Lesson Learned

If you know me at all, and lets be honest, the ten of you do. You know that I occasionally have gas and that I am not one to hold it if I needn't hold it. I can clean it up for social situations, obviously, I'm human - I know when not to pass gas. At home, however, I haven't taken any precautions.

Lately my husband and I have been talking about how we might need to start cleaning our act up a bit if we're going to raise a little girl to be a little lady. Up to this point the closest we've come to being polite about burps or farts is to say excuse me afterward. Occasionally we raz each other about the sound of the other's passage of gas or the foul odor that follows. We really need to grow up, we know this, but sometimes really, what else is there to talk about? We could go days in silence if it weren't for the obviously necessary comments regarding the others stench. Our daughter has, therefore, developed quite a fart sense of humor. In her opinion, all farts, stinkers, or busters warrant laughter. Not good.

Today I learned a valuable lesson in why I need to up my gas passing etiquette. My stomach was in a bad way this afternoon. I have no idea why, I've not ingested anything that would normally cause gas. In any event, I have delt a few gross ones today. My daughter cannot let a smell go unnoticed. Anywhere, anytime. Her line is consistently that same: "Mom somefing smells." We could be walking through a meadow of flowers and she'd use it. The line gets a lot of play lately because baby number 2 poops A LOT.

This being the case, I could EASILY blame the littlest, but I don't. It just seems mean. He already stinks, so its not fair to blame him for odors he hasn't created. This afternoon after changing his diaper my daughter entered the room. She said, "Mom somfing stinks." I said, "Oh." She said, "Its him." I said, "No, really it isn't him, I stinkered." She replied, "You stink Mom" and then giggled while trying to climb my leg. We then proceeded out to the front yard to play t-ball.

I chose the front yard over the back yard because of the dog-poop-booby-traps in the back yard and all the fun outdoor toys are in the garage. We're out there 30 minutes playing, she and I, while Dad was in back collecting the booby-traps. We were engaged in a lovely game of kick ball in our court when one of the neighbors pulled down the street and then into her drive way. She hadn't met our new addition yet, so she came out to chat and see the baby. We both greeted her, chatted a little, and then the toddler continued her kick ball game.

A moment later, while I stood talking to the neighbor, my daughter reappeared at my left to interrupt our conversation with, "Mommy farts." I tried to ignore her and thought, or hoped, the neighbor hadn't heard. But my girl kept talking and the finally neighbor turned her attention squarely on my three year old. "What sweetie?" She restated, "My mommy, her farts." I laughed so hard I nearly farted. The neighbor politely replied, "Kids say the darndest things." I was red-faced and flailing for something to say when the neighbor furthered the discussion with: "Can I teach you a better word for that?" "Sure" my girl says. Neighbor says, "In our house we say 'beaver' 'Mommy beavered' because that is the sound a beaver makes."

So now, not only do I have to clean up my act and show some class, but I've got to delete that memory from my daughter's brain. I simply cannot have my kid running around using the word beaver unless there is, in fact, a beaver around. Gross. Lesson learned.

Pee Pee on Me

In November I tried to get my daughter to put pee pee in the potty. I thought the pending arrival of child number two warranted the start of this process; however, the girl would not have it. The first day, she was really into the crafty sticker chart I'd posted in the bathroom. The second day we went to the circus and potty training was thrown out the window. The sheer terror of that experience was enough to frighten any tot back into diapers.

I dropped my efforts completely. My sister said "closer to three" - so I waited. In the beginning of January I asked again, "Would you like to put pee-pee in the potty" - and she replied, "Mom, I tell you when I ready." Roger that.

On January 15th, she woke and was ready. We've had a steady, consistent, praise her when she does it attitude - and she's got it down pat. She gets far more upset by any accidents than I do, so we're good to go.

The only real problem with this potty training is that since January 15th I have had more urine on my person than I ever did during the diaper years. I cannot for the life of me figure out what I'm doing wrong. I am wiping front-to-back, as all women do in hopes of avoiding urinary tract issues. I can't make it out of there, though, without piss on my hand, finger, or both. I've considered loading up on the toilet paper; however, I don't want to encourage her to overuse it. As it stands, she think toilet paper grows on trees, so I try to be conservative in my sheet use. In this conservation though, I inevitably shortchange myself and constantly feel like a walking germ - regardless of my incessant hand washing.

I've considered her short stature - maybe once she's a bit taller I'll have more luck. I've considered the height and shape of my toilet bowls. I've considered the step-stool factor. What else could it be that leads to pee pee all over me???

The Money Tree

Sometimes my husband jokes around by saying my thumb is black, not green. He chastises me when I bring new plants into our home, he'll look at it, put his arm around me and say, "Do you think it knows its in for certain death?" He chuckles when my tomato garden produces cherry sized tomatoes rather than large, plump heirloom tomatoes. Yet every year, he applauds my efforts.

Plant effort number 876 was a money tree. Said to be one of the easiest to care for (I read: hardest to kill). I bought it at Ikea, got a really lovely ceramic pot, and a three wheeled tray, of sorts, to place the whole combination atop. It had a fighting chance after I did a little online study on how to care for the plant: let it dry out and then water it, don't put it in direct light. Check and check. Pretty pot and online advice aside, it was really starting to look pathetic, shriveled, sad. I hadn't come to terms with disposal of the once lovely, twisting plant until this morning.

