My Subommittee

I am beginning to wonder if my purpose on my 5k run committees is even valid anymore since I spend most of my meetings chasing my kids around and telling Colin to stop yelling “POOPY!” at inopportune times.

As I’ve mentioned before, one of the ways I’ve kept “in the game” is to continue volunteering my time on committee for a local 5k race that supports the Raue Center for the Arts in Crystal Lake, IL.  I started on the committee about over 5 years ago and it has been a wonderful way for me to not only stay active in the community, gain great experience, but I have also met some of some of the best people I know through the group.

As a result of the people I’ve met, I am now joining two of my fellow committee members to create a new race to support several non-profit groups all while having participants run in Santa suits.  Of course, while I am excited to be part of yet another worthy cause involving one of my biggest loves, running, it means more time going to meetings.  I usually end up bringing my kids to the meetings since in all reality; volunteer work doesn’t pay the bills or babysitters for that matter.

So, I load up a bag of monster trucks, Legos and cars for Colin and Maddie usually brings her own “treasures.”  I also make sure that I have electronics for entertainment, either my laptop, portable DVD player and iPhone or any variation thereof.  I just wonder what my fellow committee members think when they see my entourage and me walk in.  I try to laugh it off and announce, “I brought my sub-committee!” Somehow, despite bringing a virtual Disney World for my kids, they find a way to get bored, fight over toys, escape the meeting room at Panera and start doing sprints around the baked goods.  Lucky for me, the people I am working with are very kind and accepting of my three-ring circus--at least that’s what they tell me as they smile and reassure me they are just happy I am able to give my time.

At a recent meeting Colin was shouting, “poopy” like he had turrets and Maddie was struggling with a slow Internet connection.  I was trying to concentrate on the budget for the race when Colin made not one, not two, but three attempts to escape the meeting room.  He was successful twice until one of the other women on the committee helped out by grabbing him.  God love her, she has kids of her own and felt my pain.  Finally the kids found a large bag of promotional bracelets for the race and promptly began dumping them out and spreading them across the floor.  I tried to have them pick them up but my dear friend and co-committee member told me just to leave them, at least it was keeping them occupied.  That was until they started fighting over who had more.  Luckily the meeting was coming to a close and we picked every last bracelet up and headed out.

A few days later I had another meeting for the other race and we set up camp in our usual fashion.  Colin had a brand new Monster Truck book and wanted me to read it to him.  Maddie was watching a movie on my computer that would render her paralyzed if we were at home, but had her bored out of her mind knowing that I needed her to remain occupied.  Colin began his escape artist routine and started running through the theatre.   He also kept stealing things out of Maddie’s bag-o-tricks she brought which got her chasing after him while yelling, “GIVE IT BACK!”  Once I retrieved her belongings she whined that she was bored.  Amidst this chaos, there were two little girls whose mom was on the other side of the theatre in a different meeting.  They were a few years older than my kids and were sitting politely and quietly keeping themselves busy with homework and video games.  Maddie was itching to go play with them, so I finally sent her to work her social magic and introduce herself.  Next thing you know, there was a regular romper room going on. 

I finally sat down to try to focus on the committee meeting and when the topic of who was providing food for the race came, it occurred to me that I had completely dropped the ball and forgotten to contact the local grocery store I volunteered to call on at the last meeting to ask.  Apparently, I had been distracted by Colin banging on the floor with his play hammer and by the time I hauled him out of there, my task flew out of my mind. 

Rather than use my iPhone as a source of entertainment for my kids, I figured I would use it for its intended purpose and set myself a reminder. Of course, once the meeting ended, the lobby of the theatre looked like my house on a daily basis-- coloring books, crayons, pens, trucks, airplanes and various other items strewn about.  My kids showed their impeccable listening skills and ignored my requests to help clean up and I ended up doing it as fast as I could by myself.

