It was feasibly the worst thing I felt I could have done on my husband's birthday. Backing out of the driveway, oh-so-carefully with the minivan (only a week into our ownership), I scraped a snowbank. Nothing really to fret about, since we do live in Michigan and snowbanks are a regular part of our world. But upon getting into my car a little bit later I noticed something didn't look quite right about the car. The slow motion, no-big-deal snowbank scrape had damaged the car, popping out the front bumper and its corresponding fog light.
Mind you we had just taken a car to the service garage less than a week ago with the car we were supposed to sell. Now I was headed back to the garage again, this time with the new car. It was the worst situation I could have imagined. And all on my husband's birthday.
Long story short, it was a miserable day for me in which I tried to fix the situation before telling him so that telling him about the situation wouldn't be as painful. But I could not, and when he finally arrived home on what was to be his special day, I had to break the news. He took it amazingly well. "Accidents happen" he told me. Then we had fajita-rita night and all was well.
Until the next morning. I hadn't let him see the car yet because I wanted to let it go on his birthday night, and he agreed. So the next morning, before heading out to work, I sent him out to warm up the car and to assess the damage for himself. He came back in, hugged me and told me he loved me. Apparently in all of the trauma the day before I had left a sliding door open and drained the battery. He headed back out to the garage, on a cold, dark morning to fumble his way underneath the hood of our new car to find the battery location and jump it. Strike two. I apologized profusely, but he said it wasn't necessary. "Accidents happen" he reminded me.
Fast forward a few days. My oldest son, who wakes up a bit cantankerous in the morning, begged me to play the computer. It was too early to argue, and I wanted nothing more than a long, hot, uninterrupted shower, so I logged him on and went upstairs. Upon returning downstairs, he calmly informed me he had an accident. The soaking wet pajama pants and puddle on the computer chair confirmed his claim. I was angry and irritated. He knew better. He had just been too lazy to stop playing the computer and go to the bathroom. I grabbed him out of the chair and hastily pulled off his sopped pants and underwear. He begged me to let him stay in his pajamas, and I snapped back that it was no longer an option. I turned the computer off despite his pleas to keep playing and marched him upstairs for breakfast. There I banged items and stomped around and grunted at my son. It didn't make me feel better, but I was equally as sure that letting it go wasn't the answer either. I wasn't yelling at him, but I definitely sent a message that I wasn't pleased. Meanwhile, he continued to sniffle sadly through breakfast, sad about his pajama pants, the loss of the computer and his now grumpy mom.
I should have let it go, but I couldn't. Until my son took a deep breath, stopped crying for a moment, looked me straight in the eyes and clearly shouted at me "Mom, accidents happen! They do! They do."
Ouch. A shot right to the heart. Throughout the entire car catastrophy I had been so grateful to have been shown such grace by my husband, realizing that yelling at me wasn't going to make the situation any better. And yet, when I was given my opportunity, I could not respond with the same maturity and love. I was ashamed, disappointed. I stopped what I was doing, walked over to where he was sitting, hugged him tightly and apologized as honestly as I could. Yes, accidents do happen, and I'm sorry I made a bad situation worse. He forgave me, managed to muster a weak smile, and continued eating breakfast. I gave him another pair of pajama pants to wear in order to right the situation, but for me it wasn't enough. I failed my test, and I wasn't sure when I would get another. I just hope and pray that I will be ready the next time I am given an opportunity to show grace.
Thank you Lord, for lessons of humility.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Hot Wheels
There's nothing quite like your first car. The independence. The responsibility. Turning the radio up, driving through McDonalds for fries and a chocolate shake. Never having to call home to have Mom or Dad pick you up. Rolling the windows down on a warm spring day.
My first car was a pink Pontiac Grand Am. Okay, so maybe not so much pink, but definitely mauve. A shade of light pastel red that would never be confused with another car in the mall parking lot. But two doors, a get-up when the light turns green, and freedom. I had come of age. In that car I piled far too many teenagers, crawling over the back seat to cram in like clowns in a volkswagon.
