I’ve learned the dirty secret to potty training and parenting in general.
Bribe them.
My daughter has an entire closet packed with My Little Ponies from her toilet training days. It wouldn’t surprise me if the mere mention of Rainbow Dash made her want to tinkle.
We just started trying to potty train my son and thankfully his vice is infinitely cheaper. Chocolate!
We just happen to have a lovely stash of leftover Easter candy (in a Halloween bucket) to inspire him to ditch the diapers.
My daughter is cheering him on because she knows she gets the consolation piece of chocolate whenever he pees on the pot.
Is it worth potentially spending several weeks with insane children hopped up on sugar in order to be done with diapers? Absolutely!
If I never have to change another blowout diaper, I will be a happy lady. My son’s dirty diapers smell like spicy thai food. It’s no joke.
I have to say, Huck has been taking the transition like a champ. He will squeeze out a couple of drops on cue if it means he gets a chocolate egg.
I do wonder if this means he will someday be 30 and using a restroom, bewildered by a sudden urge to eat something sweet.
It doesn’t hurt that he gets to rock Buzz Lightyear undies during the process. He looks ridiculously cute in them, with one exception.
The other night at dinner, my daughter growled in disgust and pointed at my son’s crotch and said, “His hoo ha is out!” (Hoo Ha being the best name I could come up with for her private parts)
Why in God’s name would they make underwear for toddlers with a hole in the front for their junk to peek out?
It was like, “Hey guys, what’s for dinner?”
We’ve been calling my son’s private part his “piton.” (pee-tone) I won’t say what it means, but porn stars have them… apparently Robin Thicke as well. It’s something most English speaking people won’t recognize as a “dirty word” and it doubles as a compliment.
There was an equally disturbing sight on Sunday while the kids were playing with the water table in the backyard and I noticed Huck’s piton popping out of the top of his swim trunks. I guess maybe he really does have a piton.
Back to bribery. It has become my go-to technique.
The other day Alma was having a major meltdown at Target. For the first time, she was scanning the aisles for anything she could potentially want and demanding I buy it. We ended up with a My Little Pony watch she can’t read, some new undies that sag off her skinny behind and a pink rubber lizard.
I had no idea that lizard would become a supreme being to her. It was from that weird little dollar section at the front of the store. You know, where they stock crap for kids that will break within a day.
Within an hour of getting back home, Alma is sobbing hysterically because she lost her pink lizard. Tears streaming down her face for that useless, lead-tainted, neon pink Chinese piece of rubber junk.
I spent forever hunting for it. So did my husband. So did Alma. (while hiccuping through tears)
The end result? Mommy heads back to Target to buy a one-dollar lizard. (and a bottle of Prosecco)
I get back home and instead of embracing me with gratitude she says with the attitude of a teenager, “Cut the tag off.”
I leave her watching My Little Pony with the evil lizard to start laundry and lo and behold, the original pink lizard was in the washing machine.
It’s now a slightly gooier, perpetually sticky version of it’s newly acquired sibling.
I guess it’s better than what I imagined to be the impending end result…. my dog shitting out a half-digested glob of neon pink.
What have I learned from all of this?
Don’t take the kids to Disney.
Don’t promise a day at a water park.
Hit the dollar section at Target and stock up on extra holiday candy. The cheap solution to parenting.
My children have reached the climbing and crying phase.
This shouldn’t be possible since they are different ages. I can only assume it’s because they are conspiring against my husband and I.
I picture my daughter whispering in Huck’s ear, “Okay, I am going to whine needlessly and erupt into sobs when they try to dress me and claw at mom’s legs while she’s cooking. You cry for no reason while simultaneously climbing Daddy on the couch.”
We’ve been “tightening up” after paying taxes and this Saturday we decided to splurge and go to Cody’s Roadhouse for lunch.
Does smashing open peanuts distract them? Momentarily.
Crayons they can color on a paper tablecloth with? Until they break them. (Okay, I broke one too)
What about food? Not even the food can keep them from whining and crying and climbing.
Huck is literally using my husband like a Jungle Gym, only pausing periodically to peer creepily at the people at the next booth.
