I had the best plans for last night. It was going to be all sweet and tender and full of memory making stuff - Tree Decorating Night. I imagined telling Hannah the stories about our ornaments, having a cookie or two, maybe making a cup of cocoa. Nope. Last night we created a new tradition - Burn dinner and run around like you have no idea what you're doing. Yay!
I HATE cooking in oil - like "pour a tablespoon of oil in a skillet then place XXX into the hot oil" kind of cooking in oil. I almost always burn stuff. Well, last night I both burned and undercooked the same food item.
I love Aldi for many reasons. They have a decent selection in the types of food they sell (not choices of brands) and they are happy on my grocery budget. A few months ago I picked up a box of frozen breaded pork tenderloin. I had heard wonderful things. The first time I cooked them, one side was a little darker than I would have liked, but they tasted fine and we had a nice dinner. Last night I burned one side of our dinner black and then turned them over to cook the other side. That side was a beautiful golden brown. When I took our dinner's temperature (I'm a bit scared of cooking pork) it was a good 50 degrees colder than my thermometer's safety guidelines suggested. I set everything aside to cool and walked away from the kitchen.
After dinner had been ruined, Hannah and I decided to put the ornaments on the tree. It was fulled with wonderful, loving phrases like, "AAAH!!! That one is made of glass! Put it down, put it down!" and "I know you love Cookie Monster, but that's mommy's ornament from when she was your age. Oh, please don't cry", and my favorites "Angus, get away from that!", and "Dammit! Algernon, get out from under the tree!" By the time we'd finished it was 7pm and I hadn't fed my kid dinner. Because I'm awesome.
The rest of the night was a whirlwind of eggs, yogurt, Clifford, and bath time. Still, I managed to get Hannah in bed almost on time and somehow convinced her to stay in her bed all night. Our conversation went a little something like this:
Me: "If you stay in your bed tonight you will get flat eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning and you will get to eat your Advent calendar chocolate."
Hannah: "But I like to sleep in your bed. It's one of my rules."
Me: "No, the rule is to sleep in your own bed."
Hannah: "Okay. But I don't want eggs anyway."
Me: "You won't get chocolate. There will be. no. candy."
Hannah: "Oh. Well, okay. G'night Mommy."
I bribed her with chocolate at breakfast. And I'm not ashamed.
The best part of the night was when I started walking downstairs and smelled the wonderful Chinese feast Bryan had brought home from Kin Lin. We both agreed I should ruin dinner more often. Perhaps we've started a new family tradition, just not the one we were expecting.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
The best moments are not always caught on film
Every once in a while there is a moment when I wish our camera was permanently attached to my body so I wouldn't miss out on some of the wonderful moments that happen around here.
Bedtime has become a bit of a struggle as Miss Sassy Pants wrestles with us for more control of how things are done round these here parts. Will we get into jammies and then brush teeth or will we watch Clifford and read one book or will we read 4 books and sing 3 songs or will we go camping in her room? But every once in a while there is a night when it all comes together. She brushes her teeth and there is giggling. She puts on her jammies and doesn't stall for 10 years because she has to do the buttons All By Herself. She's had enough stories and doesn't try to con us into more. Last night was a good night.
About 45 minutes after Bryan went upstairs to put her to bed, I tiptoed up there to wake him up. I guess he thought he should lead by example? When I opened the door, both daddy and daughter were asleep, side-by-side on the floor. Holding hands.
It is so amazing to watch Bryan be Hannah's dad. Does it sometimes drive me nuts that he's not doing something with quite as much care or precision as I might? Yes. Yes it does. In no small way does it sometimes drive me up the freaking wall. But then I see them holding hands, or conspiring about something together on the couch, or see his patience with her unending questions and stall techniques and those things that I do my way and he does his way don't bother me quite so much.
This picture was captured right before Hannah's blessing at our church in the Spring of 2008. We didn't even know it existed until someone told me they loved the picture of Bryan and Hannah that was on the church's website. I am forever grateful and happy to have this moment captured.
Bedtime has become a bit of a struggle as Miss Sassy Pants wrestles with us for more control of how things are done round these here parts. Will we get into jammies and then brush teeth or will we watch Clifford and read one book or will we read 4 books and sing 3 songs or will we go camping in her room? But every once in a while there is a night when it all comes together. She brushes her teeth and there is giggling. She puts on her jammies and doesn't stall for 10 years because she has to do the buttons All By Herself. She's had enough stories and doesn't try to con us into more. Last night was a good night.