Sadly, the cancerous rust became inevitable, and slowly she began to show signs of irreversable aging. I loved her, but I also had my eye on another beauty, and when a beautiful blue, 4 door Saturn came for sale by owner, I didn't hesitate at the opportunity.
The Saturn was a bit more mature, not quite the high school flavor, but more a collegiate, soon-to-be-married style. But the reality that she burned a quart of oil once a week provided her with a short life span as well. I would have been saddened about her death but instead I drove away with a brand new Chevrolet Equinox SUV.
I never thought I would own a brand new car, and she didn't have a lot of features, but she was my baby. And I knew someday I would take my babies home in this car. She and I would be together forever.
Except that the babies grew, in size and number, and the little 5 seater filled all-too quickly. It became apparent that this family of 4 and all their stuff would not survive in the Equinox, and so the "m" word came into conversation.
Minivan. How could one word bring out so many associations? Soccer mom, car full of screaming kids, band practice, mom who spends hours upon hours in the car, shuttle service. How could I, a woman in her early thirties and determined not to give into the Eddie Bauer pleated jeans and turtleneck underneat her sweater, agree to this? It was repulsive and oh-so attractive at the same time. More space and sliding doors were things I believed I could only dream of.
After my cousin rolled her Jeep and needed a another car, we decided to take the plunge. We sold our baby and entered into minivan land. Hesitantly, cautiously, but with some definite excitement. And honestly, it's a sweet car, loaded with more than any of my previous cars ever had.
I love it. There, I said it. I embraced the sliding doors, the 7 passenger seating, and the deep trunk space with open arms. And yes, I do plan on spending hours in this car as my children grow older and sign up for a list of activities and opportunities. I will drive for field trips, games, practices, rehearsals and whatever else is needed. I will pick up friends, drop off nephews and nieces, cart the world (or at least the region) around.
From two door sports car to full passenger minivan. Back eventually to an empty nester driving a two door sports car? Or a forever-lover of a the minivan?
My first car was a pink Pontiac Grand Am. Okay, so maybe not so much pink, but definitely mauve. A shade of light pastel red that would never be confused with another car in the mall parking lot. But two doors, a get-up when the light turns green, and freedom. I had come of age. In that car I piled far too many teenagers, crawling over the back seat to cram in like clowns in a volkswagon.
Sadly, the cancerous rust became inevitable, and slowly she began to show signs of irreversable aging. I loved her, but I also had my eye on another beauty, and when a beautiful blue, 4 door Saturn came for sale by owner, I didn't hesitate at the opportunity.
The Saturn was a bit more mature, not quite the high school flavor, but more a collegiate, soon-to-be-married style. But the reality that she burned a quart of oil once a week provided her with a short life span as well. I would have been saddened about her death but instead I drove away with a brand new Chevrolet Equinox SUV.
I never thought I would own a brand new car, and she didn't have a lot of features, but she was my baby. And I knew someday I would take my babies home in this car. She and I would be together forever.
Except that the babies grew, in size and number, and the little 5 seater filled all-too quickly. It became apparent that this family of 4 and all their stuff would not survive in the Equinox, and so the "m" word came into conversation.
Minivan. How could one word bring out so many associations? Soccer mom, car full of screaming kids, band practice, mom who spends hours upon hours in the car, shuttle service. How could I, a woman in her early thirties and determined not to give into the Eddie Bauer pleated jeans and turtleneck underneat her sweater, agree to this? It was repulsive and oh-so attractive at the same time. More space and sliding doors were things I believed I could only dream of.
After my cousin rolled her Jeep and needed a another car, we decided to take the plunge. We sold our baby and entered into minivan land. Hesitantly, cautiously, but with some definite excitement. And honestly, it's a sweet car, loaded with more than any of my previous cars ever had.
I love it. There, I said it. I embraced the sliding doors, the 7 passenger seating, and the deep trunk space with open arms. And yes, I do plan on spending hours in this car as my children grow older and sign up for a list of activities and opportunities. I will drive for field trips, games, practices, rehearsals and whatever else is needed. I will pick up friends, drop off nephews and nieces, cart the world (or at least the region) around.