I was able to down half of an enormous Rum Runner and eat a piece of meat before pleading with my eyes for the waiter to bring a To-Go box.
Praise Jesus, my miserable son falls asleep in the car.
Angry drunk guy at the nursing home.
God Dangit, my daughter started refusing to nap years ago.
So, I decide to take her on a bike ride to drop off a prescription at Walgreens. At one point I stopped the bike to adjust my backpack and couldn’t keep my balance. We tipped over, but to keep my daughter from hitting the ground I threw myself down and used my thigh to hold the bike in a semi-upright position.
While the bruises are hideous, nothing was more humiliating than the driver passing by asking if I needed help.
I could write about all the cute stuff my kids did over the weekend.
Like racing each other to throw themselves head first on the sofa. Alma starts it by shouting, “ANJAHMAR, get set, GO!”
Or when Huxley woke up the other morning with his PJ shorts tucked into his diaper so he looked like Woody in a blue speedo.
Or how when I put Alma’s Jessie doll in the baby swing with him at the playground he immediately started “talking” to her to see if she was having a good time.
Static hair from the slide.
But, isn’t it so much more entertaining to picture me biting it on a bike while some teenager in a hot rod giggles and asks if I’m okay?
I have an Easter hangover and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
I’ve had the revelation that far too many holidays or special occasions involve parents not sleeping.
Christmas: Buying presents without the children knowing about it is nearly impossible unless you shop online. Then you open the boxes to discover damaged goods, wrong sizes etc. but it’s too late to send it back and get the right stuff on time.
You also have to hide the wrapping paper or you will end up concocting some bullshit story about Santa having the room for a bazillion gazillion presents, but needing the hookup on wrapping paper.
You spend all night stuffing stockings, putting presents under the tree so your kids can wake you up before dawn and destroy EVERYTHING you worked so hard on.
The Tooth Fairy: It’s the ultimate test of your parenting ninja skills. You have to be sure they’re soundly asleep and then sneak like a burglar into their room and steal something under their pillow. If THAT doesn’t wake them up, then you have another shot when you place the actual money under the pillow.
Easter: Again, waiting until the kids fall asleep so you can put candy in Easter eggs and hide them all over the house.
The kids literally have chocolate for breakfast. I caught my son sneaking chocolate eggs on his own several times before 9am. He had a chocolate clown face smile.
Then, it’s off to abuela’s house where she has jelly beans and cupcakes and ice cream. The kids are eating bunny shaped lollypops and skipping naptime.
Back at home that night, it’s a complete fiasco. They’re hopped up on sugar, bouncing off the walls, refusing to eat any real food or take a bath.
My husband actually started to time it during dinner. They could only go about 5 to 10 minutes between crying jags.
By the time they finally go to bed (kicking and screaming) I am starting to get a sore throat.
This morning, I wake up sick and am so tired at work my eyes are rolling back in my head like I’m possessed by a demon.
Three cups of crappy station coffee later and I feel like I’m having a panic attack. I’m pacing back and forth in the break room like a zoo animal held captive too long. My leg has Parkinson’s. It’s doing a solo Lindy Hop.
Last night I asked my husband, “Did they have fun?”
What I am really asking is, “Did they have fun, because I’m in holiday hell right now and if they DIDN’T have fun we are officially becoming Atheists so we don’t EVER have to celebrate a holiday again!!”
The first word out of my son’s mouth this morning, “Chocolate.” He can’t even pronounce his own name properly, but says “chocolate” with impeccable diction.
From now on we will only celebrate National Lazy Day. It involves not cooking, not cleaning, not consuming sugar, remaining horizontal and periodic naps. At this moment, I despise all of you childless bastards because you can have Lazy Day WHENEVER YOU WANT.
For the first time last night, I attempted to have a deep, meaningful conversation with my 3 year old daughter. She’s been acting out, refusing to go to bed at night and having meltdowns at school.
Blankie MUST cover head, but not eyes and cover all toes.
I tried to casually and calmly asking her if something has been making her upset lately. She said no.
I said her the teachers have told us she’s been having a bad time at school and I asked if something was bothering her.
