Forgive me Father, for (maybe, it's possible that) I've sinned.....

Oh Internet, I think I need your guidance. Parenting is hard. It's hard for so many reasons. And mostly I feel like I'm decent at it, but yesterday........ Well..... Let's just say I may have made a questionable decision. But I'm in such a quandary! HELP ME.

Here's the low down: Gibson -- who is almost 6 -- Whizzes the bed with nightly regularity. And even though he doesn't like to, he wears pull-ups also with nightly regularity, which saves me from a non-stop barrage of smelly wet sheets and perhaps saves my sanity too. He's been otherwise potty trained since he was 2 and didn't ever really have many daytime accidents. And because he sleeps like a log -- a slumber so deep it takes 8 to 10 good shakes and a really loud voice to rouse him -- I KNOW he can't help it. I would never dream of punishing him for it.

Now let's cut to Landis, who is four and has also been potty-trained since he was 2. Contrary to Gibson, Landis has fantastic bladder/bowel control, never had any accidents and only pee'd his bed twice in two years. He doesn't sleep as heavily and gets up to go when necessary. I'm not really sure why I'm giving all this background information on the boys nighttime potty habits, except to say that they've been competent at going by themselves for a long time, with the exception of Gib's bed wetting --which I hope he'll eventually grow out of. No, the issue I'm struggling with is that Landis has recently taken up pooping in his pants.

Not a full-on load, mind you, but a pretty healthy start. Why, you may wonder, is a kid who has been going to the bathroom proficiently for 2 YEARS, pooping in his pants again? Well, it would seem that lately he just can't seem to be bothered to actually take the time to stop what he is doing and GO. He's into holding it. Holding it so long that, frankly, he can't quite hold it all. And he refuses to go until he ABSOLUTELY HAS TO, which usually means that by that time, he's pooped in his pants.

Now, Internet, the first few times this happened I was really nice about it. And what I mean by "first few times" is somewhere in the ballpark of 6 to 10. Who wants to get his or her child in trouble for what is seemingly an accident? Not me. I know that sometimes these things happen. But they keep happening and happening and happening. And it's not just the poop - though that's what I find to be the most aggravating -- it's that he waits to pee too. I'll look over at him as he's engaged in some activity, doing the universal pee-pee dance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and ask him if he has to pee. "No." he replies. And as he does so, I begin to see a wet spot appear on the front of his shorts. Just a small one -- the size of a quarter -- but a pee spot all the same.
"Landis!! YES YOU DO! I can see you starting to pee in your pants! Get in there and GO!"
He stomps off in a huff to use the facilities, aggravated that I would insist that he pry himself away from what he was doing to actually take care of business.

And I think I got to the threshold of my patience when, on one particular occasion after the scenario described above had played itself out, he returned to his previous activity STILL DANCING.
"Landis! Did you go potty?"
"Yes."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still dancing?"
"I have to go poopy."
"THEN GO!!!!!"
"No. I can hold it."
"No you can't! This is why you're pooping your pants! If you have to poop, then for God-Sakes, GO POOP! Quit trying to hold it until the very last possible second!"
Again, he stomped off in a huff because I had the audacity to actually make him go to the bathroom BEFORE he let one go in his pants.

After numerous attempts at just talking with him and trying to get him to understand that he needs to go the first time he feels the need to go, I finally told him that if he pooped in his pants again he was going to be in trouble.

So last night, as we were taking a bike ride to the park, he pooped his pants again. Of course, he didn't tell me right away so he proceeded to ride on it for 10 minutes. Then we played on the slides and the swings, and since I wasn't near his butt, I couldn't smell him. But after about 15 minutes of playing he announced that he had to poop, so I grabbed our stuff and we started walking toward the bathrooms. It was then that I realized he was walking a little funny.
"Oh no..... Landis........ You didn't already poop your pants, did you?"
"Ummmmm...." He felt around the back of his pants with his hands, checking his butt thoroughly. "I don't feel a big ball..........."
"OK, well then lets hurry."

We got into the bathrooms and I helped him with his pants only to make a fabulous discovery. Not only had he pooped already, AND ground it all over his butt, he also WASN'T WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR!! And his pants were lined with netting, so you can draw your own conclusion as to what that looked like. I seriously thought I was going to kill him. He couldn't ride home naked, and it didn't even matter at this point if I even cleaned it, since he was going to have to grind it all over his butt again on our ride back home. So I did what I could for him in the park bathrooms -- cleaning everything to the best of my ability -- and told both boys that since Landis had pooped his pants we were going home.

And when we got home I punished him.

And now I feel a little guilty about it.

On the ride home I told him that he was in trouble and I gave him 2 choices -- a spanking or a cold shower to get his butt clean. He chose the cold shower. And he cried the whole time like I was torturing him -- and while it probably doesn't qualify as torture.......well, it certainly wasn't pleasant.