From two door sports car to full passenger minivan. Back eventually to an empty nester driving a two door sports car? Or a forever-lover of a the minivan?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Reality Bites
Caden has many qualities that make him wonderfully unique, but a current "talent" surfacing frequently in our home is his ability to float in and out of both reality and fantasy life. After watching a television show, a movie, or reading a book, he often becomes one of the characters. He will change his voice, his language, his actions. He also expects me to do the same, based on a related character that he has chosen for me.
Example: after watching the movie "Bolt" (chosen for it's cool name), he randomly would become the dog named Bolt. Gratefully, Bolt is a talking dog in the movie, so Caden could verbalize to me Bolt's lines from the movie: "watch out for Dr. Calico!" "The green-eyed man is coming to get you!" In this fantastical re-enactment, I am usually Penny, the lovely red-headed girl who is a good friend to Bolt. In lesser times, I am Rhino, the obese gerbil/hamster/rodent-type character who spends most of the movie rolling around inside a plastic ball.
I've been dinosaurs of all varieties, monster trucks, different members of my extended family (and not all female), Veggie Tales, and every imaginable Disney character. It happens so often it has become a regular part of our household.
Too regular. One night we were awakened in the middle of the night to Caden screaming. He was still in his bed, so apparently he was having some sort of nightmare or night terror. "Green shirt! Green shirt!" he kept yelling. We attempted to calm him down, to rub his back and comfort him back to sleep. "Caden, ssshhh. It's alright. Go back to sleep." But Caden was restless, eyes still closed, the issue unresolved. Then David realized why. The boy in the bed was not Caden.
"Shh, Theodore. It's Dave Seville. You're a good little chipmunk. Go back to sleep."
And with that, the restlessness stopped and Caden--I mean Theodore--went peacefully back to sleep.
Example: after watching the movie "Bolt" (chosen for it's cool name), he randomly would become the dog named Bolt. Gratefully, Bolt is a talking dog in the movie, so Caden could verbalize to me Bolt's lines from the movie: "watch out for Dr. Calico!" "The green-eyed man is coming to get you!" In this fantastical re-enactment, I am usually Penny, the lovely red-headed girl who is a good friend to Bolt. In lesser times, I am Rhino, the obese gerbil/hamster/rodent-type character who spends most of the movie rolling around inside a plastic ball.
I've been dinosaurs of all varieties, monster trucks, different members of my extended family (and not all female), Veggie Tales, and every imaginable Disney character. It happens so often it has become a regular part of our household.
Too regular. One night we were awakened in the middle of the night to Caden screaming. He was still in his bed, so apparently he was having some sort of nightmare or night terror. "Green shirt! Green shirt!" he kept yelling. We attempted to calm him down, to rub his back and comfort him back to sleep. "Caden, ssshhh. It's alright. Go back to sleep." But Caden was restless, eyes still closed, the issue unresolved. Then David realized why. The boy in the bed was not Caden.
"Shh, Theodore. It's Dave Seville. You're a good little chipmunk. Go back to sleep."
And with that, the restlessness stopped and Caden--I mean Theodore--went peacefully back to sleep.
Monday, January 11, 2010
fashion foolishness
I usually consider myself a decent decision-maker when it comes to parenting. Not great, but not awful either. That was, until I took the boys to Ann Taylor LOFT.
I had some Christmas money to spend and was already out in Grandville, so I thought I would give it a try. The boys are usually pretty good shoppers, and I believed if I put them in the double stroller that they would just sit back and relaxed while I perused.
Yeah, right. I should have known my problems were beginning when Caden began whining at the store entrance about wanting a sucker. I struggled to get the double stroller through the double doors. Should have turned around there. Didn't.
As I maneuvered the large stroller around the tiny store, I intentionally worked my way to the back where the sale rack was located. There I found a few pairs of pants to try on and headed to the dressing room. The vocal crabbing increased from the boys, but I was determined to see this through.