She said, “Zach bit me two times. But, that’s it. He doesn’t bite me anymore.”
I said, “Well, you also seem to get very upset about what you’re going to wear for the day. Like, when we tell you that you can’t wear a certain dress… ”
She responded, “I LIKE dresses!”
Me: “Alma, we just want you to be happy and it seems like things really bother you.”
Alma: “Look at the puppet on the shelf! What’s inside this drawer?”
It’s kind of like when I asked her the other day what she wanted to be when she grows up. Her response… “A mommy… and a pumpkin.”
I asked again last night just for shits and giggles and was met with a resounding, “LADYBUG!”
I might as well ask her opinion on the privatization of social security.
Needless to say, our heart to heart did not prevent another major freakout session at bed time.
She demanded a single braid using two rubber bands so she could “look pretty like a fairy.” When I told her no and shut the door, she transformed into some kind of shrieking beast. She seriously sounded like she was screaming in tongues. I expected to open the door to find her crab-walking across the ceiling, spewing green vomit.
My sweet girl has been swallowed up by a chupacabra, one with an insatiable desire for dresses, braids and milk after brushing her teeth.
We’re at the point where we’re trying to teach her that you can’t always get what you want.
In turn, that means we can’t get what we want. (which is really just to watch Juan Pablo get chewed out by some angry Aztec-looking lawyer chick for saying, “It’s Okay” too much on “The Bachelor”. Lofty goals we have.)
Does anybody have a floral-print straight-jacket that doubles as a dress? (but with absolutely no purple… at least not today)
Whenever my husband tells me he’s going out of town on business, my stomach sinks. I feel pressure under my tongue like I’m going to vomit. I expect it’s similar to how I would feel if I were to find out I was expecting a third child.
Ok, maybe not that bad… but close.
I know it means I will inevitably be late for work, arriving frazzled, in border-line meltdown mode. That’s how I feel when I am 5 to 10 minutes late, even if I work through lunch. You can imagine how I feel when I’m actually out sick. I was racked with guilt when I was in the hospital with MRSA.
I am not normal.
My life is planned down the second.
Alma demanded braids this morning. That’s all it took to ensure I was 5 minutes late. Hard to believe? I frequently have to decide whether to pee before work or arrive on time.
My “lunch breaks” are spent buying milk to store in the work fridge and canceling all of the appointments I can’t make because I can’t even use a vacation day to see a Doctor. I’m just so valuable.
So valuable that I could create a daily list of criticisms longer than my grocery list. We have two kids. It’s a long-ass list.
Got this fortune this weekend. Couldn’t stop laughing.
I see the sunrise on the way to work. I watch it set on the drive home. I know, I know… there are people who would say, “Be grateful you have a job.” Oh, I am.
It’s so awesome to be able to afford to enjoy absolutely NO time with my children or husband.
Well, I do have my weekends. This past weekend was a blast. We had a party to celebrate our son’s 2nd birthday. I ate too much, drank too much wine and had to delete all pictures where you could see my arms. (Not a fan of my arms right now. I have “drink too much” arms. Not even lugging around a 30 pound kid can cure that.)
Birthday parties are a blur. Afterward you question whether you were rude to anyone, did the food taste good and WHAT HAVE WE DONE BY GIVING OUR TODDLERS CAKE AND CHOCOLATE??
Nothing compares to post-birthday party meltdowns.
Sunday, we took the kids to a state park to enjoy the great outdoors. Nothing great about my daughter demanding I carry her for miles through snake-infested woods, sweating my ass off and constantly having to stop so she could throw sticks in the river.
My son had a blast. He’s a future hiker.
Alma… she’s a future shopper.
She spent an hour before leaving crying hysterically because we wouldn’t let her wear a white lace skirt and light pink church shoes to go hiking.
I knew we made a mistake when after just a couple of minutes of walking she started saying, “I’m sweating. My knees hurt. I’m hungry.” Her “knees” hurt?
Yeah, that’s a new thing. “I can’t walk up the stairs because my knees hurt. My feet hurt and my arms and my toes.” She’s a classic bullshitter.
The day at the park started out with us saying, “Maybe the kids will be ready soon to try out camping.”