I finally made good on my promise to contact the local grocery store only to find out I had to submit a formal request and the owners would have to approve it.  This process takes two weeks leaving me to kick myself for not being more on top of things because had I remembered to do it when I was supposed to, I’d be that much more ahead of the game.

Oh well, after following up with the staff at the theatre, she suggested we contact some other resources just in case the other store didn’t come through.  Luckily, I got this email on my phone while the kids were playing at Monkey Joe’s and one of the places we wanted to contact was right next door.  I happily responded that I’d take care of it that day and went back to monitoring the bouncing.  I knew I also had to go grocery shopping, so with any luck I could make my request and then pick up a few things at that store.

Colin had gone off into the toddler area where there were little games and such and I realized he filled his diaper.   When I went to grab a diaper out of my purse, I realized I had used my last one.  I was relieved that I had more in the car and tried to round up the troops and got major attitude from my little princess.  She was having a ton of fun with a new friend she made so I gave her 5 more minutes.  When I finally went back to get her, she continued to stage a protest and informed me that if I made her leave I had to buy her ice cream.  Her behavior was awful and certainly not worthy of an ice cream treat.  I wanted to get out, get Colin changed, go make my request for a fruit donation and get my shopping done.  Maddie said in her most convincing diva performance.  “Fine!  Then you have to buy me a toy at the STORE!”  Here we go with the negotiations.  I stood my ground and gathered up all my strength as not to go bat-shit crazy on her right there in the middle of Monkey Joe’s.  I gritted my teeth solidifying why my dentist suggested a bite plate based on my apparent teeth grinding and flatly said, “Let’s go.”

I got to the car, reached in to the backpack and NO DIAPER---NO WIPES!!!  I tried to put Colin in his car seat and he would have nothing to do with that.  I decided to check out the situation in his pants and was hoping for a rock-solid turd I could extract from the diaper enough to make the ride home tolerable, but who was I kidding—he’s on antibiotics and solid poops are not part of the equation.  I thought, “OK, he’s got a little bit of control, right? “I hoped he could go without a diaper for the 10 minute ride home. But then I had to figure out how to wipe him without wipes.  I was able to wrestle up some tissues I had in the car, wet them down with my water bottle and clean him up.  I made light of him not wearing a diaper highlighting the benefits of going commando in hopes it would inspire him to ditch the diaper permanently! 

So, out the window went my plan to stop and make my request for donated fruit.  Again, my commitment to my committee shot to hell because with my luck if I still tried to still go and make do my deed, Maddie would want me to buy her something and throw a temper tantrum over not getting a toy in front of the store manager while Colin peed his pants.  On the other hand, perhaps the store manager would have pity on my and donate the fruit anyway.

I decided to ditch the potential pity party, take my crabby, diaperless children home and come up with an alternate plan to accomplish the rest of my day’s tasks after everyone had a nap.  Despite the pungent smell of above mentioned dirty diaper wafting through the minivan, we made it home without any accidents (the diaper kind or car crash kind due to me driving while reaching in the backseat to clobber one of my whining children).  After Colin got a proper nap, I finally got my grocery shopping done (although not at the same store I needed to make the request) and arrived back home by 6:00 p.m. to make dinner.   

I had thought I could accomplish my requests over the weekend while Tom was home to no avail.  Finally on Monday when Tom got home from work, I flew the coop and made it to at least one grocer and scored 2 cases of bananas for race day. I went to make a request at a second store and noticed that someone had scribbled on the top of my request letter.  I decided to cut my losses, report back to the committee that I got at least some of the donation request filled and wait until the next day to reprint my letter and head back out again. 

At this point, I have finally managed to drop off all the letters I needed to, which also meant buying some minty-chocolates out of the bulk bins at Fresh Market and bribed the kids with lunch so they wouldn’t complain about driving 30 minutes to drop off race flyers.  Now that I think of it, I probably could have used those funds towards a babysitter after all.