Except I couldn't see the stroller into the dressing room. It was too big. I told the boys to hang on as I tipped it slightly to fit it through, but to no avail. Finally I decided to park it next to the dressing room. But the tiny store left me no where to put it. Leave, you think? If only...
Once in the dressing room I stripped down and began to try on pants. "Mommy!" Caden exclaimed, "you have underwear like me!" I affirmed my newly potty-trained son that yes, we did have matching underwear. However, this was not enough for him. He continued on talking in a loud, non-dressing room voice about my "undies." Meanwhile, distracted by my undergarment conversation with my three-year-old, the younger brother slyly opened the dressing room door and was apparently headed for the nearest exit (or the sales rack, whichever came first). Talking about my underwear no longer became embarrassing as I left the dressing room wearing nothing but. I corralled Evan, headed back into the privacy of the dressing room, put on pants to cover my well-discussed underwear and left the dressing room.
Somebody had moved the beast of a stroller. Final straw. There was a small coup of women forming to eject me from the store. I quickly threw the boys in the stroller, left the store (still struggling to get through the doors) and put two crying boys in the car.
You would think I made a mental note on the way home not to shop with my boys again. Instead I was thinking how I need to make sure I'm wearing publicy acceptable underwear...all the time.
I had some Christmas money to spend and was already out in Grandville, so I thought I would give it a try. The boys are usually pretty good shoppers, and I believed if I put them in the double stroller that they would just sit back and relaxed while I perused.
Yeah, right. I should have known my problems were beginning when Caden began whining at the store entrance about wanting a sucker. I struggled to get the double stroller through the double doors. Should have turned around there. Didn't.
As I maneuvered the large stroller around the tiny store, I intentionally worked my way to the back where the sale rack was located. There I found a few pairs of pants to try on and headed to the dressing room. The vocal crabbing increased from the boys, but I was determined to see this through.
Except I couldn't see the stroller into the dressing room. It was too big. I told the boys to hang on as I tipped it slightly to fit it through, but to no avail. Finally I decided to park it next to the dressing room. But the tiny store left me no where to put it. Leave, you think? If only...
Once in the dressing room I stripped down and began to try on pants. "Mommy!" Caden exclaimed, "you have underwear like me!" I affirmed my newly potty-trained son that yes, we did have matching underwear. However, this was not enough for him. He continued on talking in a loud, non-dressing room voice about my "undies." Meanwhile, distracted by my undergarment conversation with my three-year-old, the younger brother slyly opened the dressing room door and was apparently headed for the nearest exit (or the sales rack, whichever came first). Talking about my underwear no longer became embarrassing as I left the dressing room wearing nothing but. I corralled Evan, headed back into the privacy of the dressing room, put on pants to cover my well-discussed underwear and left the dressing room.
Somebody had moved the beast of a stroller. Final straw. There was a small coup of women forming to eject me from the store. I quickly threw the boys in the stroller, left the store (still struggling to get through the doors) and put two crying boys in the car.
You would think I made a mental note on the way home not to shop with my boys again. Instead I was thinking how I need to make sure I'm wearing publicy acceptable underwear...all the time.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Great Toy Shift
For some inexplicable reason, toys are equated with their geographical space. We keep our quiet toys, our intelligence-increasing toys, our creative juices toys up in the playroom. The loud and banging, althletic, jump-around, burn energy toys all go in the basement. And despite the fact that our house could be a satellite store for Toys R Us, my boys still get bored with all that they have. They whine they have nothing to play with, I pull toy after toy off the shelves, and they just dismiss me with a wave.
But something strange happened when we put up our Christmas tree in the playroom. There was no longer room for the toybox, so we brought it downstairs for the Christmas season. Suddenly my boys thought it was a brand new present, and they opened up the top and began playing with toys as if they had never seen them before. They were entirely entertained while we decorated the tree.
