The Potty Dance

I'm sitting on the bathroom floor. With my computer. I am doing this because I've already been here a while, and I was getting bored. Answering questions....unlimited questions. "Do you go on the potty?" Yes. "Do you like stickers?" Yes. "Can I wash my hands?" After you go potty. "Can Isaac potty in here?" Not while you're on the toilet. "Do you like Elmo?" Sure. "Does Elmo go potty?" Probably. Yes. "Where's his potty?" (baffled) I don't know. On Sesame Street. "Sesame Street?" Uh-huh. "Where's that? Is it in my home?" On T.V. Go potty. I'm gonna go get my computer.
I've done a lot of research, had a few conversations with the pediatrician, and many conversations with other moms; all to arrive at the same conclusion. I have no conclusion. My son isn't potty trained. He is apparently just taking his time. It's not that Gabe hasn't gone on the toilet. In fact, he's gone numerous times. He just seems to not really care whether he goes on the toilet or in a diaper. It's sort of like, "could you go for tuna salad or egg salad?" Eh, either one, both sound good. That's how Gabe handles potty training. "Diaper or toilet?" Eh, whichever. I'm not picky.
I've tried some tools. My mother bought a "Potty Training Chart" that features Elmo and friends, and you put a sticker on the day when an "achievement" is earned. He really wants the stickers, but evidently not badly enough. So he ogles them while he sits on his (also Elmo and friends) potty seat. He tells me which one he's going to have, when he does go. So I figure he's looking toward a positive future?
I've tried the motivational "potty-chants." I've created my own: "We're gonna go on the pott-ay" (rhythmically, and with some pretty enthusiastic hand-jive motion). I've even danced my way into the bathroom with him, showing my obvious excitement for him to make in the toilet, and not in his pants.

This was not the case with Isaac. I'm pretty sure he was peeling back the diaper at about a year old, heading for the toilet in pursuit of potty-freedom. Well, maybe not quite a year. But really, I didn't have any "training" involved with him. He just did it. Gabe is obviously a different story.
Changing a baby is one thing. They can lay on a changing table, coo and giggle and be cute. Even their diapers don't seem as gross. To me, anyhow. A 2 and a half year old is a different story. A 2 and a half year old's diaper is vile. And the fact that he will ask questions while I change it; that makes it worse. My sister dies every time I have Gabe bring me a clean Pull-Up and some wipes, and then he whips his pants down, slaps his hands onto the floor and points his bare bottom skyward for me to wipe him down. It's gross. Humorous, maybe. But gross. You'd think at this point, he'd know it's just...time. It's time to be over this charade of "You should have told Mommy....go get me a clean Pull-Up."
Should be, would be, could be. But for now, my bottom is planted on the cold and hard bathroom floor in the room that also doubles as my laundry room. My head is rested against the door, my knees folded against the vanity. I notice things from this angle. I need to wipe down the baseboards. There are dust bunnies under the washer. Perhaps I could make a day of this and fold the load in the dryer. Or perhaps he could just go and we could get the heck outta here.

Why there was REALLY a massacre...

"I'm so done with girls!" This, the proclamation of my five year old, who can't even reach the handle on the kitchen faucet, but, is decidedly over the vast majority of the female population. Fine by me, at this point, anyhow. I asked him what he was before he was done with girls, and he didn't reply...audibly. He just rolled his eyes and gave me the "please Mom, are you serious?" face. I want to reiterate - this kid is five. Apparently he was chased this morning in Sunday school, by a pretty girl in a festive dress and tights with red and white hearts peppered all over them. She supposedly tried to kiss him. He told her he can't kiss girls except his mom and girls he's married to. Consider yourself notified, girls. So, he told her he wouldn't marry her. And her heart was broken, and she went off to pursue a future in country music...and my son ran to me and made the aforementioned proclamation.

Well, it was something like that, anyway.

