The horror... the horror...

Longer review of potty-training weekend to follow later. Brief precis, however, is: commando potty training+frickin' ROTAVIRUS=hell. You cannot convince me that someone, somewhere, is screwing with me. Big time.

Guerilla warfare: Us vs. the diapers

So, this is what it’s come down to. All the books read, the potty treats proffered, the subtle peer pressure… no dice. The kid will not willingly use the potty. As noted in a previous post, it’s not because she’s not ready—it’s because she’s “too busy.” (My child to a T. So to speak.)

At any rate, desperate times, desperate measures, yadda yadda yadda. After much research (sort of) and a reasonable assessment of A’s temperament, I’ve decided that we’re going commando this weekend: no diapers, no pull-ups, just the cotton big-girl undies. I think (hope, pray, whatever) that after a few accidents make A realize how a) messy and b) time-consuming it is to have accidents, she’ll wise up and start telling us when she has to potty. Of course, A being A, the gods only know how this will actually pan out. I’ll keep you posted. Keep us in your thoughts.

One prospect that a friend mentioned, however, does bring a smile to my face every time I think of it: We let A pick out which big-girl undies she wanted and she chose two packs of Dora the Explorer underpants. Which means that Dora will, in all likelihood, get shit on this weekend. It’s a thought to warm the very cockles of my heart.

Words are fun

Just a quick post amidst the chaos...

This weekend, I was doing my usual Saturday exercise, which is to walk for about two miles while pushing (a nonstop chattering) A in her stroller. Between pushing a 31-pound kid and trying to reply to her (nonstop chatter), I started to get a little winded toward the end and slowed down a bit. A said, "Faster, mama, faster!" I said, "Honey, I can't, I'm pooped." She said, "Yes, I can smell you."

I've finally found a human being more literal than I am.

Weather report from Florida

So, Fay is taking her time making her way up the east coast of Florida, which is where I grew up and my parents and friends still live. My father, who is usually fairly stoic about things out of his control, such as the weather, sent me the following weather report that I simply cannot improve upon:

"At first, our little tropical storm was refreshing, change in temperature, some windswept showers, a nice break in the summer. Unfortunately, it is being driven by an ancient retired guy from Akron, Ohio, at 6 mph, weaving all over the place, no headlights, tail lights or turn signals. Leaving Florida doesn't appear to be high on the agenda."

It's funny because it's true.

Oh, Jeebus, I must be crazy

Seriously. What was I thinking?

To wit, my current situation: Full-time working mom and part-time single mom whose workload just increased by about 50 percent. And to this, I'm adding a graduate-level course in a long-term effort to get a master's degree. My first class is next Monday and I already have homework. HOMEWORK. For the first time in 15 years. Which I am supposed to get done... when, exactly?

Ye gods, saints preserve us, etc., etc.

Calling Mr. Johnson...

This gets filed under "child's idiosyncrasies." On Sunday we bought a few dolls and two rooms from the barfily named "Fisher Price Loving Family" play set, mostly to see if A was interested enough in the dolls to justify buying more. I like the idea because she loves having things talk to each other, so I saw this as another means of furthering her imagination. I just didn't realize quite how much, though.

The two rooms we got were the kitchen (T's pick) and the laundry room (A's pick, which I thought was hilarious). In the kitchen, you can push a button and make the oven timer go off. Strangely enough, about a minute after it does, the kitchen's little telephone rings. Really, I wonder who came up with that concept; maybe someone's calling to see if dinner's ready?

Anyway, the first few times the phone rang, A had me answer it and "talk" to whoever was on the line. Finally, I asked her who was calling, fully expecting it to be one of her grandmothers, which is usually the case when she pretends to be on the phone. Instead, she said, "Johnson." T and I both said, "Who?" And she said, "Johnson's calling." Keep in mind that we don't know anyone named Johnson, nor is there any such character on any show she watches. We were baffled, although I suppose it's possible that she has a larger social life than I ever suspected.