Thus began the thought process. Fast forward to just a few days after Christmas. Together the boys have now accumulated an ungodly amount of new toys and play items. Our shelves now explode with old and new toys combined. There's so much to play with, they don't even know where to start. But I, a wise mother beyond my youthful years, know that a time is coming sometime in February/March when Old Man Winter is refusing to leave, when he doesn't allow us to safely leave the house, and when we all have cabin fever so bad we are afraid we might just kill each other (or at least mame or seriously injur).
Hence the Great Toy Shift of 2009. Together the boys and I spent an entire morning moving toys from floor to floor: from the playroom to their bedrooms, from their bedrooms to the basement, from the basement to the playroom. Actually, I should say that the boys and I battled an entire morning. As I attempted to remove the toys that currently don't capture their desire, they suddenly found a new interest in those same toys. Finally, with a little distraction, I was able to sneak the overflowing laundry basket full of toys up to the attic. Maybe I will, in pure desperation, seek their fun and frivolity in the bleak mid-winter. Or maybe we will come to the grand realization that we have more than enough toys and can get rid of the extras in the attic.
Except for the baby toys. Who KNOWS what I will need to do with them. But that's a whole other topic for an entirely different day...
But something strange happened when we put up our Christmas tree in the playroom. There was no longer room for the toybox, so we brought it downstairs for the Christmas season. Suddenly my boys thought it was a brand new present, and they opened up the top and began playing with toys as if they had never seen them before. They were entirely entertained while we decorated the tree.
Thus began the thought process. Fast forward to just a few days after Christmas. Together the boys have now accumulated an ungodly amount of new toys and play items. Our shelves now explode with old and new toys combined. There's so much to play with, they don't even know where to start. But I, a wise mother beyond my youthful years, know that a time is coming sometime in February/March when Old Man Winter is refusing to leave, when he doesn't allow us to safely leave the house, and when we all have cabin fever so bad we are afraid we might just kill each other (or at least mame or seriously injur).
Hence the Great Toy Shift of 2009. Together the boys and I spent an entire morning moving toys from floor to floor: from the playroom to their bedrooms, from their bedrooms to the basement, from the basement to the playroom. Actually, I should say that the boys and I battled an entire morning. As I attempted to remove the toys that currently don't capture their desire, they suddenly found a new interest in those same toys. Finally, with a little distraction, I was able to sneak the overflowing laundry basket full of toys up to the attic. Maybe I will, in pure desperation, seek their fun and frivolity in the bleak mid-winter. Or maybe we will come to the grand realization that we have more than enough toys and can get rid of the extras in the attic.
Except for the baby toys. Who KNOWS what I will need to do with them. But that's a whole other topic for an entirely different day...
Thursday, December 17, 2009
P-Day
We've been using the nativity countdown calendar to talk about this day for weeks. Potty training. Not that my 3 1/2 year old is ready, mind you...but his mother is. She's tired of changing two sets of diapers for 18 months now and is believing her son is the last on the face of the entire earth to potty train. She looks longingly and jealously at other kids her son's age with the attractive underwear band sticking out just above their pants. Whether he's ready or not, she is. December 17, game on.
Why December 17? you might ask. It's the start of my Christmas vacation, where I feel I can provide some consistency and devote attention to this collosal undertaking. I have relegated myself to the fact that I will not for any reason (short of death, a raging virus or a broken limb) leave the house. Last night I purchased potty treats of licorice and peanut M&Ms for him, and a few drinks for me...
7:15. Caden comes into my room. I excitedly proclaim this is the day we've been talking about and waiting for weeks now. He responds "no!" and collapses onto the floor in tears. Not the start I had hoped for.
7:30. We have compromised that he will sit on the potty as long as he can watch part of his new favorite movie "Bolt." He doesn't know this, and I will never tell him, but I am the Monty Hall of wheeling and dealing today. If that boy agrees to create water in the potty, I will give him the world. In this case, we are both successful. He pees in the potty. We throw a New Year's Eve-type bash with cheering and dancing and for a moment, we party like it's 1999.
