Here I Go Again

What's that?  What's that, you say?  The title of this post is the same as a Whitesnake song?  IT IS?!?  Well, thank god.  I have so much in common with Whitesnake.

Anyhoo...

I dropped off the face of the earth there for a second.  Whoops!  Caught the edge though, so all is well in SquishyLand.

I got sick.  And I took on a big new job at the Big One's preschool.  And I'm looking for an actual paying job again.  (Did I ever mention that the part-time super awesome great paying tutoring gig that I loved got killed?  It did.  A state educational waiver killed it.  And my super awesome great paying job that I loved.  Dead.  Gone.  Damn it.)  And also I have two small boys who ALWAYS NEED SOMETHING RIGHT NOW GIVE IT TO ME NOW.  So, that stuff kept me busy.  I'm back, though.  Hi!

So, the getting sick part.  That part is lame.  Like super lame.  Like extra super double lame.  Know why?  Because parents are not allowed to get sick.  More specifically (and sexist-ly), MAMAS are not allowed to get sick.  Because there is no rest for the weary mama.  There is a little more rest for the weary dada because they usually come down with a man-cold, which can only be survived in the following fashion:

Poor little bunnies.

Anyway, babies and laundry and dishes and meals and toddlers who NEED everything all the time do not stop because you feel like crap.  In fact, sometimes they like to ramp it up when you're sick, just to be little assholes.

I'm mostly all better (apart from the periodic disconcerting hack of a 90 year old smoker), but I was sick off and on for a couple of weeks.  And it was annoying.  I was not dying.  I was not in need of a doctor.  I was not even sick enough to warrant much of a change in our daily routine.  But I was sick.  And it was hard.

5 Reasons It Sucks to Be Sick When You're a Parent:

1. Kids don't get "Mama can't __________."  Especially two kids under four.  They don't even get, "Please be more patient with me" or "Please give me extra time to do stuff" or "Ow."  They only know that they still want that damn quesadilla and they want it NOW.  Snap to it, MOM.  (Hack, hack.)

2. Kids don't have sympathy.  At all.  At least, little kids my kids' age don't.  They have curiosity (Mom?  Are you okay?  No?  Huh.  Get me that toy from up there and make me a sammich and scratch my back.  NOW).  They have observations (Mommy?  Do you feel icky?  You do?  Huh.  Make me some noodles).  They will have sympathy eventually, of course, but at the ripe old age of three and a half and 21 months, they got nothin'.

3. Kids don't stop.  Ever.  Like, EVER.  They are go, go, go from before sun-up to after sun-down.  You can't rest as a parent because there is no pause in the constant motion of kidness in which you can rest.  So... you just gotta try to keep up.  While feeling like ass.  And making a sammich.

4. Getting better requires sleep.  Sleep requires that your children sleep.  I don't know about yours, but my children don't sleep enough.  So I don't sleep enough.  The end.  Enter 3 week long cold.

5. When you start to feel even slightly the tiniest bit better, it is expected that you catch up on all the stuff you couldn't do because you were hacking and snotty and exhausted.  Suddenly your only slightly better self is faced with mountains of dirty dishes and laundry and food that needs to be cooked before it goes bad.  Also, errands, phone calls and emails you didn't have the energy to complete.  Plus, KIDS!  WITH ENERGY!  WHO NEED A SAMMICH!

Being sick sucks.  Being sick with little kids sucks extra hard.  Maybe when they're in elementary school I'll teach them how to make mama some soup and bring me tissue.  Or maybe I'll just teach them to play quietly in the other room and leave me alone for a full 30 minutes.  That sounds nice.



P.S. Total random sidenote: I'm going to be changing the name of this here blog soon.  Squishy will remain, but the reference to the line in the Disney/Pixar film will not.  Because I am not that person.  And I fear I am misleading the lovely people who adore Finding Nemo, but do not enjoy it when I say fuckballs.  I'm caring like that.  Also... I'm a tad worried that if more than 10 people start reading this, I might get sued.  So, there's that.

P.P.S. Please don't sue me.

Toddler Talk, Translated.

This morning, we heard from the kids' bedroom as they were playing, "DAD!  Come here!  Come look at this train I made!"

Dad hollered, "Be there in the second!"

Big One yelled, "COME!  Hurry!  Come see!  COME NOW!!!

Dad, "In a second!"

Big One, "DAD!!!  COME NOW!"  Followed by a long scream from the Little One.