Very PINTERESTing

My most recent column in Kane County Magazine:

http://www.kanecountymagazine.com/articles/2012/03/30/VeryPinteresting/index.xml

Waiting For the Other Shoe to Drop

Formost of you who read my blog on a regular basis, you know that every so often Itake a break from the puking, poop, pee and temper tantrums to talk about morepoignant, tender moments of being a parent.

Recently,it seems that a lot of bad news has been flying around our friends andacquaintances.  Maybe it just seems thatway, like when there is a shark attack and the news starts covering it andsuddenly there is an “epidemic” of shark attacks and in all reality there isthe same amount as there always has been, we just never heard they wereoccurring?  Either way, it seems like everytime I turn around there are illnesses, tragic stories and deaths.  I know, not the cheeriest of topics, but itgot me thinking.

Thisawareness is certainly a double-edged sword. On one hand all this kind of stuff really makes you take stock of yourlife, appreciate your family and kiss your babies.  On the other hand, you start to get paranoidand worried and wonder, when’s the other shoe going to drop?  It is hard to stop and smell the roses when you are always looking over your shoulder. I am a worry-wart and often get anxious when Tom is out with the kids and I hear sirens.  Or when he’s gone on atrip and not driving his usual sturdy Ford F150 I end up envisioning him in a gnarly crash somewhere in Ohio.  I worry about Tom's diabetes, the kids running out into traffic or getting kidnapped when they run off into the clothing racks in the store. I worry one of these days my putting mascara on while driving is going to catch up with me.  This list goes onand on.

The other day I went the gym and did a leisurely workout that was more about getting out of the house for a little while since Tom was leaving on a business trip and I was trying to have a few moments of peace before I went into single-mom mode.  When I got down to the locker room, I felt a little light-headed and had a bit of a blurry spot in my one eye.  I thought maybe it was from reading a book on my phone while on the elliptical or maybe my retina was detaching and I was going blind.  I had to stop at the store to get Tom some travel size contact solution and toothpaste and found myself wandering around the store unable to focus on what I was there for.  Maybe I am coming down with Alzheimers?  I finally got what I needed and checked out.  As I was walking to my car a group of Girl Scouts who were selling cookies outside the store began singing, “I throw my hands up in the air sometimes and say buy some cookies…” set to the tune of the song “Dynamite.”  I was so taken not only by her singing talent, but her creativity and went back and bought a box from her even though I had three boxes at home.

I got back to my car and started to cry. Must be early menopause…or maybe I’m pregnant?  Nah, that’s impossible.  I got home and made myself something to eat and was trying to yell at the kids while they were fighting over Trio Blocks(yes, Colin finally earned his toy from the sticker chart!)  I found it difficult to get the words out that I wanted to say.  I knew what I wanted to say, but they just weren’t coming out right or in the right order.  Oh my God, it must be a brain tumor!  I finished my lunch and decided I just need to lie down for a while.  My mind was racing.  I’m not normally a hypochondriac,so this was pretty unusual for me.  I thought back to a time when I had a sinus infection when I was in high school and when it was breaking up, it affected my speech in a similar way.  I didn’t have a sinus infection, but I did have a headache and with this crazy weather, my sinuses are a mess.  Still, as I fell asleep I couldn’t help but worry, especially with all the bad news going around lately.  I ended up having a dream about my own wake.  I know, I’m nuts, but haven’t we already established this?  I don’t remember all the details, but the one thing that sticks in my head was the vision of the kids and all I wanted to do was grab them and put them on my lap and hug them,but I couldn’t get to them.  Nothing like waking up to realize that you aren’t really dead to make you happy to be alive.  More importantly, I ran downstairs to hug my kids.

Then, add insult to injury, I watched the movie “The Descendants” and about had anervous breakdown.  Tom walked in after having a few beers with the neighbors to find me sobbing on the couch.  If you haven’t seen the movie, it wouldn’t be giving anything away to tell you the that the wife/mother gets in a boating accident, slips into a coma and is about to die.  Not the kind of movie I should have watched based on my recent state-of-mind.