About 45 minutes after Bryan went upstairs to put her to bed, I tiptoed up there to wake him up. I guess he thought he should lead by example? When I opened the door, both daddy and daughter were asleep, side-by-side on the floor. Holding hands.
It is so amazing to watch Bryan be Hannah's dad. Does it sometimes drive me nuts that he's not doing something with quite as much care or precision as I might? Yes. Yes it does. In no small way does it sometimes drive me up the freaking wall. But then I see them holding hands, or conspiring about something together on the couch, or see his patience with her unending questions and stall techniques and those things that I do my way and he does his way don't bother me quite so much.
This picture was captured right before Hannah's blessing at our church in the Spring of 2008. We didn't even know it existed until someone told me they loved the picture of Bryan and Hannah that was on the church's website. I am forever grateful and happy to have this moment captured.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Catching up feels like admitting nothing really happens
I have not written a blog entry in a long time. Since my last post a lot of things happened.
Naps. There were several naps within the past few months. Not mine. I hate napping But I do love it when the child takes a nap:
Perfecting pizza recipes - well, not perfecting but improving upon. I want to believe my best pizza ever made hasn't happened yet:
Attendance to Hot Air Balloon Festivals on hot-ass days when storms kept the balloons from flying. But don't worry, really bad face painting was available:
Slamming of fingers in car doors right before photo sessions:
Witnessing the Kansas City Wizards (now Sporting Kansas City - Gah! Horrible new name!) play and win against Manchester United:
The point is: We did a lot of fun stuff. We participated in multiple activities. We had several difficulties. We dealt with things and had basements waterproofed and recovered from tonsillectomies, etc. So much time has passed since my last post that nothing feels important enough to highlight.
It's like that when I catch up with friends on the phone or via facebook or email or whatever. I am so excited to chat and then I struggle to remember what has happened. Or events are retold with such lack of detail or enthusiasm that I feel like an idiot who doesn't think things that happened in my own life are interesting enough to remember then why they hell do I think they are interesting enough to tell someone else and THEN I sound like I have the most boringest life ever. Or my stories sound like the previous sentence - completely unstructured
So, I've been un-bloggerly for a long time. I hope to change that. Mainly because I need a lot of material to embarrass my kid with when she's older. And how will I do this if I don't have a history of postings regaling us all with tales of potty training, pooping, fingernails that fall off, attitude and pre-school pissiness, and other wonderful and woeful topics? I hope there are people out there who read this blog. The bloggers (that would be the They they all refer to) say to blog for yourself. Write for yourself. Well, that's just boring and not what I really want. I would like to provide a chuckle or smile to those who want or need one. I would like to receive feedback and comments from people (friends & kind strangers both) who stumble over here.
So, I'm going to try to blog more often for myself like they tell me to because if I do I have a better chance of achieving those smile-giving goals. And maybe I'll become rich and famous, too. 'Cause that's really what I'm hoping for.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Our poor waitress...
After posting about my calendar misunderstanding, Bryan reminded me of something I'd done in undergrad, years before I'd met him. This story was shared with him a couple of days before our wedding. And he still went through with it. That's commitment. Now he is committed.
In Kalamazoo during the time I was in undergrad, there were few eating establishments that were open late enough to work with both our theatre schedules and our underage status. You had your choice of Sweetwater Donuts, Steak and Shake (oh my word do I love me a Frisco Melt Platter with fries and beans), a truck stop, and Big Boy. Big Boy was only minutes from campus and served actual food. This is the place we normally headed to for late night dinners. If you've never experienced a Big Boy, think Denny's with a much smaller menu , fewer high school students and more senior citizens. Their Big Boy Burger is a burger with thousand island dressing. This is their menu's highlighted item. Oh, and the double-decker grilled cheese. Not the best place in town for foodies, but a nice place to catch up after rehearsal.
One night when several friends and I had gathered to rehash our day, my roommate decided he wanted a milkshake. OOOOOO! Like a herd of sheep who knew how to read and had opposable (ha! spell checker thinks this should be imposable) thumbs, we all whipped our menus back open to actively contemplate our milkshake options. Yes, the choice between chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla was the most important decision at that moment.
Our waitress, most likely a college student herself, stopped by to take our order. We all told her our what'll you haves and then my roommate, such a trend setter, changed his mind. He didn't think he'd have a shake. He thought he'd enjoy a malt. Please.
