is, “Hannah, let’s go potty,” and she is reduced to a snot-filled, tear-fest of absolute refusal. She tells me she doesn’t need to go, that she will go later even though she’s all wiggly with her legs crossed doing the pee-pee dance, and she asks me why she can’t just go in her pull-up. Good question. That’s because they don’t make pull-ups in sizes larger than 5T. Well, they do only they are called Depends and that only brings back awful memories of nursing school clinicals. So potty training is not an option no matter how hard she tries to negotiate her way out of it.
Each time we make a bathroom trip, we cry, she bargains, I beg, and we sit there in the bathroom discussing the pros and cons of not wetting your pants or crapping in your underwear. Here is the short version:
Me: (putting her on the potty) “Okay, time to go poo poo in the potty.”
Hannah: (crying begins) “Noooooo, I don’t have to go poo poo!” (said while clenching her butt-cheeks)
Me: “Yes you do! Your gas is stinky! (oh how I love being a mom) Let’s just go poo poo really quick and then we’ll get some chocolate.”
Hannah: “I want chocolate now and then I’ll go poo poo.”
Me: “No. Poop first, then chocolate.”
Hannah: (looks at me with those big, blue puppy-dog eyes) “Mom, you can give me just one piece now and then I’ll go poopy. Please? Just one piece of chocolate?”
Me: (why does my child have to be such a good negotiator) “No. Don’t you want to be a big girl? Big girls go poo poo in the potty!”
Hannah: “I don’t want to be a big girl. I’m a baby.”
Me: “You’re not a baby. You’re a big girl! Babies wear diapers. Yucky! You don’t want to wear diapers do you?”
Hannah: “Yes.”
Me: Well, mommy doesn’t want to change your diapers so please go poopy.”
Hannah: (crying) “But you change Katelynn’s diapers!” (sobs)
Me: (great…didn’t think about that one. Let’s not reinforce the sibling rivalry so early) “That’s because Katelynn is a baby, but you are a big girl and mommy will be so proud of you for using the potty!” (Yes! Save!)
Hannah: “Are you not proud of me when I have accidents in my underwear?”
Me: “I’m proud of you always! I love you. Now please go poo poo in the potty.”
Hannah: “Um…Mommy, sometimes we have accidents in our underwear but it’s okay because we didn’t mean to.” (I guess I should quit telling her things she will use against me later)
Me: “Yes, baby. Accidents are okay, but you won’t have an accident if you go potty now.”
Hannah: (crying again) “Mommmmmeeee, I don’t have to go poo poo no more. I can try in a little while! Pleaaaaassssseeee…” (more sobs)
Me: (realizing she probably has lost the urge since we’ve been in the bathroom for three days by now) ” Okay, we will try again in a little bit. You promise you will tell Mommy when you have to go poop?” (she nods head) “You promise you won’t poop in your underwear?”
Hannah: “I promise!”
Finally, I let her up and feel a tad bit guilty about the red, toilet seat shaped imprint on her butt-cheeks. She hugs me, tells me she loves me, and runs off to play. Then, sometime in the next half-hour I will hear her casually inform me from the playroom:
Hannah: “MOOOOMMMMM! I had an accident.”
Hannah 1: Mom 0
A Mom Vacation
02 Jun 2011 1 Comment
Let’s just clear the air here: Mom’s NEVER get a vacation. Ever. We are on-call 24/7 365 days a year. There are no sick days, no holidays, and certainly no vacations. The concept of vacationing with your kids is a poor attempt at pretending you can find some semblance of peace somewhere other than your house, preferably someplace warm and sunny. Yes, it’s a good idea in theory…
So when my best friend asked me if I wanted to get away for awhile with the kids and split the expenses, I didn’t hesitate. I love my kids. I love the beach. I love my best friend. And I love…no, can tolerate…her children. Especially with a half-off discount. We are now mommy vacationing on the beautiful beaches of Gulf Shores, Alabama. Bama, Baby!
As many of you noticed from my Facebook post the other day, we are a party of 8 1/2. That number consists of myself, my 7-month-pregnant best friend, and six small children ages 3 months to 11 years, two of which are special needs. If those stats aren’t enough, only two of us can swim. That would be me and the fetus. Sounds like a fabulous idea, doesn’t it? I know, you are jealous! We can trade friends.
Every time Tara and I go anywhere, we look like an episode of “The Sister Wives.” I watch as strangers’ mouths move as they count us with eyes wide, “…one, two, three…oh my God, and she’s pregnant!” I’m used to it by now though. Tara and I have been friends for a long time and she usually has her crew and an extra kid or two with her. I’m not exactly sure where they come from, but I do glance at the missing kids on the milk carton every now and then. For a while, each time we would go out to eat we had to ask for more highchairs than were available in the restaurant, and probably the one next door. Glad those days are behind us.
Anyway, back to the trip…it has went fairly smoothly. The car smells like poop and boy feet, there is sand all over the condo, and the baby is permanently attached to her car seat. But otherwise, it’s good. I will bestow some advice, should you ever have a nervous breakdown that causes a temporary lapse of sanity leading to you waking up with the wind and waves of the ocean at your back and 6 kids in your face screaming different lines of “Down by the Bay” simultaneously.
