It's 9pm- Do You Know Where Your Children Are?

Both of the kids napped yesterday at the same time for two and a half hours or so. Instead of cleaning the bathroom or picking up after the tornado that swept through our living room prior to the nap I decided that life is too short and kids grow up too quickly and I snuggled on the couch with my son and read a book. It was wonderful.

Fast-forward to seven in the evening. A parent wanting their child to be in bed before the wee hours of the morning knows that a napping child at 7pm is a bad omen. I knew that I shouldn’t have let him sleep this late because bedtime would be a fight, but a trip to the grocery store was in order and I hoped that running up and down the aisles would tire him out and that he would be in bed before midnight. My husband and I thought that since all four of us would be making the trip to Wegman’s it might be nice to stop across the street at Applebee’s on the way home (they serve half priced appetizers after 9pm) for a treat since it is so rare for us to be out and about together at this time of the night.

The reason that it is usual for us to be out after 9pm is because, traditionally speaking, that is the bedtime hour. That is the time when most responsible parents have their kiddos in bed on their way to sleepy-time land. Not only was it approaching half past nine when we finally made our way into the restaurant, but it was also drizzling outside. It’s the middle of the winter, just barely warm enough to rain instead of snow and there we were ushering our bundled up children into a restaurant full of people who either have no small children, or if they do have them the children are at home being put to bed by a baby-sitter.

It can be awkward being the only people in a place with children even though the kids behaved exceptionally well for being of the verge of tired. I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt so anxious about what everyone else was thinking about these two young people bringing their babies out so late on a cold rainy night; of course these strangers couldn’t possibly know that the kids had woken from their naps only a couple of short hours previous, or what our intentions were in taking them out to do the grocery shopping.

Oh well. I suppose everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. However uniformed it may be. It is always a good policy to keep these moments in mind for the time when the shoe is on the other foot and you find yourself wondering why in the world that person is walking through a windy parking lot with their baby’s head uncovered. Perhaps they are retracing their steps in the hope of finding the spot where the baby stealthily removed its hat and threw it on the ground.

Say It With Me

A woman gives birth to a child. Horrible, wretched pain like nothing else she’s ever felt before. For nine months before that, she carries the baby in her womb. She swears off hot dogs and caffeine; she stops sleeping on her stomach. Her face breaks out, her skin stretches and scars. After the baby arrives there are midnight feedings; and 3am feedings; and 5am feedings. There are diapers that need changing and onesies that need washing. The woman’s world revolves around this tiny baby. And then the baby says her first word: “Dada.”

Both of my babies decided that “Dada” would be their first word. It didn’t matter how often I repeated “Mama, Mama, Mama” to them, they would just happily chirp “Dada.” When they finally decided to utter the other word, the one that mommies everywhere try to recognize through all the gibberish, it is usually in the midst of crying. They know who takes care of them, so when babies are upset enough that is the moment they discover that they are indeed capable of calling for their mommy.

The last couple of days my little girl has finally started to say “Mama” in her happy voice. It really brightens my whole world. I’m determined to practice this new word with her everyday. When my son was a baby he stopped saying it all of a sudden and I didn’t hear it for months. Never stopped saying “Dada” though. That’s just not right.

The Continuing Saga

When your toddler informs you that he has decided to poop on the floor instead of in the toilet, it may be time to rethink your Potty Training Plan of Action. Or it may be time to tell your husband that although you can’t say how much you appreciate all of his hard work you have decided that he should stay home and take care of the kids while you go to work.

Other than the aforementioned deviation Day Five went well. The little guy even went on his potty all by himself several times. My mom had given me some good advice about requiring my son to go to the potty every hour to help eliminate accidents. Knowing how often he should be going helped to alleviate some of my stress. There were some fights when it came time for the hourly void, but he didn’t wet himself until 9:30pm when he didn’t quite make it to the pot in time. That has to count for something. Not only that, but how can you be mad at a kid who is so busy reprimanding himself that he doesn’t give you a chance to? “That was bad. That was very bad.” And he was so sincere!

Thankfully, every day has gotten easier and I hope that the little man will continue to improve. I’m still trying to figure out how to handle the challenge of going out of the house during this in-between period. I suppose I shall have to incorporate diapers or pull-ups. Or carry six changes of clothes and a roll of paper towels with me at all times. I may need a larger purse.

I Heart Diapers

It seems as though I had spoken too soon. Shortly after writing that last update there was a rather large accident that required the bed to be stripped and the sheets and mattress cover to be laundered. As it could have been much worse and it was easily remedied I tried very hard to be kind and patient (after the initial reaction, that is).

While the bedding was happily whirling around in the washer my little boy made another trip to his potty. On my way to dispose of it in the big toilet one of the cats decided to yak at my feet. I’m unclear as to why he decided this would be a good idea; perhaps he is under the delusion that I actually thrive on cleaning up other people’s messes. Who knows. At any rate, I grabbed a paper towel with my spare hand and wiped up the floor before continuing on my way.

Not to be forgotten, our other cat decided that it would be an opportune time to announce that he had snuck into the basement behind me while I was delivering the bedding to the clothes washer and was now locked in. That meant that his paws needed to be washed. Splendid.