Up until this point in my life, I'd never encountered anyone who had ordered a malt in my presence. I did not understand what this delicacy was. How was this different than the lowly milkshake? And so, I asked.
J replied, "It's like a shake, but it tastes like a Whopper."
I stared at him, squinting my eyes and hoping this would make his answer clear to me.
Then I replied, "Why the hell would anyone want a milkshake that tastes like a hamburger from Burger King?"
In Kalamazoo during the time I was in undergrad, there were few eating establishments that were open late enough to work with both our theatre schedules and our underage status. You had your choice of Sweetwater Donuts, Steak and Shake (oh my word do I love me a Frisco Melt Platter with fries and beans), a truck stop, and Big Boy. Big Boy was only minutes from campus and served actual food. This is the place we normally headed to for late night dinners. If you've never experienced a Big Boy, think Denny's with a much smaller menu , fewer high school students and more senior citizens. Their Big Boy Burger is a burger with thousand island dressing. This is their menu's highlighted item. Oh, and the double-decker grilled cheese. Not the best place in town for foodies, but a nice place to catch up after rehearsal.
One night when several friends and I had gathered to rehash our day, my roommate decided he wanted a milkshake. OOOOOO! Like a herd of sheep who knew how to read and had opposable (ha! spell checker thinks this should be imposable) thumbs, we all whipped our menus back open to actively contemplate our milkshake options. Yes, the choice between chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla was the most important decision at that moment.
Our waitress, most likely a college student herself, stopped by to take our order. We all told her our what'll you haves and then my roommate, such a trend setter, changed his mind. He didn't think he'd have a shake. He thought he'd enjoy a malt. Please.
Up until this point in my life, I'd never encountered anyone who had ordered a malt in my presence. I did not understand what this delicacy was. How was this different than the lowly milkshake? And so, I asked.
J replied, "It's like a shake, but it tastes like a Whopper."
I stared at him, squinting my eyes and hoping this would make his answer clear to me.
Then I replied, "Why the hell would anyone want a milkshake that tastes like a hamburger from Burger King?"
Friday, August 13, 2010
Professionalism
I worked at a bookstore for a few years on a part-time basis. For the most part, it was a great place to work. I worked with some great people, had fun while I worked, and got to interact with some very nice customers. One of the skills we were encouraged to develop was non-reaction. Our job was to help the customers, not judge them.
In early January 2008, a male customer, probably in his late 40's/early 50's approached my register with a specific calendar question. "Miss," (he called me Miss which was kinda nice because the Ma'ams had started coming more frequently since the birth of my daughter), "do you have any penis calendars?" Without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well sir, I'm not quite sure if I've seen any of those on the shelves, but let's head over to the calendars and see what we can find." I was pretty sure we didn't carry penis calendars but was thinking we might find something in the "One-A-Day" calendars that might work. Maybe a cartoon or something.
We searched throughout the section without any luck. As most of the calendar stock was sold prior to the holidays, the available styles had dwindled down to the more unpopular subjects - golf jokes, country cottages, the highly confusing "Busy Mom's Home Organizer", pigs in tutus, etc. I apologized to the customer and told him if he'd like to order one to please let me know and I'd be happy to help. He thanked me for my assistance and went to another part of the store to shop and I went back to my register.
About a half hour later, the man approached my register and asked if we could try to order the calendar. I pulled up the appropriate screen on my computer and asked, "Now, you were looking for a penis calendar, right?" There was no response. I looked up to a very red-faced man who began to stutter, "No, no, no, no. No. I said Peanuts calendar. Like, Snoopy." And without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well, that's a very different calendar. Peanuts, let's see what we have. I think we may have a few of those left on the shelves."
In early January 2008, a male customer, probably in his late 40's/early 50's approached my register with a specific calendar question. "Miss," (he called me Miss which was kinda nice because the Ma'ams had started coming more frequently since the birth of my daughter), "do you have any penis calendars?" Without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well sir, I'm not quite sure if I've seen any of those on the shelves, but let's head over to the calendars and see what we can find." I was pretty sure we didn't carry penis calendars but was thinking we might find something in the "One-A-Day" calendars that might work. Maybe a cartoon or something.