7:45. Frantically trying to call Daddy to tell him the good news. Daddy is not answering (apparently he was filling up the car with gas. How dare he? Doesn't he know today is P-Day?) Daddy lavishes on the praises of his oldest son as if he won the Nobel Prize or the Heisman Trophy. Caden is all smiles on the other end of the line. Really? Will it be THIS easy?
8:15. Apparently not. I find him squatting and pee running, nay, gushing down his leg. The few drops he had squeezed out earlier were nothing in comparison to the volumes of water. I quickly rush him over to the potty in order to catch what is remaining. He looks down and proclaims "Look! I'm going in the potty! I get a treat!" I will have to clarify the need to remove underwear BEFORE going on the potty as a prequesite for earning a treat.
8:30. New underwear on. Accident explained and forgiven. Encouragement lavished in hopes of next time. Little brother Evan has been talking in his crib for almost an hour now. I have no idea how this will go with little brother gets up and joins in the mix as well. Will see.
8:45. Low point of the morning thus far. I could no longer ignore the call myself, and went upstairs to use the adult potty. Upon coming down, I found Caden squatting over the toilet (peeing through his underwear, mind you) and Evan screaming as he is trying to wrestle away the pee-filled potty. Yellow water is sloshing everywhere. Sigh.
9:00. Potty training notes to self: place the toilet high up so that Evan cannot play with it. Bring carpet cleaner and Clorox wipes downstairs. Begin running load of laundry.
9:15. I am still in my pajamas and realize that I have no intention of improving myself today. Caden is wearing a sweatshirt, socks, and underwear. I am planning that he spend the day sans pants. Evan is the only one who is "normally" dressed, although he is running around with a pair of underwear and I believe he is asking me to put them on him. I just might put them on over his pants.
9:30. Decided to set the timer. Forget Caden telling me when he has to go potty. I will tell him. Reminder of treats. He requests to watch a few more minutes of "Bolt." I compromise--2 times successful on the potty, 10 minutes of Bolt. We shake on it.
9:45. I resort to a favorite TV show of his in which the main character, Oso, learns how to do everything in 3 steps. I try this approach. Step 1: tell Mommy you have to go potty. Step 2: remove underwear (this is key). Step 3: go on the potty! He likes it and repeats the jingle himself as he plays.
10:30. 2 successful trips to the potty. 2 wonderful opportunities to flush. 2 chocolate M&M treats. 10 minutes of Bolt. 1 phone call to Nana. Am making a mental list to see who we can call during the day with updated news.
10:45. We are continuing the deal of 2 successful trips to the potty=10 minutes of watching Bolt. In 7 minutes, he made two trips, squeezing out 3 drops each, and calling it successful. I'm torn between seeing success (if only measured in drops) and realizing that we can't keep this up all day, let alone for the next 15 years of his life. Besides, it feels like we're watching A LOT of T.V. Is it okay to make this exception for one day?
11:00. Gave in. Took off pajamas, put on a jogging suit (didn't feel like putting on anything nicer...why?). Even brushed my teeth, put on deoderant, face cream and chap stick. Feeling somwhat proud of my accomplishment. I would no longer need to slam the door on Ed McMahon's face if he came to offer me a million dollars. However, I still haven't done my hair and intentionally decided not to wear earrings--too flashy, so I still might slam the door in your face if you decide to visit today.
12:30. Finished watching the entire movie Bolt. Both children are lazily mesmerized at the television, and I now understand why they tell you to limit television time with small children. Alas, this is the price to pay for potty success (may there be success!). Fed the kids some lunch, during which time Caden complained of feeling wet. We ran to the potty and he successfully went. I considered it enough for the morning, put his diaper on, and at 1:00 sent both boys up to their rooms for nap time (or at least quiet time). I. was. exhausted.
2:00. Went to get Caden up from his "quiet time" (which ironically is anything but quiet). I could smell it immediately. I realize it was too much for him to do both #1 AND #2 in the potty on the first day, but the #2 was the part I was really tired of changing. Sigh. Reminding myself this is a long, slow marathon, not a sprint. Gave myself a chocolate M&M after changing his dirty diaper.