I have to admit that in my lifetime, I have thought that my presence on this earth didn’t matter much.  I have faced dark times when I didn’t really want to be here anymore.  Thankfully, I found reasons to find value in my life and carry on.  In contrast to those dark days, I cannot even fathom not wanting to be here not just for myself, but also for my family.  The pain I feel knowing that I would have to live another day without them, and they without me is paralyzing. 

It has become abundantly clear that these little rugrats and their father are the ones who make my life worth living in the truest sense.  Similar to my shift in perspective as it relates to Christmas, things that I used to find insignificant are now monumental and important. I would have never in a million years bought St. Patrick’s Day window clings, shamrock garland and leprechauns to hang throughout my house (beginningin February no less!) if not for my darling daughter so full of zeal andexcitement over a “Shamrock Day” celebration where she gets to wear a green tiara and shamrock necklace.  Used to be a Shamrock Shake, some green beer that made died my mouth the color of the Chicago River and Corn Beef and Cabbage at my mom’s that required an entire bottle of Gas-X to avoid exploding on my way home. Now, I even make shamrock-shaped pancakes with green sprinkles and blare Celtic rock in the car for the kids.

Of course, this value that my life has now also means I have so much more to lose.  Sometimes I get a little existential and get overwhelmed by all feelings that come along with loving and being loved.  That feeling like you could just lose it all in a moment and I think it might just be better not to carry that weight.  Then I get all Steel Magnolias and go for the“I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” and realize that no matter what price this love comes with, it is far better than living without it.  Part of me wants to live like there is no tomorrow, the other cautiously so we are healthy and careful as to not shatter this fragile life.  It takes everything I have not to worry too much, not get caught up in unimportant things and to enjoy every day and everymoment like it is Christmas morning.  I often think of the song by Tim McGraw, “Live Like You Were Dying” and it depresses me.  I’d rather “live like I’m still living.” 

I have found the best way to keep things in check is to do the following: (I know a lot of these things are geared towards couples and/or people with kids, but there’s something for everyone!)

1)  Watch

2)  Listen

3)  Smile

4)  Pray

5)  Call your mom and tell her you love her….

6)  …Then tell her you are sorry for being such a pain in the ass when you were a kid. (The same holds true for your dad!)

7)  Hug, squeeze and kiss your kids.

8)  Tell your husband/wife you love them just because.

9)  Don’t be afraid to show affection in front of your children.  It is important for themto know that they have parents who love each other. (Within reason, of course!)

10)  Tell your kids you are proud of them.

11)  Take care of yourself and your family.

12)  Surround yourself with people that make you feel good about yourself and make you a better person.   Be that same person to them.

13) Celebrate your accomplishments.

14) Take time at the end of every day to reflect onat least one good, positive thing that happened.  Have your kids do the same.

15)  Breathe, because afterall it is the best indication you are still alive.

Mom In Overdrive

My latest article from Kane County Magazine:
http://www.kanecountymagazine.com/articles/2012/02/29/MomInOverdrive/index.xml

Sticker Chart Blues

Well, it seems I’ve hit yet another parenting milestone.  We had to put up a behavior chart for both kids so they could earn stickers for being good.

We’ve done variations of this with Maddie in the past, but this time it required poster board, brand new Sharpie markers and the best stickers money could buy; My Little Pony and Care Bears puffy stickers for Maddie and Monster Jam Monster Trucks and Cars 2 stickers for Colin. 

You might notice a few extra stickers at the bottom of Colin's side...
those were not sanctioned by either parent.

It all started shortly after the kids recovered from a bought of the stomach flu that lasted over a full week between the two of them.  I started to write a blog about it, but kept getting interrupted by the sounds of hurling.  Let’s just say the title was “BARF-0-RAMA!” and besides being so sick of throw up by the end that I didn’t want to write about it, I figured none of you wanted to hear about any more of the things that come out of my kids’ bodies, funny as it is.