We searched throughout the section without any luck. As most of the calendar stock was sold prior to the holidays, the available styles had dwindled down to the more unpopular subjects - golf jokes, country cottages, the highly confusing "Busy Mom's Home Organizer", pigs in tutus, etc. I apologized to the customer and told him if he'd like to order one to please let me know and I'd be happy to help. He thanked me for my assistance and went to another part of the store to shop and I went back to my register.
About a half hour later, the man approached my register and asked if we could try to order the calendar. I pulled up the appropriate screen on my computer and asked, "Now, you were looking for a penis calendar, right?" There was no response. I looked up to a very red-faced man who began to stutter, "No, no, no, no. No. I said Peanuts calendar. Like, Snoopy." And without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well, that's a very different calendar. Peanuts, let's see what we have. I think we may have a few of those left on the shelves."
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I do what they do!
Superbowl Sunday, 2010. Buffalo Chicken dip is baking away for the party we will be attending, good friends have stopped by to say hello, and Hannah is upstairs in her room for "quiet time" which so far, has been less than quiet. The pitter patter of little feet coming down the stairs are heard. Hannah is calling for V & S. As she rounds the corner on the landing, we see she is completely, 100% nekkid. After hugs hello, I take her upstairs to get re-dressed.
We enter her room, clean before quiet time, but now a jumble of blankets, babies, books, and puzzle pieces. Hannah's pajamas and pull-up are nowhere to be found. I ask my child, "Hannah, where are your clothes? Will you please get them for mommy?" Hannah scampers out of her room and into the hallway, seemingly on her way to the bathroom. However, she does not hang a left into our smallish, unheated bathroom. Instead, she drops down onto her (nekkid) belly and crawls under the baby gate we keep about a foot off the floor in the door jam of our guest room. This room, when not inhabited by guests, is the cats' room. Their litter boxes and food are kept in this Angus-proofed space. The baby gate is up off the floor to accommodate our older, slightly less than limber cat, Buddy, who prefers to go under things instead of jumping over them.
Hannah walks over to the litter boxes, bends down and is slightly hidden by the bed. She comes back to the doorway with her pj's and pull-up, drops to the floor and crawls back to the hallway. I sternly ask, "Hannah, why were your clothes by the litter boxes? Were you playing in them again? I've told you that they are not toys, they are yucky. They are the cats' bathroom." Hannah shrugs and tells me, "I don't know."
Fast forward two hours when we are celebrating the Superbowl with food, drink, and more conversation than the die-hard football fans appreciate. Hannah runs to me and announces, "I have to potty!"
Being the good mom I am, I immediately set down my plate of goodness and carbs, take a quick drink of my Bells Coffee Stout, grab her hand and we race off to the bathroom. Hannah does her business and as I'm praising her for peeing in the pot, I am also helping her wipe. While I'm ensuring her tush dryness, I notice some strange looking dirt in her butt crack. I look a bit closer. Yes, it's kinda gross, but it's my job. My job, along with feeding, clothing, loving, supplying fruit snacks, and reading bedtime stories to her also includes hygiene of the nether regions. Until she can care for her own business, it's just part of my job description.
Anyways, I'm looking closer at the dirt in her crack and notice, it looks a lot like cat litter. And it all comes together. I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. I can barely speak, but do manage to ask, "Hannah? Did you go potty in the cats' litter boxes?" And my sweet child replies, "Yes! Yes, Mommy! I did! I did! I do what they do!"
We enter her room, clean before quiet time, but now a jumble of blankets, babies, books, and puzzle pieces. Hannah's pajamas and pull-up are nowhere to be found. I ask my child, "Hannah, where are your clothes? Will you please get them for mommy?" Hannah scampers out of her room and into the hallway, seemingly on her way to the bathroom. However, she does not hang a left into our smallish, unheated bathroom. Instead, she drops down onto her (nekkid) belly and crawls under the baby gate we keep about a foot off the floor in the door jam of our guest room. This room, when not inhabited by guests, is the cats' room. Their litter boxes and food are kept in this Angus-proofed space. The baby gate is up off the floor to accommodate our older, slightly less than limber cat, Buddy, who prefers to go under things instead of jumping over them.
Hannah walks over to the litter boxes, bends down and is slightly hidden by the bed. She comes back to the doorway with her pj's and pull-up, drops to the floor and crawls back to the hallway. I sternly ask, "Hannah, why were your clothes by the litter boxes? Were you playing in them again? I've told you that they are not toys, they are yucky. They are the cats' bathroom." Hannah shrugs and tells me, "I don't know."