I gave my toddler a bit of play-doh to mess around with. She had already combined the three colors into one, so I wasn't on "play-doh watch", I just wanted to run down and switch the laundry. I thought the play-doh would certainly buy me a little time. Wrong. From my post in the basement laundry room, I heard some pitter-patter feet, some closet doors opening, and then I heard the dog's claws merrily hopping around on the wood floor above my head. I walked upstairs and there before me were the remains of the money tree - scattered all over the entryway. Not a single twig or leaf on the stem of the plant, only leaves thrown about its soil.

My daughter was hiding in the closet. I said, "Hunny, what happened here?" She said, "I'm sorry, Mom." I said, "You know you aren't supposed to play with Mommy's plant. Its special to me." She opened the closet door and said, "Well, I know. I'm sorry. But Roscoe and I were just hi-hoing and hi-hoing. So that's all."

What is the proper response to this? I should have been angry and reprimanded her in some way. Though, part of me was kind of relieved the last-leg money plant had bitten the dust. A few months ago she told me she thought my plant looked sad. I couldn't disagree, but said I was trying to make it look happy again. Today, she took matters into her own hands, and tore the sorry tree to bits. All in the name of hi-hoing.

The Cuteness Strikes Again

I'm clearly doing something wrong when it comes to bed time right now. I am. My daughter will not go peacefully no matter what I try. The problem began around Thanksgiving, or so my short mommy brain memory believes, and is simply this: she wants to stay up and/or she doesn't want me to leave her alone. According to her, she is afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone, she has a tummy ache, her foot hurts, she's definitely got a boo-boo, she needs a drink of water, she can't find her pacifier, she wants Mickey instead of Minnie, or she needs to poop. On several occasions I believe she has made herself poop simply to prove her point.

Needless to say, I'm at my wits end. I can't think of another way to make this bedtime deal happen like it once did - smoothly. I try something new, it works for two or three nights, and then we're back to "ITS TOOO DARK IN HERE!"

On top of that, my dog drives me crazy around bedtime because he, too, needs attention. He wants to go out, he wants to come in - like what, he can't figure out the door? Monday night when things were going pretty well with the girl, the dog barks to come in, and of course that throws a wrench in the "smooth" thing. I waddle down the stairs, quickly open the door, let the dog in and then slam the very heavy sliding glass door closed DIRECTLY ON MY THUMB.

I screamed in sheer terror and pain. I ran to the sink, turned on the cold water and held my throbbing, immobile thumb in the cool stream. I also cried like I haven't cried in ages - a sobbing, heaving, horrifying cry that one might have heard across the street. My daughter came running (or one-stepping as quickly as 2 year old legs can) down stairs with her blanket and pacifer. She moved her step-stool next to me at the sink and said, "Mommy! What happened?" I said, through sobs, "I hurt my finger real bad." She said, "I'll go get my daddy." I thought, "wow! what a good helper!"

She proceded to go upstairs, put her pacifier and blanket in her bed (as that is where I ask her to keep those items when not in use), then she came back through the kitchen, quickly turned to me and yelled, "MOMMY STAY RIGHT THERE!" Then ran to the garage to get her father who was repairing a snow-plow issue. I heard her yelling at him from her spot at the doorway, "Mommy is crying! Mommy is crying!"

When they arrived at my side, I explained what had occured. My husband did the first aid thing, "Can you move it, describe the pain..." and he got the ice bag going. My daughter stood next to me, she placed her hand on my shoulder and said, "Mom, you want your Mommy come back over?" It was THE CUTEST thing I've heard her say ever. She was sincerely concerned that my pain would not subside without my own mother's assistance. I said, "No, hunny, you're taking care of me just fine." She smiled and gave me a little hug and said, "Thanks."

It just doesn't get cuter than that!

tired and sick

I liken being pregnant and sick to swimming while wearing a trench coat. The entire body is engaged in a very difficult and strenuous process and then the coat adds to the already exhausting situation.

My daughter caught a cold a week and a half ago. For her, this quickly turns into an upper respiratory issue. Antibiotics are called in, a nebulizer is hooked up; we're like a mini-hospital and its only October. Her doctor says, "She has narrow passage ways that we hope will widen as she grows" that lead to this upper-respiratory cough. If left untreated the cold, turned ugly chest issue, would swiftly move into croup and I say, no thank you Senor Croup. I don't wish to meet him again.

A winter ago, non-prego, her cold/cough combo packed little punch for me. But this year, no such luck. The body, busy forming another person's pancreas and sense of sight, was too busy to fight off the infection and here I am, laid up with sickness. I've never felt so nearly what life as an asthmatic must be like; effort, both mentally and physically, is often required to breathe.

And yet, my peanut shines. In the morning my little germ-spreader awakes she calls to me. "Missin' my mommy!" I enter her room she quickly hides, only to giggle with delight when I swoop her out of bed. Sitting on the rocking chair she looks at me with a concerned head tilt and furrowed brow, puts her hand on my throat and says, "How are you feeling today mama?"

Cynicism is out the window.