So after one trip to the emergency room, more loads of laundry than I care to mention, catching several handfuls of puke with my bare hands to avoid doing any more laundry, we survived.  Tom did catch it, but thankfully I did not.  Must be God’s way of making sure we only are dealt what we can handle.  Unfortunately, the kids grew accustom to sleeping in our bed and even after the last chunk flew, they felt the need to crawl into our bed.

After several sleepless nights with a Lightning McQueen car in my ear and a foot in my ribcage, something had to be done.  We knew an incentive program was in order not only for the sleeping issues, but also for about half-a-dozen other behavioral issues we were working on. I’ve been on the hunt for any method that will keep me from yelling and screaming all day long.  I broke out the poster board, markers and ruler and developed the mother of all behavior charts.  Among the list of sticker-worthy tasks were the obvious sleeping in your bed ALL night, listening, getting ready for school when asked, not getting kicked out of school or the childcare center at the gym (specific to Colin, of course!), eating breakfast, lunch and dinner without argument, helping clear the table, letting the dog out, picking up toys, using manners and miscellaneous activities as designated by mom and/or dad.

Once the chart was complete, I gathered the kids together at the kitchen table and drew their attention to the back door where their new poster was hanging.  I was part Super Nanny, part wanna-be lawyer delivering a moving closing argument to the jury.  The jury was my doe-eyed four and two-year olds who quite honestly looked like an alien invaded their world.  The goal, 25 stickers in order to get a prize that each designated.  Maddie decided on a Light Sprite and Colin a Trio Block set.

I got buy-in from them and away we went on the great sticker adventure!  Low and behold, the dog needed to be let out five minutes later.  Rather than ignoring her doing the potty prance by the back door, the two of them practically killed each other to let her out.  Now I had a new problem, they were arguing, pushing, shoving and whining at me as to who got there first, who should get the sticker, blah, blah, blah.  Oh, Christ on a cross, I can’t win!  I explained why neither of them would get a sticker for letting the dog out and they went about their business.  Soon, the kids started doing things to earn stickers, with the exception of sleeping in their own beds at night.  After two or three nights of with no stickers earned, we upped the ante.  We offered double or nothing for sleeping in his or her own bed.  Finally, we had some success.  Of course, as with all good things it was relatively short-lived and Colin started to sneak back in.  One night Maddie came in after having a bad dream and stood at the side of my bed claiming she didn’t need any stickers and would “let the dog out or something instead.” 

In addition to these glitches in the system, I also found myself doing a lot more yelling.  For example, “If you don’t pick up your toys I am going to take away two stickers…three stickers…that’s it ALL YOU STICKERS!!”  And yes, I tore several down, especially on Colin’s side.  Seems I needed my own sticker chart to help my screaming like a banshee issue.

Needless to say, Maddie reached her quota first.  Thankfully she can’t accurately count to 25, so I was able to put off buying her toy for a few days because I knew full well the minute…no, the second I told her she reached her goal she would pester me until we went to the store.  I broke down and told her the night before we were going to the store and sure as shit, the first thing she said when she woke up was, “Let’s get dressed and go to Target!”  We eventually managed to get to the store and much to my dismay it appeared they didn’t have the coveted Light Sprite.  I looked on the clearance rack and on the very bottom shelf was one last Light Sprite…on sale for 70% off!  Score. 

Of course, my little manipulator completely played the system.  As she was going to bed that night she informed me that now that she had earned her toy, she could come to my bed in the middle of the night.  I explained that we would start a new chart for a new prize, plus I could always return her toy.  She quickly retorted, “No you can’t, you already threw out the box and they won’t let you return it without a box!”  Damn, she was right.