Fast forward two hours when we are celebrating the Superbowl with food, drink, and more conversation than the die-hard football fans appreciate. Hannah runs to me and announces, "I have to potty!"
Being the good mom I am, I immediately set down my plate of goodness and carbs, take a quick drink of my Bells Coffee Stout, grab her hand and we race off to the bathroom. Hannah does her business and as I'm praising her for peeing in the pot, I am also helping her wipe. While I'm ensuring her tush dryness, I notice some strange looking dirt in her butt crack. I look a bit closer. Yes, it's kinda gross, but it's my job. My job, along with feeding, clothing, loving, supplying fruit snacks, and reading bedtime stories to her also includes hygiene of the nether regions. Until she can care for her own business, it's just part of my job description.
Anyways, I'm looking closer at the dirt in her crack and notice, it looks a lot like cat litter. And it all comes together. I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. I can barely speak, but do manage to ask, "Hannah? Did you go potty in the cats' litter boxes?" And my sweet child replies, "Yes! Yes, Mommy! I did! I did! I do what they do!"
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Adventures in Potty Training
There are many things I didn't think about very much while my oven was baking up a Hannah-shaped bun. Potty training was one of these things. In my mind, I sort of glossed over this section of training and went straight from diapers to pull-ups to panties. And voila! The child would be doing her business with little help from good ole' mom and dad.
Hahahahaha! I was dumb. I am dumb no longer. I did not realize the amount of emotional involvement potty training would entail. We go through the throws of anticipation, fear, terror, embarrassment, frustration, joy, and hope on a daily basis. I didn't take Hannah's opinions into account when planning our potty training action plan and crafting our "dry pants are happy pants" mission statement. I also misjudged my daughter's ability to manipulate her parents.
Do you know the fear that causes you to leap from your bed in the middle of the night? That heart leaping into your throat feeling? We experience this nightly. About 5am, we hear our cherub's lovely little girl voice float through the baby monitor and into our ears where it teases our sleep-induced brains with these words, "Mommy, I pee peed." "Daddy, I pooped." "Mommy, I peed." "Daddy, I poop." By the time our ears and brains are communicating and we've both stopped playing the, "If I pretend to be asleep maybe he/she will get up and take care of this one" game, both of us are in a slight panic. You see, we've heard the stories of relatives and children of friends who woke in the middle of the night and turned into miniature Picassos using their bedroom walls as canvas and their dirty diapers as paint. And no matter who winds up running to Hannah's room, the results are the same. She's fine. Her pull-up is intact. Her jammies are dry. She has been calling Wolf, or rather she has been calling Pee Pee. Hannah's ultimate goal in the mornings is to go downstairs and watch cartoons. She realizes we are easier to manipulate when we are tired. Our child is ruthless in her efforts and we fall right into her trap every time.
Another part of potty training I gave no consideration to was the matter of my husband, a man, participating in the process. I never thought he wouldn't participate but would in fact play a large part in her success. But I didn't think about the differences between men and women peeing in the toilet. Maybe it's because I've heard the manly rule of, "If you shake it more than three times, you're playing with yourself," enough times when my male friends and husband have educated me on Men's Room Etiquette that I just assumed Bryan was privy to the details of female urination and I wouldn't have to over-think this as I am prone to do on nearly every other subject. Wrong.
The other night, Hannah sat herself down on the potty seat, did her business and called, "Daddy, I pee peed! Daddy, I pee peed!" Bryan did what he normally does and headed back to the bathroom to help her empty the tray that catches what she lets go and to help her get dressed again. Sometimes the pants don't quite make it up over her butt when she pulls them back up. Funny, but it is winter and we have an old, drafty house.
I was in the kitchen finishing up dinner and heard their exchange. Bryan, "Okay, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "No Daddy, I need paper." Bryan, "Come on, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "Daddy, no!" And it dawned on me. When Bryan aided in her peeing process, there was no wiping involved. What!? What!? What!?
And then I stuck my head into the potty chair room and said, "Um, honey? You know she has to be wiped every single time she goes to the bathroom, no matter if it's pee or poop? That's what girls do. Have you been wiping her?" I never got an answer, but if diaper rash is seen less frequently around these parts, I won't be too surprised.
The most recent potty training episode involves a pull-up, Hannah's dirty clothes hamper, my clothes washer, and most likely, an exhausted parent (probably Bryan, but there is no proof at this time).