Which, translated, sounds to me a whole lot like, "Come here now, or I'll kill this baby."

Oh my god.  They totally are little, tiny terrorists.

*  *  *

Epilogue

Upon entering the room, we discovered that the Big One was not, in fact, holding the Little One at knife point.  It really was just a train.  So that was good.

All's well that ends well.

Clarification

Dear Little One,

I feel there are a few things I need to clarify with you.  Please listen closely:

* Making something fly through the air does not make it a ball.  Please stop saying, "Ball!" and then throwing things.
         Example: That little metal truck you just hucked across the table?  Not a ball.  The bit of sandwich you called a ball and then threw at lunch?  Also not a ball.

* Screeching like a psychotic monkey will not get you what you want.
        Example: When I go to change your diaper and you twist and scream that horrid scream and throw things (which are still not balls), I still have to change your diaper.  I win.

* Calling it a button does not mean you have to push it over and over and over again.
         Example: Your bits are your bits, so... I'm not trying to be bossy and I definitely want you to enjoy... things... but we do have to get things done and... there's a time and place for....  We'll talk about this when you're older.  Nevermind.

* Trying to twist out of my arms while I'm carrying you somewhere you don't want to go isn't going to hurt anyone but you.
        Example: All of the times you do this.  Quit doing this.

* Refusing to eat will not make me suddenly decide to feed you nothing but cookies and milk.
         Example: See the part about only hurting yourself.  And the part about me winning.

* While that mischievous grin of yours is killer and makes me smile every. single. time... it does not give you free reign for naughtiness.
        Example: Flashing that smile at me before you pitch your breakfast or smash the metal car into the wooden table does not excuse it.  You're still in trouble.  So just stop.  Oh, stop.  Yeah, it's cute- stop.  Ohmygod, I totally love you.



And, actually, while we're at it....

Dear Big One,

You clearly need some clarification on a few things as well.  Listen up, big fella.

* Repeating something a quadrabillion times in a progressively more irritating voice is not likely to make it happen.
       Example: Hollering from your bed at nap time, "Mommy, I need the door a little bit closed!" (meaning open) over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

*Just because you say, "Excuse me," doesn't necessarily mean you're excused.  Hollering over your parents as we're attempting to talk in the five seconds we have to figure out dinner is not going to help anyone.  And yelling, "Excuse me," kinda cancels out the polite, there buddy.  See previous bullet.  And just hold on a second.

*Nap time really isn't for you.  It's for me.  So it's not optional.  You do not have to sleep, but you do have to stay in your room without yelling for a full hour at least.  (Note: that does not mean you get to start yelling after the first hour.  I merely require one hour for sanity.  More will benefit all of us.)
        Example: Today when I put you down for nap, you solemnly swore that you would lie down and stay quiet.  As soon as I left the room you bounced up and down and yelled my name for 17 different things that would mean I needed to come to the room and/or get you out of bed.  "I have to pee!"  "I have to poop!"  "I need a drink!"  "What was that sound?!?"  "I need my hippo!" (which is now across the room where I threw it so you'd have to come and retrieve it.)  "I'm hungry!"  "Can I read a book?"  "I miss you."   All of that is infuriating.  Please quit it.

*Saying you "need a break" right after you've done something that you know has earned you a time out will not get you out of time out.  Nice try though.
         Example: The other day when you pushed your brother over out of nowhere and then ran as fast as your legs would carry you to the corner of the kitchen yelling, "I need a break!!!"  Nope.  Still get a time out.

*Cracking up in the middle of your tantrum, while simultaneously amusing and exasperating, will still not get you out of whatever I'm asking you to do.
          Example: Yesterday when I asked you to go potty and get your shoes on before we had to leave to pick up Daddy, and you screamed and yelled and threw yourself to the ground... and then started laughing like a little lunatic... you still had to go potty and get your shoes on.  I believe this falls under the "I win" category.  But that transition directly into mania from fury was pretty impressive, Squishman.

*Being gentle and kind and loving with your brother will always get you 4,271 points with Daddy and me.  And your brother.  Keep it up.
         Example: Today, when we got home from dropping Daddy off at school, you very sweetly and gently helped your brother take off his jacket and shoes.  Of your own accord.  It was amazing.  I love you.

Respite

The other day- for a while, a brief shining piece of day- there was peace in this house.  There was pure, unadulterated happiness.

