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.
We have hundreds of television channels. 90% of them are showing things that are inappropriate for my children to view.
When I was a kid the raciest thing I ever saw on our six channels was Baywatch.
*I’ll be ready, I’LL BE REEADDY!*
Now, the magic screen flickers with unpredictable images of threesomes, boobs and man butts.
Plots centered on high schoolers having abortions, real housewives beating each other up and Bachelors having sex in the ocean with one of 27 “lucky” ladies.
It makes the controversial plots of the late 80’s and early 90’s laughable.
I remember feeling nauseous and uncomfortable when Allie found a condom in Chip’s pocket on Kate and Allie.
There was the infamous episode of Diff’rent Strokes when Dana Plato’s character had bulimia.
We can thank Canada for tackling tough topics like teen drug use and divorce on Degrassi Junior High.
My kids aren’t old enough to need the “child lock” but I am starting to think they need to make one for grownups.
“Watch Mad Men without gratuitous sex scenes! See Dexter without ever having to see Dexter’s derriere!”
While our biggest current concern is making sure the kids aren’t replicating the abuse Tom and Jerry subject each other to, there’s also Victoria’s Secret ads to subtly teach my daughter the appeal of protruding hip bones and anorexia.
Model or genocide survivor?
Thank GOD that we can now fast forward through all of the commercials, which are more graphic and offensive than anything we were forced to watch between shows as kids.
I was banned from watching Three’s Company because of their “inappropriate living arrangement.”
Now, you can watch two guys and a chick get it on in the shower on what’s supposed to be a thriller about a serial killer.
We had true drama with Mary Ingalls going blind on Little House on the Prairie.
The Cosby Show, where the most offensive thing was those Coogi sweaters.
The hot chicks on television: Becca from Life Goes On and Winnie Cooper. If you were a real perv it was Kelly Bundy.
Now Hannah Montanas transform into Miley Cyruseseses. (yeah, I couldn’t figure out the apostrophe) Britney Spears turned into… Britney Spears.
Want a chuckle? America’s Funniest Home Videos is still hilarious even though the clips are from the early 80’s.
Now, you can giggle at the guy from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia putting his dick through a hole in the wall in an attempt to have intercourse with a stranger.
Feel dirty yet? I do.
How did we go from the seven castaways of Gilligan’s Island to the seven strangers picked to live in a house to the seven strangers having an orgy in a jacuzzi in Vegas? It was like ‘take one down, pass it around’ with roommates on the Real World.
I blame a cartoon for the downfall of American television. Beavis and Butthead. It’s all their fault.
My mother spent years caring for me more than anything in the world before I even had a memory.
She helped me take my first steps, although it’s an accomplishment I never appreciate.
She made me cinnamon toast and Earl Gray tea with milk when I was sick. She made cinnamon yogurt with peaches when I was dragged to my dad’s football games. She played the “dot game” with me for hours so I would survive those games.
She was there for me when I ran from elementary school all the way home (across the street) because my anxiety was at its peak.
She allowed me to be myself, even when that meant being an incredibly weird kid.
She pushed me to audition for a play, although I was debilitated by anxiety and I found something that I finally felt was my own.
She worked overnight an hour away after the divorce in order to jump start a career that would quickly turn her from an Associate Producer to a News Director.
She made me a mountain of fried rice and brought me cheap white wine when my boyfriend was being a real douche during my first years in the news business.
She took me on cruises, some of the best vacations I have ever taken and will ever take in my life.
Now, I watch her with my daughter and realize she has taught me everything I know about being a wonderful mother. And I will never be as phenomenal as she has been for me.
My mother is a superstar and has been since the minute she was born, since the minute she became my mother and since the minute she became the grandma to my daughter.
What I miss about life B.C. (before children)
1) Lunch at Benihana
Who has that kind of money to spend on lunch? Now it’s t.v. dinners or whatever the kids refused to eat the night before.
2) Suntanning
Seriously, check out that TAN.
Now, it’s periodic sunburns and farmer’s tans in-between the many months spent so white I appear to be related to a guppy. You can see my insides!
3) Shopping at Urban Outfitters
Shopping now is a trip to Target with toddlers whining to go into the big cart and then back out of the big cart and climbing my legs and buying stuff off the rack without trying it on because going into a dressing room with toddlers is kind of like taking a casual stroll through the temple of doom.
4) Tearing it up at the club
The only photo of me in a club that seems to exist. Circa 2006
Now I just get super excited about the season finale of Bates Motel and an opportunity to steal some of the kid’s Easter candy.