As we get closer and closer to the time when we'll say good bye to pull-ups forever (at least during the day), we tend to get a tad sloppy with anything other than underwears. This was the root cause of the mess I just tended to. Just to interject, I wanted to call her underwear 'panties'. I thought it was cute, girlie, and perfect for Hannah. Hannah decided she wanted to call them 'underwears'. The 'S' is NOT silent. And if you skip the 'S', she will let you know. Loudly.
Anyways, being unemployed stinks. But there are benefits, too. One of them is I can get all of our laundry done during the day so I'm not tied to the washing machine on Saturday or Sunday when I'd rather be hanging out with the family and friends. And, as we have a child who is potty training, I am never without dirty laundry. Oh, and here's a laundry tip for you: If washing urine soaked clothing, slippers, sheets, rugs, couch covers, etc. in cold water in an effort to A) save energy or B) save the clothing, splurge and buy Tide Coldwater detergent. In a 2 product test that was performed in my basement by the Pee Pee Washers Association, Tide Coldwater eliminated that pesky urine smell much better than Arm & Hammer Fresh Waterfall by the Beach on a Beautiful Summer's Day Scent was able to.
Anyways, take II. Today, on the coldest day I have experienced outside of Kalamazoo, MI, I decided to tackle the dirty clothes in order to keep our long underwear, sweats, footie jammies, and other warm items in rotation. Armed with my latest full basket of dirty clothes, I braved our very cold basement. Now, I knew I had washed a load the other day and had yet to transfer the items to the dryer. I jauntily swung the lid open and stuck my hand into the washer full of cold, wet, clean clothes to transfer them for their tumble dry. Without looking I tossed handfulls of clothes into the dryer. And then I felt something. Something strange. Something wet, squishy, cold, and silicone-y.
A pull-up had been washed. A pull-up that uses a moisture absorbing gel to trap and keep moisture away from baby's delicate skin. A pull-up that had absorbed as much water as was possible before exploding onto a load of washing laundry. A load of mostly dark and black clothes. Our vigilance in making sure dirty pull-ups make it into the diaper pail and not into the dirty clothes hamper had failed. And I am now dealing with the consequences of our laissez-faire approach to diaper disposal.
The clean up is on-ongoing and extensive. It involved vigorous shaking of each item that was in the washer, two separate sweeping-up episodes, a hot wash of an empty machine to clear the remaining gel stuff, and will, hopefully, conclude with a third washing of the clothing.
I tell you all of this not just to make you laugh at my foibles and follies in the land of potty training, but to give you pause to think. What items in life have you glossed over only to be kicked in the tushie when faced with reality? What advice can you provide for those forgotten or ignored life tests that others may soon encounter?
Please, leave comments. It's too cold to leave the house, most of my rooms are cleaned and organized and I need human interaction. Help keep me sane. No work and no play makes Stacy a crazy lady.
Hahahahaha! I was dumb. I am dumb no longer. I did not realize the amount of emotional involvement potty training would entail. We go through the throws of anticipation, fear, terror, embarrassment, frustration, joy, and hope on a daily basis. I didn't take Hannah's opinions into account when planning our potty training action plan and crafting our "dry pants are happy pants" mission statement. I also misjudged my daughter's ability to manipulate her parents.
Do you know the fear that causes you to leap from your bed in the middle of the night? That heart leaping into your throat feeling? We experience this nightly. About 5am, we hear our cherub's lovely little girl voice float through the baby monitor and into our ears where it teases our sleep-induced brains with these words, "Mommy, I pee peed." "Daddy, I pooped." "Mommy, I peed." "Daddy, I poop." By the time our ears and brains are communicating and we've both stopped playing the, "If I pretend to be asleep maybe he/she will get up and take care of this one" game, both of us are in a slight panic. You see, we've heard the stories of relatives and children of friends who woke in the middle of the night and turned into miniature Picassos using their bedroom walls as canvas and their dirty diapers as paint. And no matter who winds up running to Hannah's room, the results are the same. She's fine. Her pull-up is intact. Her jammies are dry. She has been calling Wolf, or rather she has been calling Pee Pee. Hannah's ultimate goal in the mornings is to go downstairs and watch cartoons. She realizes we are easier to manipulate when we are tired. Our child is ruthless in her efforts and we fall right into her trap every time.