The kids stopped fighting me and each other; we all stopped hollering and correcting and throwing and arguing and decided to enjoy each other.  To settle down in the moment and listen to comfort of one another.

The Big One was telling a story and the Little One was dancing and we were listening to music they both listened to in the first days of their lives.  I looked at both of them in their absolute contentedness and felt it myself... and found myself choking back tears.  They were tears of happiness, of gratitude, of exhaustion, of life, of unbelievable love for my beautiful family, and all of a sudden this love was so intense it was overflowing.

And then they were giggling and playing peek-a-boo together and I was (am) so thankful for this beautiful family and our life and time together.  And then we danced together.

I watch your faces grow older and smile and your laughter rings through our home, through my bones. And I am so filled with love, with recognition, with understanding of why we are where we are.

The Secret to Potty Training

I have it.  Are you ready?  Are you ready for this revolutionary information?  READY?!?!?!

Here it is:  Your kid will be potty trained when s/he is good and damn ready.  The end.

I know.  Shit, fuck, goddamnit, that's what all the other books and doctors and Google were saying.  I THOUGHT YOU WERE DIFFERENT!!!!

Well, friend, so did I.  Until I had kids of my own.  And tried to potty train them.  And they had other plans.  And it turns out some of my friends' kids had other plans, too.  And then I went, "Well, shit.  This is not going at all as planned.  It's as though these little bastards have minds of their own!"

And they do.  They so, so do.  And, while you'd think that they wouldn't have such rock solid control over their bodily functions and how not to use them, they so, so do.

And so... potty training doesn't always go like you thought it would.  Sometimes it does!!!  (And to those people, I say congratulations!  And pppppffftttttppt.)  But very often it doesn't.  And then we, the parents, feel like giant failures who have failed our kids and failed ourselves and fail, fail, fail.
(Oh.  You don't feel that way?  Well, then you are remarkably reasonable.  Congratulations.  I FAILED.)


There are a billion and one methods and a billion and one philosophies and all of them work.  On the right kid at the right time.  You can pick and choose whatever you like.  Best of luck to ya.  But, apart from the actual potty training method itself, there are a great many other parts to this equation.  And we can not leave these out.

Here are the top 4:

#1. Parents.
Parents can be trained.  Parents can be trained really, really well.  Parents can be trained to take their kid to the potty every 30 minutes, or to begin putting their child on the potty at 6 months, or to recognize that look and rush them to the toilet in the middle of chopping raw chicken.  Or to precisely follow the directions in any potty training book on the planet.  And all of that is super great and awesome and uber-effective.  Except that training ourselves doesn't equal a trained child who can recognize the need to go and then go in the toilet.  Eventually it might!  But probably not right away.  So, if you're willing to be in for the long haul and be trained yourself first, do it.  All of these methods will absolutely work.  On the right kid.  At the right time.

#2. Kids.
Hey, did you know these things came with such wildly different needs and personalities?  Did you know they reached milestones in such different ways and on different time lines?  Did you know that, sometimes, they can CONTROL when they meet these milestones?  Like, they're in charge?  THEY'RE IN CHARGE?!?  We're all fucked.

#3. Fear.
Some kids are actually frightened to go to the bathroom in the potty.  Some kids feel ownership over what they "created" and are bummed about flushing it away.  Some kids don't want to stop being babies, and potty training is a clear sign o' the end of that road.  Some kids have painful poop and are frightened of the actual act of pooping... and trying to do it in a new place in a new way is just too much.  

#4. Health/Genetics/Diet.
Sometimes other things come into play.  Some kids take a little longer to recognize the actual feeling of having to go to the bathroom.  Some kids have health issues, like constipation.  Some kids diets are weird because they refuse to eat anything that grew from the ground, or will only eat white food, or hate whole grains.  The genetics and health and diet of the child play a HUGE role in potty training and all of these things can hold it up a good, long time.  Be prepared for this.  And try not to be too pissed off about it.

There's a lot that goes into this.  It's kind of a miracle anyone ever gets potty trained, actually.


Anyhoo, none of this is to say that you have to wait until they saunter up to you one day and say, in perfectly clear English, "Pardon me, Parent Dear, but I do believe I'm prepared to utilize the toilet at this juncture.  Please pass Anna Karenina. "  Cause if you're still willing to change your kid's diaper and wipe his or her butt, that day might never come.  Your kid ain't dumb, friend.  S/he knows that kind of personal service won't roll around again for a good 70 years.