The poor baby cried during all of this wiping, cleaning and flushing because she was hungry. Unfortunately for her peeing children tend to come before hungry ones. Just as I settled down to nurse her and quell her little tummy the washer started to bang around in the basement. (When the contents of the wash become clumped on one side of the washing basket the agitator can become dislodged and try to bust its way out of the machine.) I quickly discovered that although our agitator was still in place that won’t stop the whole basket from trying to break through the front, back and sides of the washer.

If the baby hadn’t been still crying for food upstairs I probably would have sat in the basement and laughed at the washing machine jumping up off of the floor and slamming into the wall behind it. Of course it’s really not funny to watch your expensive appliances try to destroy themselves, but one can sympathize.

Perhaps I Have Spoken Too Soon

Potty training has gotten a little bit easier everyday. There have been fewer accidents and I have loosened up a smidge. By day four the little guy seems to be doing pretty well and is wearing underpants. We did have an episode where he couldn’t pull down his pants and I found him sitting on his potty with them still on. I had to give him points for actually sitting on the toilet though. I’m not so sure what the big push is to potty train. At this age kids don’t know that big kid underwear is more socially acceptable. It really is more carefree when I can just change his diaper at my leisure instead of bolting to the bathroom every time he squeezes his legs together.

Do You Feel Wiggly?

Potty training has stalled; my son is too busy most days playing with his cars and dinos to take two minutes to visit the bathroom. String cheese worked well to get him interested initially (reference “Say, Cheese!”), but these types of bribes ultimately failed to maintain his interest. After two months of off-and-on potty training it is time for drastic action. This morning I decided to try something that has worked for a couple of different people that I know: letting the child run free with no diaper or underwear or pants. Sounds dangerous. I pulled my son’s socks up to his knees, turned the thermostat up a degree or two and hoped for the best.

When attempting this method of potty training it is a good idea to keep a very close eye on the toddler, and to keep paper towels and carpet cleaner handy. The thought of a person, no matter how small, urinating on the floor does things to a person. I spent the entire day following my son around and asking, “do you feel wiggly?” with such repetition that I wanted to choke myself so I didn’t have to hear it anymore. I was making myself crazy, but I couldn’t stop. Then I began to see things. Dark spots or any variation in the color of the dark brown Berber looked to be pee-pee stains, and I was forever groping around the floor in search of wetness. It was exhausting! I longed for bedtime when I could put a diaper on him and be able to abandon my vigil. I thought it would never come.

Thankfully all things must come to an end, even unpleasant ones. Right now it is just the end of Day One, but soon enough my son will be toilet trained and it will be time for my daughter to learn potty etiquette. I’m so tired right now that I feel as though the little guy can pick his nose all day long tomorrow and I won’t care. Besides, they grow up so fast that I know I need savor these years. I’m sure that potty training is less stressful than teaching a teenager to drive. Talk about feeling wiggly.

Now For His Next Trick...!

The odds of a two-year-old boy with no prior training picking up a phone, turning it on and dialing 911 before replacing the phone in the cradle are probably something like one in one hundred forty-nine million, nine hundred and sixty-three. Today I learned that odds like that do not render something impossible. After I tell this story I think I may go out and buy a lottery ticket.

Shortly before two thirty in the afternoon on a quiet cloud-cloaked Saturday a certain young boy sat on his mother’s bed and played with a laundry basket; he was just small enough to pull the basket over his whole body while he nestled down in the pillows. His baby sister lay on the floor amusing herself with the drawer pulls on the dresser while Mommy sorted the closet.

Mommy’s idea of a relaxing Saturday was not sorting closets. In an ideal world, she would much rather bake cookies and sit down to a good book while her children napped for a solid two hours. The world is very far from being ideal and Daddy had to work that day, so Mommy resorted to making herself useful instead.

Now in this house there also lived two cats. Neither of these two felines knew how to use a toilet, so every day Mommy must clean out their litter box. On this dreary Saturday the time was made to complete this chore shortly before half past two. This particular chore, though unappealing, takes only two minutes to complete.

Just as Mommy dried her washed hands the phone began to ring. Mommy walked briskly down the hall toward the bedroom. The little boy still played on the bed although the baby had moved on to something a little more exciting. Mommy stepped over the pillows and the laundry basket that now cluttered the floor in front of the night table and picked up the ringing telephone from the exact spot it had occupied when she left the room mere minutes earlier. Her thumb pressed the flashing talk button as she greeted the caller through a quick smile at her son.

I learned something about 911 operators after I answered that phone call: they’re not keen on fielding calls from button pushing toddlers. I also learned that the police department is required to send an officer to the address where the call originated. Toddler or no toddler. The kindly policeman informed me that he has a daughter the same age as my son; that accounts for the reason he was so jovial and understanding. Personally, I was perfectly mortified at having to explain why he had been called to our “emergency.”

While we were on the topic the officer told me that a great way to teach children to dial 911 is to program the number into the phone and use a red sticker to indicate which button to push in case of an emergency. A big red button is begging to be pushed, and I informed the officer that he would be coming to my door frequently if I tried that method any time soon. I’ll file that one away for another weekend when I’m bored and need a little extra excitement.