5:00. All is well in potty-land. He's been dry since about 10:00. We're on our 4th pair of underwear today (is that good? bad? typical?) I haven't resorted to ANY of the drinks I purchased for myself last night. The potty/flush/treat/movie clip routine is working well. Now we'll just see what happens when we start all over again tomorrow. But please, Caden--no more Bolt.
Why December 17? you might ask. It's the start of my Christmas vacation, where I feel I can provide some consistency and devote attention to this collosal undertaking. I have relegated myself to the fact that I will not for any reason (short of death, a raging virus or a broken limb) leave the house. Last night I purchased potty treats of licorice and peanut M&Ms for him, and a few drinks for me...
7:15. Caden comes into my room. I excitedly proclaim this is the day we've been talking about and waiting for weeks now. He responds "no!" and collapses onto the floor in tears. Not the start I had hoped for.
7:30. We have compromised that he will sit on the potty as long as he can watch part of his new favorite movie "Bolt." He doesn't know this, and I will never tell him, but I am the Monty Hall of wheeling and dealing today. If that boy agrees to create water in the potty, I will give him the world. In this case, we are both successful. He pees in the potty. We throw a New Year's Eve-type bash with cheering and dancing and for a moment, we party like it's 1999.
7:45. Frantically trying to call Daddy to tell him the good news. Daddy is not answering (apparently he was filling up the car with gas. How dare he? Doesn't he know today is P-Day?) Daddy lavishes on the praises of his oldest son as if he won the Nobel Prize or the Heisman Trophy. Caden is all smiles on the other end of the line. Really? Will it be THIS easy?
8:15. Apparently not. I find him squatting and pee running, nay, gushing down his leg. The few drops he had squeezed out earlier were nothing in comparison to the volumes of water. I quickly rush him over to the potty in order to catch what is remaining. He looks down and proclaims "Look! I'm going in the potty! I get a treat!" I will have to clarify the need to remove underwear BEFORE going on the potty as a prequesite for earning a treat.
8:30. New underwear on. Accident explained and forgiven. Encouragement lavished in hopes of next time. Little brother Evan has been talking in his crib for almost an hour now. I have no idea how this will go with little brother gets up and joins in the mix as well. Will see.
8:45. Low point of the morning thus far. I could no longer ignore the call myself, and went upstairs to use the adult potty. Upon coming down, I found Caden squatting over the toilet (peeing through his underwear, mind you) and Evan screaming as he is trying to wrestle away the pee-filled potty. Yellow water is sloshing everywhere. Sigh.
9:00. Potty training notes to self: place the toilet high up so that Evan cannot play with it. Bring carpet cleaner and Clorox wipes downstairs. Begin running load of laundry.
9:15. I am still in my pajamas and realize that I have no intention of improving myself today. Caden is wearing a sweatshirt, socks, and underwear. I am planning that he spend the day sans pants. Evan is the only one who is "normally" dressed, although he is running around with a pair of underwear and I believe he is asking me to put them on him. I just might put them on over his pants.
9:30. Decided to set the timer. Forget Caden telling me when he has to go potty. I will tell him. Reminder of treats. He requests to watch a few more minutes of "Bolt." I compromise--2 times successful on the potty, 10 minutes of Bolt. We shake on it.
9:45. I resort to a favorite TV show of his in which the main character, Oso, learns how to do everything in 3 steps. I try this approach. Step 1: tell Mommy you have to go potty. Step 2: remove underwear (this is key). Step 3: go on the potty! He likes it and repeats the jingle himself as he plays.
10:30. 2 successful trips to the potty. 2 wonderful opportunities to flush. 2 chocolate M&M treats. 10 minutes of Bolt. 1 phone call to Nana. Am making a mental list to see who we can call during the day with updated news.
10:45. We are continuing the deal of 2 successful trips to the potty=10 minutes of watching Bolt. In 7 minutes, he made two trips, squeezing out 3 drops each, and calling it successful. I'm torn between seeing success (if only measured in drops) and realizing that we can't keep this up all day, let alone for the next 15 years of his life. Besides, it feels like we're watching A LOT of T.V. Is it okay to make this exception for one day?