It turns out this method of discipline is less than perfect.  Not only did I end up doing more yelling as opposed to less, the kid who needed the most work on his behavior (Colin) could give a rats ass about stickers or the prize at the end.  Second, Maddie will continue to work towards more toys and each time I am sure she will want something bigger and better and no matter what, she will find a way to beat the system. Right now, Colin is holding steady at 20 stickers.  He has earned more than 25, but he keeps getting them taken away which leads me to believe he will have to wait for Santa to bring his Trio blocks next Christmas instead. So, if I had to rate this method for holding the kids accountable for their behavior, I’d give it a 3 which equals the total number of times we got a full night of sleep without any kids sneaking in our bed over a ten-day period.  I think the “1-2-3 Magic” technique works the best out of all the methods I’ve tried, assuming I don’t yell and scream while I count and/or I could actually keep Colin in a time out.

I will say that a few times I joked with Tom that he needed a sticker chart and even threatened to take away a sticker for playing too rough with the kids or not putting his dirty clothes in the laundry basket.  Of course, I think we can all guess what the prize for Tom would be if he earned all 25 stickers, at it wouldn’t be Trio Blocks or a Light Sprite ; )

Maddie and Her Blowup Doll?

This post is based on a recent article I wrote for Kane County Magazine.

http://www.kanecountymagazine.com/articles/2012/01/31/WriteThisDown/index.xml

If I had to categorize my children, I think it would be safe to say that my daughter, Maddie, is the lover, and my son, Colin, is the fighter.

While my son definitely has his moments where he loves on his mommy and likes to give the pretty ladies at the grocery store his best “smolder” with his deep, dark, brown eyes, he usually opts for getting kicked out of preschool for biting the teacher. 

That, and I think he says “hate” at least 10 times an hour just to say it — I hate dolls, I hate “Good Luck Charlie,” I hate salt, I hate windows and I hate Justin Bieber. We correct him constantly (although my husband said he let the Justin Bieber one slide) and tell him that he shouldn’t use that word, especially for no reason.  

Then there is my daughter. She will walk in the room and say, “Mom?”

“Yes, Maddie,” I answer, as if she is going to tell me some epic story, ask an important question or request a treat.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

This goes on and on all day — while we are driving in the car, at the dinner table or while she is making Valentine’s Day cards in the middle of July. It’s like the Paul McCartney song, “Silly Love Songs” — he says it 18 times in five minutes! 

She also tells me how much she loves me and measures it in miles.

“Mom, I love you 20 million miles away.” 

I feel bad telling her that if she says it too much, it will take away how special it is because, in all reality, it is always special to me when she says it. The way I see it, I will save up all the “I love yous” now because I am sure there will come a day when I won’t see or talk to her every day and will miss hearing it. 

Of course, there will be the tumultuous teenage years where I am sure I will hear plenty of, “I hate you, MOM!” especially after she knows I wrote this article about her.

While Maddie loves her “Momma Time,” by far the best testament to my daughter’s romanticism is her ability to dream of being a princess and marrying a prince, all while dancing around the house in a princess gown singing her own silly love songs. 

We’ve had to answer the tough questions about love already, like why she can’t marry her dad, her brother or Prince Eric from “The Little Mermaid.” 

Therefore, she has taken it upon herself to find a new “Prince Charming” — a blowup astronaut. My in-laws actually brought this 3-foot spaceman back for Colin from their trip to Cape Canaveral last year. However, Maddie commandeered him, and now he is the object of her affection.

I am not quite sure how I feel about my 4-year-old daughter smooching a blowup doll, but I also don’t quite know how to explain to her why it is so inappropriate, since in her little preschooler mind she is just “pretending.” I mean, she really doesn’t have many other options for mates since we’ve ruled out the boys in her family, and she usually spends more time arguing with the little boy next door than playing with him. Poor little girl just wants someone to love.

And the hilarity of her courtship continues with the wonderful love songs she sings to her astronaut as she waltzes around the family room. If I could include audio in my article, it would really make it more meaningful. Let’s just say she is quite the lyricist and should probably stick to “writing” songs rather than performing them.

One performance went something like this:

“Ooohhhh!  I love you … you’re my true love, and I can’t wait for you to get back from vacation! I love you … you’re the only one for me, and I can’t wait to marry you when you get back from vacation and hold you ... .” 