At any rate, on Sunday, she was fairly insistent that it was Johnson on the line. We were like, okay, fine. Then yesterday, it evolved into Mr. Johnson who, the next thing I know, shows up for cupcakes in the form of the father figure. I said, "Isn't that Daddy?" She said, "No, Mommy, it's Mr. Johnson," sounding utterly exasperated. Oookay. "Where's Daddy, then?" "He's not home." Great--not only is her future shrink going to have a field day with this, T's going to think I'm having some guy named Mr. Johnson over for cupcakes when he's away.

So now I feel compelled to buy another father figure (although they're going to be identical, so I'm hoping the new one isn't Mr. Johnson's twin, Mr. Johnson) so that we have a Daddy. Meanwhile, when I last saw Mr. Johnson, he was sweeping the kitchen floor, so maybe he's not so bad after all.

The bedtime quagmire

First, thanks to koala brains for inadvertently reminding me what I was going to post about.

Second, I looked up the definition of "stall" and this was my favorite answer: "To stick fast, as in mire." Because that's what bedtime has become. A is now a certified M.S., proudly holding her Master of Stalling.

I approach this with a mixture of impatience, irritability, and determination to pick my battles wisely, over which lies a veneer of saintly motherhood. But seriously... I have never found myself so attached to numbers. We can read three books, I'll tell two stories, we'll sing two songs, she can have two small sippy cups of milk, after which she gets water... I'm like a friggin' UN negotiator.

This is how bedtime unfolds in our house:

T gives her a half-hour bath, dresses her for bed, kisses her goodnight, and cheerfully saunters off, leaving me with a wide awake and not-at-all-ready-to-go-to-bed-even-though-she-didn't-nap-which-is-therefore-making-her-overtired-and-prone-to-pitch-a-fit-over-the-smallest-thing child.

I'm in the rocking chair, making sure that we have her lovey, her towel (she sleeps with a towel, not a blanket, and no, I don't recall how that started), and the "black blanket," which is in actuality a navy blue bandanna (and no, I don't know how that started, either). Depending on the night, season, we are running a humidifier and/or a fan. I have to let her turn on the fan.

At the start, I state that we're reading three books and that she can pick which ones. Thus begin the negotiations. "I want this one and this one and that one and that one." (The child, by the way, can count.) "No, that's four. You get three. Which ones out of these four?" "All of them." "That's four." "I want four." "We're only reading three." [insert mild fit as I choose the longest one to set aside] "Are you going to settle down so I can read? If not, you're going right to bed." [me, crossing my fingers] "Okay." [aggrieved sigh from child]

We start the books.

Keep in mind, at this point, I hate all of the books, although some less than others, simply because I've read them all eight billion times. And each of them has a different tradition. The dinosaur book, for example, is far too advanced for her but she likes the pictures. She talks to some of them, she comments on what others are doing, and some of them, well, she smells. (Short explanation: When we first got the book, the woman who gave it to us must have kept it near perfume or something because it smells flowery. I made the mistake of picking it up, frowning, sniffing in the direction of the first dinosaur and muttering, "That's strange." So now, A sniffs half of the dinosaurs, says, "That's strange," and holds it up to me to do the same. You see how this might get old?) And trust me, I have similarly odd stories for most of her other books, too. Not to mention that she knows each book page by page, word by word. So you can't skip or she'll call you on it.

Somehow, I make it through the books and turn out the light. It's story time. She asks for specific stories, from my take on the princess stories (in my version, they're never reliant on the prince, thank you) to stories that happened to me or other family members when we were young. You'd think this would be fun because I have room to be flexible but my brain's already been addled by the books so I find myself struggling. And oh, if I don't get it right, we dissolve into Whine Central. "You didnit tell it right!" Ay, carumba.

I forge valiantly onward to one song in the chair. If I'm lucky, she doesn't argue about the number of songs. But I'm usually not lucky. So we have another back-and-forth, then hopefully, I get away with something relatively easy like the theme song for Blues Clues or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or Little Einsteins (no, we don't watch much tv, why do you ask?). If I'm unlucky, it's one that I don't know the full lyrics for (some of those damn Backyardigans songs are LONG) or, worse, one that they sing in daycare that I can't even tell what it's supposed to be. If that's the case, we can schedule in a full fit.