11:00. Gave in. Took off pajamas, put on a jogging suit (didn't feel like putting on anything nicer...why?). Even brushed my teeth, put on deoderant, face cream and chap stick. Feeling somwhat proud of my accomplishment. I would no longer need to slam the door on Ed McMahon's face if he came to offer me a million dollars. However, I still haven't done my hair and intentionally decided not to wear earrings--too flashy, so I still might slam the door in your face if you decide to visit today.
12:30. Finished watching the entire movie Bolt. Both children are lazily mesmerized at the television, and I now understand why they tell you to limit television time with small children. Alas, this is the price to pay for potty success (may there be success!). Fed the kids some lunch, during which time Caden complained of feeling wet. We ran to the potty and he successfully went. I considered it enough for the morning, put his diaper on, and at 1:00 sent both boys up to their rooms for nap time (or at least quiet time). I. was. exhausted.
2:00. Went to get Caden up from his "quiet time" (which ironically is anything but quiet). I could smell it immediately. I realize it was too much for him to do both #1 AND #2 in the potty on the first day, but the #2 was the part I was really tired of changing. Sigh. Reminding myself this is a long, slow marathon, not a sprint. Gave myself a chocolate M&M after changing his dirty diaper.
5:00. All is well in potty-land. He's been dry since about 10:00. We're on our 4th pair of underwear today (is that good? bad? typical?) I haven't resorted to ANY of the drinks I purchased for myself last night. The potty/flush/treat/movie clip routine is working well. Now we'll just see what happens when we start all over again tomorrow. But please, Caden--no more Bolt.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Rush to the nativity
I find myself often correcting Caden during the day. He means well, but I'm such a Type-A perfectionist I can't help myself. He'll do a fantastic job cleaning up, and after he leaves the room, I'll make the final small adjustments so things are just the way I want them. It's a sickness, I know.
I spent an entire day decorating my house for Christmas. I wish I could say I did it merrily with my children, but alas it was not the case. I tried to get it done in spite of them, trying to keep them otherwise occupied so I could complete this task. Caden was around the decorations only long enough to break an angel from my nativity set.
My nativity set. I have spent years collecting pieces to it, having all of the major characters and even including some others. The inn keeper, a cow, two angels (now one lone winged messenger). I spent time selecting the perfect place in our new house to spread out all of the pieces, giving each proper display space, all angling in toward the stable where a properly distanced Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus all have room.
After breaking a piece of my nativity, I quickly found the Little People nativity set so the kids could have something with which to play. Evan frustrated me because he was always walking around with a few of the pieces, too often the baby Jesus, and then leaving them somewhere in our house. I would find a stray camel, wiseman, or Joseph and bring them back to the stable. Then, in my obsessive-compulsive way, I would spread all of the characters out and neatly display them like my nativity. This is the way it should be.
Or so I thought. Until I walked in on Caden playing with the nativity pieces one afternoon. He was telling the story as accurately as any three-year-old could do, even using voices for all of the different characters (including the animals). I ran to get my camera. I had to capture what he had done.
He had jam-packed all of the characters as close to the stable as possible. And why wouldn't he? Weren't all of these people and animals so interested to see the baby Jesus that they would rush to the stable and elbow each other in a Walmart-Black-Friday sort of way? My nativity was so peaceful and patient, more like an old yawning story than a new exciting reality. But shepherds were disrupted in the middle of the night by angels--why wouldn't they rush? Why wouldn't they stand on their toes to get a glimpse of what is possibly the most important person they will ever meet?
I was moved. Not enough to change the look of my nativity. I still didn't like the crowded look of his stable, and besides, I couldn't show off each individual piece that way. But that doesn't mean mine was in any way better. In fact, if I had to, I would admit defeat to my three-year-old. And if he felt the need to change my nativity after I left the room, I couldn't blame him.
As long as he didn't break any more of my pieces. It's not fair when his are plastic.
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