Another part of potty training I gave no consideration to was the matter of my husband, a man, participating in the process. I never thought he wouldn't participate but would in fact play a large part in her success. But I didn't think about the differences between men and women peeing in the toilet. Maybe it's because I've heard the manly rule of, "If you shake it more than three times, you're playing with yourself," enough times when my male friends and husband have educated me on Men's Room Etiquette that I just assumed Bryan was privy to the details of female urination and I wouldn't have to over-think this as I am prone to do on nearly every other subject. Wrong.
The other night, Hannah sat herself down on the potty seat, did her business and called, "Daddy, I pee peed! Daddy, I pee peed!" Bryan did what he normally does and headed back to the bathroom to help her empty the tray that catches what she lets go and to help her get dressed again. Sometimes the pants don't quite make it up over her butt when she pulls them back up. Funny, but it is winter and we have an old, drafty house.
I was in the kitchen finishing up dinner and heard their exchange. Bryan, "Okay, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "No Daddy, I need paper." Bryan, "Come on, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "Daddy, no!" And it dawned on me. When Bryan aided in her peeing process, there was no wiping involved. What!? What!? What!?
And then I stuck my head into the potty chair room and said, "Um, honey? You know she has to be wiped every single time she goes to the bathroom, no matter if it's pee or poop? That's what girls do. Have you been wiping her?" I never got an answer, but if diaper rash is seen less frequently around these parts, I won't be too surprised.
The most recent potty training episode involves a pull-up, Hannah's dirty clothes hamper, my clothes washer, and most likely, an exhausted parent (probably Bryan, but there is no proof at this time).
As we get closer and closer to the time when we'll say good bye to pull-ups forever (at least during the day), we tend to get a tad sloppy with anything other than underwears. This was the root cause of the mess I just tended to. Just to interject, I wanted to call her underwear 'panties'. I thought it was cute, girlie, and perfect for Hannah. Hannah decided she wanted to call them 'underwears'. The 'S' is NOT silent. And if you skip the 'S', she will let you know. Loudly.
Anyways, being unemployed stinks. But there are benefits, too. One of them is I can get all of our laundry done during the day so I'm not tied to the washing machine on Saturday or Sunday when I'd rather be hanging out with the family and friends. And, as we have a child who is potty training, I am never without dirty laundry. Oh, and here's a laundry tip for you: If washing urine soaked clothing, slippers, sheets, rugs, couch covers, etc. in cold water in an effort to A) save energy or B) save the clothing, splurge and buy Tide Coldwater detergent. In a 2 product test that was performed in my basement by the Pee Pee Washers Association, Tide Coldwater eliminated that pesky urine smell much better than Arm & Hammer Fresh Waterfall by the Beach on a Beautiful Summer's Day Scent was able to.
Anyways, take II. Today, on the coldest day I have experienced outside of Kalamazoo, MI, I decided to tackle the dirty clothes in order to keep our long underwear, sweats, footie jammies, and other warm items in rotation. Armed with my latest full basket of dirty clothes, I braved our very cold basement. Now, I knew I had washed a load the other day and had yet to transfer the items to the dryer. I jauntily swung the lid open and stuck my hand into the washer full of cold, wet, clean clothes to transfer them for their tumble dry. Without looking I tossed handfulls of clothes into the dryer. And then I felt something. Something strange. Something wet, squishy, cold, and silicone-y.
A pull-up had been washed. A pull-up that uses a moisture absorbing gel to trap and keep moisture away from baby's delicate skin. A pull-up that had absorbed as much water as was possible before exploding onto a load of washing laundry. A load of mostly dark and black clothes. Our vigilance in making sure dirty pull-ups make it into the diaper pail and not into the dirty clothes hamper had failed. And I am now dealing with the consequences of our laissez-faire approach to diaper disposal.
The clean up is on-ongoing and extensive. It involved vigorous shaking of each item that was in the washer, two separate sweeping-up episodes, a hot wash of an empty machine to clear the remaining gel stuff, and will, hopefully, conclude with a third washing of the clothing.
I tell you all of this not just to make you laugh at my foibles and follies in the land of potty training, but to give you pause to think. What items in life have you glossed over only to be kicked in the tushie when faced with reality? What advice can you provide for those forgotten or ignored life tests that others may soon encounter?
Please, leave comments. It's too cold to leave the house, most of my rooms are cleaned and organized and I need human interaction. Help keep me sane. No work and no play makes Stacy a crazy lady.
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