Maybe she is channeling Elton John with her own version of “Rocket Man.” Hey, most people don’t even know the real words of that song anyway, according to the Volkswagen commercial on TV.  

No matter how you slice it, she is a lover and a dreamer; she has an odd connection to music from the 1970s; and she is potentially the future wife of an astronaut. 

No matter what, I would hate to shatter her dreams of true love, even if she can’t even see his face behind his space helmet.   kc

Poop Used To Be Funny

I grew up with two older brothers, so conversations about poop were pretty much a given at the dinner table.

I could never quite figure out why my mom and grandparents were so appalled and annoyed by our topic of conversation.   There were plenty of times when I about pissed my pants hearing stories of big ones, little ones, smelly ones, ones that clogged the toilet and well, you get the picture.  I know several times one of the adults at our table would break “disgusted parental figure role” and laugh and then tell one of their own.  When it wasn’t poop, it was farts and when both those subjects lost their luster, fake fart sounds were made with armpits.  H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S!

Now, poop is a little less funny.  Oh sure, I have plenty of good poop stories from raising kids.  One of my favorites was from before I even had kids and was a teenager babysitting for two kids, ages 3 and 1.  Little Johnny (names have been changed to protect the innocent) was in the process of being potty trained and he and Little Sally were downstairs playing while I received instructions from their parents on what to feed them, bedtime, when they’d be home, etc.  I closed the door behind the parents and walked down to get the little monsters and make them some dinner.  Much to my dismay, they were playing with the Christmas tree and had removed a bunch of ornaments.  Upon further investigation, it looked like they were covered in chocolate.  I thought for sure they had gotten into the candy dish or something.  No such luck.  Little Johnny had removed his new big boy underpants that he had just shat in and was showing his kid sis the wonders of finger painting with poop…on the floor…on the ornaments…on themselves.

I promptly grabbed both toddlers and brought them upstairs to hose them down.  Once I got them cleaned up and dressed, I threw away the unsalvageable ornaments and scrubbed the floors.  What a mess, but what a GREAT story for the dinner table the next night!  My brothers would be so impressed!

Now I’ve got my own little monsters to clean up after.  It all started with the pets.  Walking two dogs, twice daily meant a lot of carrying hot shit in a plastic bag around the neighborhood.  The cat meant scooping poop, changing litter and now, chasing the dog away from the litter box because she thinks cat turds are a delicacy. 

Once the kids came, the shit really start to fly!  Tar poops, mustard seed poops, followed by projectile poops.  The poops that sounded like Mt. Vesuvius despite the fact my perfect little angel was sleeping soundly or happily nursing.  Then, I’d stand up to discover that the kid shat up their entire back, or the out the sides of the diaper or both!  I’d run to strip the baby down, and sometimes myself, depending on directionality, and Tom would walk in from work and I’d be standing there, half-naked trying to clean up the aftermath.  Tom looked confused because B.C. (Before Children), walking into a half-naked wife meant a romantic evening, but A.C. (After Children) it meant even if I did make dinner, he wasn’t eating it.  My favorites were the explosions that occurred in any one of the various large baby apparatuses, the swing, Exersaucer, Bumbo or the one that always delivered a B.M.; the vibrating bouncy seat.  That damn thing was like coffee and a cigarette after a big meal.  But what was worse was cleaning up those items.  Pealing off covers, wiping down little attachments and the straps and clips that would get poop stuck in every crevice.  Yuk.  I almost felt bad selling all those things in my garage sales, not because it meant my babies weren’t babies anymore, but because I knew what things had been deposited in them!