The day is full of Valentine expectations. As I've mentioned many times, I love expectation just about as much as I hate it. I realize that statement doesn't make much sense. I passed a couple roughly spray-painted signs offering fresh flowers on the side of the road. One was neon yellow, and said "ROSES" in huge red letters, and a lonely man sat on the back bumper of his minivan, trying to peddle those bouquets. I went to the mall and witnessed the hustle and bustle of ladies and gentlemen trying to find last-minute tokens of love and worship for their significant others. A couple gals walked into Bath and Body Works, sweating and out of breath, asking "Do you have any Valentine gift sets for MEN?!?" The store clerk looked at them with empathy and let them down easy with a soft "no." My first thought, ladies, is that your man probably didn't want anything from that store anyhow. 'Specially not a Valentine gift set.
A man I passed on my way home this afternoon deserves an honorable mention: his love for McDonald's is apparently so great, he had a full display of drink cups on his dashboard, crammed against the windshield. That's some incredible paper-cup love. Or maybe he just couldn't find a trashcan.
So why do we try so hard to make this such a mushy gushy holiday? I hunkered down at the computer to reread the stories of St. Valentine's Days in our history. I was curious, and I was stalling so I didn't have to do homework.

It certainly wasn't a warm-fuzzy day for the guys who got shot on the North Side of Chicago back in Capone's days of reign. Maybe they picked the 14th because they felt a little vomity (it's a word, in my vocabulary) over the lovey-dovey-ness of the holiday? That's my theory.

Word has it, St. Valentine was a priest who was martyred for his love of Christ. Evidently, he liked to perform marriages, in secret, so the emperor would not find out. Emperor Claudius didn't want men to marry because then they wouldn't sign up for his army. One day St. Valentine was caught for performing a marriage and jailed for it, but the prison guard's daughter took a liking to him...and visited his cell regularly. Well, the day Valentine was set to be executed, he left a little note for this girl, signed "With Love, Your Valentine." So...we all love each other especially much on this day because of a priest on death-row's affection for his jailer's daughter. Perfect. Makes wonderful sense. Well, at least to Hallmark, it does.
But who am I to knock a day to enjoy decadent desserts, unusual kindness from husbands, little girls trying desperately to kiss little boys, and, of course...the annual box of "gamble chocolates."

An Evaluation

There are lyrics in the song 'Beautiful Boy' by Mr. John Lennon that go like this: "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I've liked those lyrics since I first heard the song, and I even had a T-shirt that said it once...it's somewhere in the sea of lost T-shirts at my mother's house now...but I don't think I ever really got the meaning till just a short while back. As many of you may have noticed, I haven't had so much to post about as of late. I'm in a funk. Did I mention that already? Yes...remind me...I have a few times now, I'm sure.
I am thinking about my life and its meaning. Don't we all, at some point? I evaluate and re-evaluate. I'm like a professor of myself, at this point, except, just when I think I know all there is to know about me, I do something different. I do stick to what is relatively important, but I've had some bouts of temporary insanity, too. I have recently been accepted into a Masters program for Counseling Psychology. Psychology? Counseling? Me? Hah!
Ok, but the point is, my acceptance was conditional on me doing this "self-evaluation" thing...on paper. And from the way the criteria read, they wanted candidates to basically Maury Povich their entire lives into several hundred words, the juicier the better. So I started thinking....juicy....and I thought of steak...but, no, seriously, I tried to think of all of the happenings in my life. Which is when Lennon's lyrics made sense. All of these things I've done: moved away from my mother while I was still a teenager, went to school for music, met great Southerners, lived as an Army wife, drank Jagermeister (hello, yuck!), learned to cook really well, learned to pay bills and balance a checkbook, suffered more heartache than I ever thought I could stand, got a real estate license, visited and sold some really amazing houses, had children, got divorced, moved back "home," bought my second house, graduated from college, finally, got married again, had another child...are ya bored yet? You get the picture...I had a lot to write about. Not that I told my life story, they only wanted the most corrupt parts. Because, apparently, you should have a certain amount of corruption within in order to be a counselor. Or perhaps that's the overall goal. Perhaps the board of Psychology at my school are hoping to transform the gory details of my life into a learning experience, where I will diagnose my deficiencies and be a wise-owl who can utilize this knowledge to guide and treat others. Perhaps.
Either way, I'm enjoying the re-cap. Sort of. Some of it just makes me shake my head.