Let's just go ahead and fast forward to the crib (yes, she is still in one and will remain in one until she's ready for college, if I get my way). First, before I can even put her in, I have to "sing" "Little Bo Peep" to her, but that's mercifully quick. Then I can put her down, go get the second milk, and then begins the "goodnight" ritual, which goes as follows: "Night-night towel [place that on her], Night-night black blanket [put that on her], night-night soft blanket [same], night-night Bee-bee [that's her lovey, which is an elephant, not a bee], night-night snake [yes, she sleeps with a seven-foot boa--not a live one, I know this because it has purple spots, which I'm fairly certain that no real one does], night-night [random other stuffed animal that she's picked up], night-night bird [we've moved up to her Rainforest Sights and Sounds thingy, which she calls her computer], night-night monkey, night-night butterfly [which I used to skip until T pointed it out, the bastard], night-night fishie." [pause, I look around melodramatically] "Did I forget anybody?" A holds up Bee-bee or the snake, or the towel or whatever and it tells me, "You forgot A." "Oh, for goodness' sake!" [slap to forehead] "Night-night, A!" She giggles maniacally as I thank whatever animal/object reminded me. "Night-night, sleep tight," kiss on the forehead, I leave the room.

If I'm lucky, she falls asleep. If she's in a TRUE stalling mode, I get pulled back in to: give her some water, adjust the blanket (or towel or whatever) because it isn't on right, change her diaper, etc., etc. This usually ends up with someone crying (not me) and someone else making the declaration, "This is the last time and if I have to come back in, there's going to be trouble!"

So. That's bedtime in our house. By the time she's finally asleep, I'm drained. My questions, then, are these: Does anyone else have a routine that's only slightly less complicated than the plan to invade Normandy Beach? And how do the rest of you handle stalling? Because I'm quite certain that I'm not the only parent slogging through the mire. (If I am, please let me know. And give me your mailing address; you'll be receiving a large package notable for its whining and the breathing holes.)

Huh.

I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea for a post, one that I thought would be of great interest to parents, and now, I haven't the foggiest what it was. I was going to ask for advice about something. Damn it. Maybe I should ask for advice on how to get back my sadly flagging memory...

Parenting in public

As promised, something for the larger audience: My experiences in parenting in public.

It’s a scene we’re all familiar with: that of a child having a meltdown in a store. Whether because they’re tired or they’re denied something they want, the cause isn’t really the issue—it’s how the parents react.

In the olden days, of course, or so our parents would tell us, they’d just whomp us on the butt and ‘nuff said. While this may or may not be true, doing so these days will probably get you hauled off to the county jail. (Well… that probably depends on the county you live in.)

Regardless of your feelings on spanking vs. not, how you handle your child during a public bout of bad behavior can be a true test of your mettle. Personally, I think that since becoming a part-time parent last fall, I have developed the vital “you know, I really don’t give a shit what other people think” coat that you need to be a parent-with-boundaries. Witness the evolution...

Stage One, or, “Why did I want to have a kid, exactly?”:

Last fall, I was still only a month or two into part-time-single-parenthood, T just having started commuting to grad school. I was tired and irritable and hadn’t quite learned how to juggle everything on earth yet. (I still haven’t, I just fake it a lot better. And no, not like that, thankyouverymuch.) A had already been sent home for her first ear infection of the season (the previous winter, she was sent home from daycare with NINE ear infections, the poor kid, and she was on antibiotics pretty much the whole winter, which made me a nervous wreck) and her pediatrician had said, “I think we need to consider ear tubes for her.” I bit back my automatic “Ya THINK?” and said that yes, I thought that was a good idea.

Where we live, there is, evidently, and I am not exaggerating, only one ENT specialist in about five counties. We had a work-in appointment at 8 p.m. on a week night and I was stunned ,when A and I got there, to see that there was standing-room only in the waiting room. Hour past bedtime + cranky toddler with ear infection + long wait in a crowded, public place + me flying solo = recipe for disaster.

And A didn’t fail me. I’d planned ahead, of course, brought food and drinks and coloring books and pretty much the kitchen sink. But no. She wanted to play with the toys in the (very) small children’s area. I think they think they’re being helpful by having toys for kids but in reality, they are only fostering trouble because first, there’s the inevitable sharing (or lack thereof) issue with the other kids who are similarly cranky and tired, forcing all parents to watch the area hawkishly, as though they’re refereeing the end of a tied Super Bowl. “Tommy, I said to share!” “A, that’s not nice, give him the truck back.” “Jimbo [no, really], don’t hit her on the head with that book.” And so on.