Listen, if your child is developmentally ready and you are mentally prepared to take on this mighty adventure we call Potty Training, then by all means, get 'er done!  Pick your method and run with it!  It'll totally work!!!  (IF your kid is ready.)



I know.  This was no help at all.  I'm sorry.  You had high hopes.  We all did.  I failed.  AGAIN.

Look.  Here's the thing.  I jest and make fun and laugh and act all apocalyptic about potty training because potty training can be one of the most confusing, frustrating, embarrassing experiences of parenthood.  Or it can be super easy and awesome and exciting.  YOU NEVER KNOW.  Because, hey!  Guess what?!?

The kid will go when the kid is ready to go.  The end.

****

Best of luck to those beginning this Potty Journey.  Don't stop believin'.

And hang in there, comrades in Potty Hell.  We will all be done changing nasty, dumptastic diapers one day.  One day soon.  And our houses will no longer smell like feces.  Damn it.

Wonder Woman

I'm gonna let you all in on a little secret.  Are you ready?  Susie Sunshine, I am not.

I know, I know.  This is shocking information.  Try to contain your astonishment.

Apparently, I'm Debbie Downer instead.  I've come to this realization, though it was probably obvious to everyone but me.  I would never have described myself as an optimist (I was once called "Bubbly" by a friend's boyfriend and I resented him for it for years), but I have always been great at cheerleading for others.  I can encourage and find the bright side and generally wax happy for anyone.  Except myself.  When it comes to my own life, I am decidedly pessimistic.  Sullen, even.  I cannot look on the bright side of my own life (although whistling this tune does help a lot:)

But life has been particularly redundant and decidedly unhelpful lately, and even whistling a Monty Python tune doesn't quite do it these days.  And, as a result, I fear I'm bringing other people down with me.  I think I'm becoming that grouchy person in the room that no one really wants to talk to, because they know it's all going to be bad news.

All of this to say (SEE!!  SO Debbie Downer.  Damn it.) that because I am in a place of blue that I can't quite squeak myself out of, I am going to write about the things I forget to focus on.  Because life gets in the way and the littles are so little that their unpredictability throws me for a loop, and I forget to focus on all the wonder of their littleness.  So today, I focus on that.  The wonder.  (Wonder Woman would totally kick Debbie Downer's ass, right?)

The Little One:
-He is now the same age his brother was when he was born.  Whoa.
-He adores all things vehicle and plays trucks and cars and trains contentedly for what seems like hours        sometimes.  His siren sounds have become increasingly realistic (read: LOUD).
-His cackle is infectious and he is jolly as all hell... until he is mad as all hell.  Then he is loud as all hell.  Regardless, it is always impressive.

The Big One:
-He is a reader extraordinaire.  He gets positively giddy when he receives a new book or one of his little magazines in the mail.  I hope this never, ever goes away.
-He has started saying, "You're the best!" to me and Daddy.  Of course, that means that neither one of us is actually the best, but I'll take it.  WAY more pleasant than the other oft heard "GO AWAY."
-After a long, long, LONG battle with constipation, we might be starting to win (maybe?) and he is finally going to the bathroom regularly.  Yesterday, he finally (FINALLY!!!) pooped on the potty of his own accord.  If you have kids, you totally get why this is so exciting.  If you don't, you are totally grossed out right now.  Sorry.

I will come up with more later.  In the meantime, it's enough to remind me that there is, absolutely, a bright side of life.  Doo doo, doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo.  The Wonder Woman in me will kick that Debbie's ass yet.


* Totally random side note: I had an incredibly awesome set of Wonder Woman underoos when I was little.  I rocked them with such frequency and verve that my mom made me wristbands, a belt, faux boots, and that little crown/headband thing out of aluminum foil.  And a little yarn lasso.  It was awesome.  Why can't we run around like that as adults?

I am reminded that ComicCon exists.  Nevermind.


** UPDATE: Right after writing this, I found a post on a popular blog called Girl's Gone Child addressing a very similar feeling.  Whoa.  Good to know we are not alone in feeling... alone.  And that the solution is sometimes as simple as time with a friend.  Noted.

http://www.girlsgonechild.net/2012/09/liner-note-910.html

And You Shall Be My Twitchy

Dear Kids,

I love you boys dearly and I treasure the time I'm able to spend with you while you are so little.  Nonetheless, if you could just hurry on past these toddler years, I'd be grateful.  My eye twitch is starting to freak people out.

Love,
Mama