5) Working out EVERY DAY
My brain addled by parenting and years of lost sleep, I forgot my gym bag at home last night. I opted for dusting the cobwebs off the elliptical in the garage. The kids ended up demanding to watch me workout, which really means Alma asking me 300 questions about the contents of the garage and nearly crushing my son with the foot pedal of the elliptical. (Which is now rocking from side to side from overuse)
6) Waking up…. and then going back to sleep
There is really nothing that compares to the opportunity to KEEP SLEEPING. Now, the only way it happens is if my husband and I take turns. (take turns trying to keep the kids quiet… impossible… and trying desperately to ignore the sound of their tantrums… also impossible)
Why not get drunk every night because you WILL feel hungover regardless.
7) Cuddling with my dog
My poor O.B. (original baby) has long since forgotten what it feels like to be truly loved and adored. Because he doesn’t wiggle incessantly, flick me in the face or demand something the second we sit down, I miss it too.
8) My husband
We used to stay up late making stupid jokes and giggling, things like “lying down dancing” in bed to the hilarious pornographic sounding ringtone on my phone. There ain’t nothing funny enough to lose precious minutes of sleep for anymore.
But, alas… if I didn’t have my children I would be bored, often lonely and absolutely MISERABLE.
So, there’s that.
I am substituting “shirt” for the other word so I won’t be wracked with guilt for being a total potty mouthed mommy.
Life is filled with “oh, shirt!” moments.
Oh, shirt… I picked the wrong major.
Oh, shirt… I forgot my best friend’s birthday.
Oh, shirt… I am getting OLD!
But, parenting is just one big, long, drawn out “oh, shirt!”
Oh, shirt… my babies have already outgrown the sitting on my lap phase. I will never again have the need for a glider.
I will never again know the bliss of a chunky baby in a milk coma on my chest.
I will never again be idly playing with chubby toes while watching something wildly inappropriate for children to view. (unless my toes end up super chubby, which is entirely possible)
Oh shirt… my kids are outgrowing the time period when they shout “mommy” with joy when I walk through the door. My daughter has officially started calling me “mom.” My son’s first words when I come home are generally, “I want cheese stick” or “I want nilk.” (he still can’t master that “m.”)
Oh shirt… my daughter is inching closer to entering real school. This is terrifying on multiple levels. Already, my toddlers are getting sent home from day care with “homework.” Homework at this stage just means work for parents.
Sorry, I don’t REALLY have the time to hunt down pictures of things that begin with the letter “J.” We don’t have magazines in our home. Who has magazines anymore? So, now I have to BUY a magazine in the hopes it contains jewelry or a jump rope, but will probably end up with Jack Daniels and maybe a celebrity Jew.
Teacher Appreciation Week is coming and some overzealous mom from my son’s class has sent us home with a sheet of things to buy for the teachers.
It’s a tour of the world!
Monday, we’re supposed to find three items inspired by Italy like pasta, olive oil etc to put in a gift basket.
Tuesday, we’re expected to move on to France and choose flowers or perfume, but non-scented because the teacher has a “sensitivity.”
The week rounds out with a request for ten dollars to give them gift cards to “enjoy dinner on us.”
Let me digress from “oh, shirt” for one moment.
First of all, I don’t actually think they should be called “teachers” when their primary responsibility still includes wiping shirt (hehe) off my kid’s ass.
Yes, they teach them. They teach them letters and numbers and how to be angry without biting.
They can have an apple.
Day care for two children costs as much as a second mortgage and now they want me to give them more money?
Yes, they are underpaid.
I will make sure my kid does a special crappy drawing of a unicorn just for them.
Oh, shirt… this is only going to get worse. The expectations for crafting and field trips and extracurricular activities and the cost and the bullying and the boyfriends and “the talks” and the FCATS and the applications to college and the…. oh shirt, I am getting ahead of myself.
Oh shirt, I have two children who are entirely my responsibility to try and shape into wonderful grownups. They are not “ideas.” They are not “something fun to think of a name for.” They are tiny little people with the potential to become psychopaths, serial killers, drug addicts, teen parents… or geniuses. (just as scary)
Oh shirt, I still think of myself as able to wear flip flops to work and eat Ramen noodles.
Was I really ready for all this?
You never are.
So, oh shirt… here we go.
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?
We did it! We made pine cone bird feeders!! (See previous post titled “Lazification of Parenting”)
Sure, not a single bird has visited and I am starting to wonder if as the weeks pass they are more likely to die from eating old moldy peanut butter, but WE DID IT!
We even did finger painting! It was a mess and a logistical nightmare to get the kids cleaned up, but WE DID IT!
Sure, my son ended looking like Dexter, but WE DID IT!!
Last night while my husband finished cooking ropa vieja, I took the kids outside to blow bubbles.
Sure, our front porch is now coated in sticky bubble stuff that got tipped over, but it was undeniably the best part of my entire day.
I was sick, sans makeup, exhausted and hearing my son’s ear-piercing joyful shrieks was worth every minute.
These are the moments I want to bottle, to multiply, to recreate forever.
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.
Living The American Scream 