Then there’s the fact that the play area is, as I said, quite small. Yet because the waiting room was so crowded, I invented the rule that she couldn’t take any toys out of the play area. And lo, thus beginneth an epic struggle of which the sages still sing. Because this was pretty much the loop that played over and over (and over) again:

Me: “A. Keep the truck in the play area.”

A: [nudges the truck to the very edge of the play area]

Me: [edging closer to the play area, arm poised, ready to strike]

A: [gives me a shit-eating grin and pushes the truck about a centimeter out of the area]

Me: [pushing the truck back in] “What did I say?”

A: [knowing full well that my powers, at this moment in time, are limited, abandons the truck and picks up a car, which she starts edging toward the edge of the play area]

Me: [leaning forward—fully aware that all of the other patients are watching with interest—and hissing under my breath] “I am SERIOUS. You STOP that RIGHT NOW or we’re going to the car for a TIME. OUT.”

A: [somehow instinctively knowing that I am going to do no such thing because it already seems like we’ve been here for an eternity and heaven forbid we’re not in here if/when her name is ever called, scoots her bottom and the car over the edge of the play area and smiles at me again] “See the car?”

Me: [temples throbbing] “I am going to kill your father.”

Lather, rinse, and repeat for the next HOUR AND A HALF.

During that horrendous wait, I really did contemplate divorcing Tom for making me do that alone. I was absolutely drained by the time we actually saw the doctor. I think I’d developed a tic at the corner of my mouth.

But, as they say, that which does not destroy you makes you stronger.

Stage Two, or, “Don’t let them have all the fun!”:

On a late Sunday afternoon this spring, T, a napless A, and I went to a local nature area. It’s a big pond with all sorts of wildlife that makes for a nice little outdoor excursion. About halfway through, we ran into several families of Canadian geese, complete with cute little goslings. A and a few other kids also there were fascinated and kept walking closer. Most of the geese, obviously familiar with kids, waddled irritably to the water and paddled a few feet offshore, save for one Momma Goose, who clearly was fed up with kids by this point (and oh, can I relate, honey). She began stalking toward the kids with her mouth open, hissing. The other kids wisely scattered; A, who is either intrepid or determined to someday win the Darwin Award, kept walking toward the hissing, pissed-off goose. At which point I, being a good mommy, intervened, picking her up and explaining, “You can’t do that, the goose is going to bite you.”

But rationale has never stood in the way of a good tantrum. She immediately let loose with a howl that even took the marauding goose aback. “I wanna see the goose!” “Honey, you can’t. It will BITE you.” “I WANNA SEE THE GOOSE!” “Just let her get bitten. That’ll teach her.” “T, I can’t let her get bitten by a goose.” And so on. We walked back to the car, a full-meltdown-mode toddler squirming and crying in my arms. I strapped her into her carseat, my ears ringing at the 80-decibel scream assaulting my ears, and we started on our merry way home. After about 30 seconds, T did the best thing ever: he started mimicking A’s howls. She was startled into silence for a second and then started in again, even louder. At this point, I was laughing and started doing the same as Tom. A yelled, “Stop whining like me!” “Are you the only one allowed to have a temper tantrum?” “YES!” “I don’t think so!”

I can only imagine how we must have looked to other cars, two adults and one child yelling “WAAAAAHHH!” as we whizzed down the road. Still, it mellowed T and I out sufficiently so that we didn’t drop her off at the hospital and ask for a refund, and A eventually got bored enough with it that she stopped and started pointing out things on the side of the road. I’m quite certain that Nanny 9-1-1 would not approve. But damn it, it was funny.

Stage Three, or “Yes, we have reached maximum parent”:

So, we were in Target yesterday, and yes, we were “that” family: the one with the screaming brat in public. Once again, A was napless, once again no big shock and a big factor in the meltdown.