The kids get a little older, the poop gets firmer and more predictable and until your little angels start taking man-poops, you enjoy a little bit of a reprieve.  You can laugh at them when they hide in a corner to do their “business.”  You figure out the places that always mean a diaper will be filled, like going to the library, when they play at train tables or every time you go to grandma’s house.  You think it is cute when they drop everything they are doing and suddenly their face gets red and their lips curl a bit and then their eyes start watering and you know a diaper change is due.  Then you have the silent but deadly pooper like Colin.  No pause, no grunts, no red face, just a sudden aroma that you can smell from a mile away…unless you are Tom.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come home from being out and Tom is with the kids and I pull into the garage and can literally smell Colin’s diaper coming under the door (despite the fact it is sealed) from the garage to the house.  I walk in and expecting everyone to be in a slightly comatose state due to the fumes, but instead everyone is going about their business as if nothing happened.  I am pretty sure that despite the fact Tom denies smelling anything, he secretly has been holding his breath, literally and figuratively, until I get home and can change it myself.

I think my infamous “What’s Grosser Than Gross” blog from last year pretty much sums up the ultimate hilarious “my kid pooped in the worst possible place at the worst possible time and if I wasn’t laughing so hard, I’d probably have thrown up” scenario.  As parents, we’ve all had them, we’ve all had to clean them up and we’ve all lived to tell about them.

And don’t think that just because once you potty train, your cleaning up poop days are over.  Nope.  The kid goes on antibiotics for a double ear infection and you get loose stool (sorry, that is one of my least favorite terms, but had to use it) and not only do they have to go every hour, they leave skid marks no matter how well you wipe them.  I thought I had enough skid marks to clean up…just sayin’.

In addition to that, even on the best days they still haven’t quite grasped wiping themselves task and you are summoned at the most inopportune times to stop what you are doing because they “are done going POOPY!!!!”  Then, you get in the bathroom and they feel it necessary to give a commentary on how it smells and what shape it is.  I never knew a kid could poop the shape of a rhinoceros, but apparently Maddie’s got talent.

Colin is not potty trained yet, (or as he calls it “Riding on the potty train”) but he certainly talks about poop and pee enough.  In fact I hear “poopy, poo, poop, pee-pee, poo-poo” so much, I am beginning to think he has Turrets’ Syndrome and simply shouts it out randomly.  I don’t know what is more un-nerving, him getting kicked out of preschool for trying to bite the teacher or his constant potty talk.  It starts from the moment he wakes up in the morning.  Before he can even open his eyes, he starts saying it.  Then, he starts answering every question with the same response, “poopy.” 

“Colin, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Poopy!”

“Colin, what movie do you want to watch?”

“Poo-poo!”

“Colin, it is time to go to school.   Let’s go!”

“No, school is poopy!”

And when he isn’t saying some variation of “poop,” he says he hates things….because they are poopy.

He has started to use in other context that are especially embarrassing, like the other day when we were in the grocery store and I took him off the mechanical horse so another little girl could have a turn.  He promptly shouted, “Go away, you poopy GIRL!”  That poor little 2-year old girl didn’t know what hit her…on second thought at least he didn’t hit her.

He also tells me I’m “a poopy girl.”  Now that is love.

Our entire Christmas dinner consisted of him repeating the words “poop” and “poopy,” until we finally resorted to putting a bar of soap in his mouth.   Didn’t work.  Even my mom gave him a stern talking-to and it didn’t work.  Secretly I think she was happy we were getting our revenge for all the Holiday dinners we ruined with our potty talk.

I even tried a new tactic we are using with him when he makes bad choices and have him “try again.”  We told him to pick a better word and his response is now “soap.” Guess the old fashioned washing his mouth out with soap left a lasting impression after all.

Just when we thought poop was no longer funny, Maddie got put on an antibiotic that turned her poop bright pink.  It was like Pinkalicious and her Pinkerific Poop!  She was tickled pink that she had the ability to poop her favorite color.  Fantastic.

So, after reviewing this entry, I guess I can say stories about poop are still pretty funny…it is just the word that is no longer funny. I am pretty sure potty talk is gonna be around for awhile.  I know farts will eventually make their way into the repertoire, but I am hoping at some point the discussions will at least have plot.