It ended with us saying, “Let’s never leave the house again.”
We’re terrified to even go out to eat anymore.
HELP, we’re being held hostage by two very small people with astonishing strength and an inability to communicate effectively!!
You’d think all of the action of the busy weekend would wipe the kids out and they would sleep like logs.
My daughter slept like a log, if you picture a little blonde log rolling out of a bed at 2 a.m. and screaming incoherently, “I don’t want i! I don’t want it!” (I have no idea why she was saying that)
Throw in the fact that this weekend one of the dogs snatched away a piece of bread packed with the other dog’s medication and then proceeded to projectile vomit around the house for an hour and you might begin to understand why I have “drink too much” arms.
1. I did at least 3 tons of laundry. I can now fold faster than a Gap employee.
2. I bought all my groceries. I can now be sure to avoid that guilt-inspiring $10 lunch during the work week.
3. I had 3 beers alone at home. So much better than drinking with friends. I wear what I want, pee when I want and nobody cares if I get a little sloppy.
4. I ended up at a fancy restaurant where my daughter demanded to sit on my lap and wiggle the entire time. I can now add competitive eating to me resume. I Kobayashi’d that meal.
5. Another meal in public was ruined by my daughter throwing massive temper tantrums. That means I got to eat leftovers in the privacy of my own home. Who wants to eat ribs in front of other people anyway? So, they tasted like crap. That just means I got eat Apple Jacks at 9pm instead. When’s the last time you did that?
6. I promised my daughter a bike ride after taking her to the after hours pediatric clinic, but we were running out of time before dark. It was a bike ride to Walgreens to pick up her prescription in jeans. Exercise!
7. Being at the clinic means I don’t have to miss work during the week in order to take her to the Doctor. Booyah!
8. I got to skip watching the Super Bowl and watch a movie with two graphic rape scenes that made me nauseous.
9. I downloaded 5 new apps to my daughter’s Leap Pad. No Barbie Shorts on Netflix for me. For at least A WEEK.
10. I look forward to working on a Monday. How many of you can say that? Really?
The very first time you feed your baby ice cream, it’s adorable. You watch their little face scrunch up in shock at how cold it is and then warm up to the luxurious goodness.
You might as well have just stuck a needle full of smack in one of their chubby arm rolls. It is liquid kid crack and now you’ve just opened the door to a lifetime of agony and suffering, trying to ween them off the sweet stuff unsuccessfully for eternity.
A granola bar will never be enough again. Now, they will want chocolate.
You will try to switch to sugar-free popsicles only to find the allure of sweet, sugary ANYTHING is too great. You’ll try to save it for special occasions like holidays and birthday parties, but find that bribing them to consume a single kernel of corn will be worth a single Whopper.
But, you’re wrong! Moments later, like a ticking time bomb they will transform into monsters. Alma is a she-devil, a banshee, demanding more, more, MORE! Huxley is a Tasmanian Devil, doing a crack dance to rival the best-of sites on Youtube. (See: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d7Go6q9i1T4)
They get that crazed look in their eyes like they might turn Dahmer for just one more bite of cake.
Even if you do succeed in denying them sugar most days, they’ll come back from your in-laws hopped up on PCP. (Pink CuPcake)
Then there’s those evil bakery ladies at Publix, just waiting to ruin your entire grocery trip with a free cookie for each kid. Like it isn’t tough enough to get everything into the cart and keep your kids grubby paws off the stuff. Now their paws are REALLY grubby, melted chocolate chips crusting onto the corners of their mouths like little savages who ripped through the ripe flesh of a chocolate-bleeding creature.
The ride home is AMAZING. The nap you hoped they would take is a distant memory thanks to some miserable bitch in a hairnet.
I just asked Alma if she likes chocolate and ice cream. Her response, “I want a piece of chocolate because I ate all my dinner and my belly is full.” You can’t even mention it without her getting the shakes.
“My name is Hannah. I gave my kid ice cream and chocolate.” (She’s never gonna make it through the withdrawals. I gave her a popsicle. She’ll want chocolate again in 10 minutes)
Living The American Scream 