You see, sometimes we’ll let her walk around Target as long as she’s holding hands with one of us. (Otherwise, she’ll take off for parts unknown, and that little bugger is FAST.) She was doing fairly well for awhile but then rounded that mental corner into No Man’s Land and started taking off, running down the aisles away from T and laughing maniacally. So after T tried three times to rein her in, I said, “That’s it” and picked her up and put her back into the cart. She, of course, started screaming “I wanna walk!” as if she were the lead in “Ice Castles.” What made that particular claim even funnier is that she had a diaper rash (okay, that’s not the funny part) and was walking strangely because of it (neither is that), leading T to comment that it looked like she had polio. (Which shouldn’t be funny but was.)

Anyway, T offered to take her to the car but I said, “Nope, she can stick it out and learn to deal with it.” So for a fun 10 minutes, we finished the shopping with A repeatedly yelling “I wanna WALK. I WANNA WALK!” while hapless bystanders avoided us like the plague. At one point, I pushed the cart away so that she was halfway down the (empty) aisle ahead of us while we browsed comforters as though we didn’t even know the child howling angrily at us from the pillow section.

At any rate, she did start to calm down and I had a little “chat” with her, and things were fine. I still didn’t let her down to walk, though. At least my early deafness will be the result of standing firm as opposed to something fun, like partying with rock stars.

So. Those are just a few of our “parenting in public” stories. Anyone else want to share? Oh, and the last thing that I will offer is this: I sure was a better parent before I actually had a child.

Nothing to see here unless you're super bored

This isn't one of my usual "gosh, parenting is tough" posts, more like something I just wanted to, dare I say it, brag about a little.

For most of my life, I was blessed with a superb metabolism. Until, of course, I got pregnant and gave birth. I'd never really worried about weight until I was pregnant--I carefully monitored every single one of those added 36 pounds, thank you--and then afterward, when I started getting those "is she still pregnant?" looks (and one question--ouch!). Since then, it's been kind of a roller coaster. My first mistake, I think, was getting in the best shape of my life before I got pregnant, reasoning then that it would be easier to get back in shape afterward, totally not factoring in that duh, I'd have a baby, a full-time job, and little time or money for a fitness regimen.

I've tried just about every diet out there, too. The South Beach worked great before I got pregnant but it's one of those that T and I have realized is less successful every time you try it. (And oh, is it brutal. It's like boot camp for eating. When you find yourself going, "And in three days, I can have an oatmeal pancake with sugar-free syrup!" and SALIVATING, you know it's not a fun diet.) I tried the Special K diet--no change in weight. I tried the Prevention magazine's MUFA diet and GAINED five pounds. (Talk about pissed... I was muttering about lawsuits.) Finally, in late April of this year, I realized three things: One, three weeks from then, I would have to wear a bathing suit in public. (We were going to Florida on vacation.) Two, the only bathing suit top that would fit me was a tankini--even a simple one piece made me look pregnant, ye gods. And three--and the most startling--was that I was only eight pounds shy of what I weighed when I GAVE BIRTH. Brrrrring! That was the big wake-up call.

In desperation, I turned to Google, as one does, and typed "boost metabolism." And, without going into even more boring details, I started doing two things: One, counting calories as though it were a new religion, and two, walking at least 30 minutes every day. Since then, I have shed 18 pounds. And I am pretty damned pleased with myself about that. See, you have to understand, I am one of those to whom exercise is anathema. I hate sweating. I hate having an accelerated heart rate. I'd rather be reading or watching tv. So for me to actually stick to something, much less something exercise-related, for the first time in my life, well, I think that's mostly what I'm proud of. (Although I was pretty damned pleased when, this morning, I was able to slide into my Gap-sized-6-which-means-they're-actually-8 jeans for the first time Ican'trememberwhen.)

I still have two goals. One is to get back to the weight I was when we got married by our 10-year anniversary, which is in 11 days. I have two pounds to go; I think I can get there. The other is, if I dare to dream, to drop down to where I was when I got pregnant. I haven't set a date for that, yet. Maybe mid-November? I think aiming on the other side of the "eating holidays" is a bad idea.

Finally, I'll admit that I'm vain enough that it's nice to get compliments from others. I liked T's the best; he said that I've always looked great but that I'm definite MILF material now. I'm sure it's bad that this made me smile but you know what? It still does.

Okay, back to business as usual later. I have to go for a walk now.