First, teaching them “fun trip songs”, as Tara puts it: Bad idea. You can never pack enough Advil to overcome the pain of that mistake.
Be prepared to prepare. It took 2 days to pack, 12 hours to get here, and another 2-3 hours to get everyone fed, suited up, and packed for the beach. All this work to spend an hour in the sand and surf before somebody is hot and pink, the fruit snacks have run out, or someone else needs to poop. Then it takes twice as long to drag the rest of the kids, kicking and screaming, from the water as you threaten to beat them to within an inch of their life if they don’t help you carry the mountain of beach gear they insisted on bringing. “But mommmmm! This (empty) bucket is heavy!” they wail as they throw themselves in the sand. All the while, you are walking past them carrying the cooler, the beach bag, a beach umbrella, and probably one of their brothers or sisters.
Finally, just relax! This is the closest thing you will have to a vacation for the next eighteen (or thirty. Whatever.) years, so enjoy it! Your kids are only young once, and the same can be said for yourself. Besides, if you take enough pictures of everyone smiling, you will soon forget about all the overtired, overheated, whining, complaining kill-joy moments of your mom vacation. And so will your kids!
Happy Travels!
Ice cream & presents from Jesus
20 May 2011 1 Comment
I love new moms! They are so excited about joining the special ranks of motherhood that we all hold so dear. They celebrate the accomplishment of each developmental milestone with sincere joy and pride. One of the most anticipated skills that a mother waits for her child to master is the art of speech. When you hear that first, “Muuum Ma,” mumbled from between their fat little, rosy cheeks, your heart fills up and overflows through your eyes. It is truly one of the most cherished memories you will have of your child.
However, let me express to you how soon your excitement will turn into laughter. And a little bit (okay, sometimes a lot) of embarrassment. I was thinking about this the other day after hearing a story from a friend about her two year old that made me double over in a fit of giggles, even now, as I am writing this. Her little heart strongly desired an ice cream sandwich, and in her beautiful and infinite two year old wisdom, she yelled out her demand as, “I WANT A BLACK HAMMMMMMBURGER!!!”
Twos are so fun, as they are rapidly developing their vocabulary and sense of understanding of the world. Mostly, they understand this: Ask and you shall receive. If you don’t receive, scream. Louder if you are in public. And they will say the most socially inappropriate things while you are out that catch you so completely off guard, you have no choice but to laugh and duck your head as others stare in amazement. When Hannah was two, we were in Target and a Latino gentlemen walked by us in the toy aisle. In all fairness, I was a little surprised at his appearance myself. He was a short man, not even as tall as me, wearing skin-tight wranglers, snakeskin boots, and a ten-gallon Texas-style hat. Hannah looked directly at him and yelled, “HEY, COWBOY! WHERE’S YOUR HORSEY???” All I could do was snort with convulsions of muffled laughter. Luckily, I don’t think he could speak English because he never even blinked an eye of acknowledge at her outburst. Or, perhaps, he was terrified I was being possessed by demons from the way my body was contorting in an effort not to laugh out loud until my sides hurt.
Now that Hannah is three, her understanding and vocabulary have reached a point that she is beginning to wonder about and discuss much more complex topics. Sometimes, we have discussions and it doesn’t seem like she “gets it” or is paying a lick of attention to the words that come out of my mouth. How many times does a person need to be told, “Don’t put your toys in your baby sister’s nose! She won’t be able to breathe!!!” But every now and then, I get a little glimpse of the impact of what I have to say has on her. Lately, we have been discussing God, faith, and prayer. Yesterday, when she was playing with her 4-year-old cousin in the backyard, I overheard this conversation:
HANNAH: “Who made you?”
JAYDEN: “Spiderman.”
HANNAH: “Who else made you?”
JAYDEN: (pondering the question for a moment) “I made myself.”
HANNAH: “No Jayden. God made me and God made you. God makes everbodies and dogs.” (just dogs? none of the other animals?)
JAYDEN: “Oh. God made dogs?” (apparently, we think alike)
HANNAH: (completely ignores his, in her mind, ignorant question) “Who MADE you, Jayden???”
JAYDEN: “God made me!”
HANNAH: “I love God.”
And as quickly as it began, it was over and they were fighting over the bubble wands. My ears could not believe it! My heart melted. All I wanted to do was jump on the table and yell, “HALELUJAH! CAN I GET A WITNESS!!!” It was a proud mom moment to hear your three-year-old discussing something so incredibly important with another child and gave me a sense that maybe she is listening to me. Although, before we went to bed last night, I asked her to say her prayers and she wanted to know why we say prayers each night. I told her it was to give God thanks for everything He has given us and ask Him for the things we want or need. She then clenched her little eyes and clasped her small hands together as tightly as she could and said this prayer, “Dear God, Thank you for this day and please bring me a surprise tomorrow. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.” Then she turned to me and said, “Mom, God will bring me presents tomorrow.”
Soooooooo……we’ll keep working on it! I’m going to finish eating my black hamburger as I think about how I’m going to address her concern that God did not leave her any presents tomorrow morning.