So now I feel guilty about making a 4 year old stand in a cold shower, but I am COMPLETELY FED UP with the pants pooping. He's normal, and regular, and hasn't had a lick of trouble pooping in the potty for 2 YEARS! I've had it up to my eyeballs, and I'm officially at my wit's end. Internet? Was that OK? Has anyone else had to deal with this? I'm in bad need of some good advice, because this parenting thing? It's hard.

Been workin' so hard. I'm punchin' my card......

Well, Hello there! Long time no see, eh? What have you been up to? Me..... well...... I've been covered in an itchy, bumpy red rash that has so completely covered my entire being that I may actually go and see a doctor today, but that's a story for another post.

Besides scratching obsessively, you know what else I've been up to? I've been working out again. Ever since I stopped that atrocious coughing, and can actually take a deep breath without hacking up a lung for 3 minutes as a direct result, I've gotten myself back in the gym. It's been great because after those 6 weeks of non-stop coughing, I forgot how good you feel after a solid workout. In fact, I was feeling so good that I thought I'd take a class that has generated some serious buzz at our facility. It's called cardio-funk, which -- as you can probably imagine -- involves a lot of gettin' down. So it has all this buzz because it's a serious workout, but also because it's a freakin' blast. Not to mention the fact that it's taught by a very attractive guy who can dance like a pro and - in my perception - is totally straight. (Ladies............? Care to come try the class and maybe take a peek?)

So I tried the class for the first time, and let me tell you, we definitely did some serious gettin' down. Some hardcore cardio funkin'. We got down to some old school Michael Jackson, we funked out to some great hip hop. We channeled our inner Tina Turner to Proud Mary, and shook it like a Polaroid picture. We let the dogs out, and we did the entire routine to Footloose. And it was during the routine to Footloose that my friend Erin -- who was thoroughly entertained by the fact that we were partaking in this class -- got Gibson out of the childwatch and held him up so he could have a peek at what was going on. "Do you see your mom in there?" she'd asked him. And you can bet your sweet bippy that he did. He watched like a hawk and soaked up as much of the song as he could so that later he could tell me all about it.

• "Mom! I saw you dancing today!"


• "You did?"


• "Yeah! Erin held me up and I got to look. I saw you."


• "Did you like it? Was it fun to watch?"


• "Yeah! And I liked the song you were dancing to."


• "Which one?"


• "Loose! You're loose! Everybody thinks you're loose!"


• "Ummmmmmmmmmmm.......(this is where I bite the inside of my cheek and stifle the intense need to roll around on the floor holding my sides and laughing hysterically).......actually, I think the words are: Loose, FOOT loose, Everybody cut foot loose."


• "No..... I heard it. It goes: Loose! You're Loose! Everybody thinks you're loose!"

So now he's learned a new song that he loves to sing -- frequently. And even though I make attempts to correct his lyrics, I mostly just let him sing it the way he wants. Because explaining to a 5 year old that perhaps it's not appropriate to sing about how loose someone is just opens a whole new can of worms, doesn't it?

Guilty

Gibson had his official last day of school yesterday, and frankly, I think I might be more excited about it than he is. Of course it's possible that being that I've been through 18 years of schooling, and he has really only been through one, I might have a better concept of summer vacation than he does. In any case, let me just say a "THANKGODHALLELUJAH" that I won't be speeding up the highway twice a day, every day, 30 minutes each way anymore.
Ever.
Forever.
(Amen!)
And let me just go ahead and get another "HALLELUJAH!" regarding the demise of that little commute, since gas prices will no doubt be 5-freakin'-bucks-a-gallon by the time summer is over, and frankly, that would have just broken our backs. Next year, the G-man will be riding the bus to school. (PRAISE THE LORD!) And that particular school happens to only be 3 minutes down the street. (AMEN!) It will pick him up AT OUR DOOR! (SING IT SISTER!) And drop him back off there too! (SWEET JESUS!) I am so filled with gratitude for that big yellow mass of transpotation salvation that the first time it stops in front of our house, I might just run out the door, climb the steps, and kiss the driver square on the mouth. That's right, I said ON THE MOUTH. I'll do it too. You watch.

But I digress...... The whole reason I even sat down to write this post was to tell a funny story about Gibson, and what happened when I was picking him up from school the other day. (Did you know I'm not going to have to do that anymore? A bus is coming to my house next year. Seriously. Twice a day every day. HALLELUJAH!!!!!)

What was I saying...? Oh yes...... Funny story......
So I went to Gib's school to pick him up, and all the kids were lined up in the hallway by the front doors the way they are every day. I was walking toward the school and the dismissal teacher saw me coming, so she stuck her head inside the door and said "Gibson! Go!" as she gave a little jerk with her thumb over her shoulder. I milled around as I waited for the G-man to emerge and in the meantime she dismissed a few more kids. "Jordan! You can go. Shaia! Devon! Go! Calvin! Go!" I watched as all the other kids came out the doors to their waiting parents when they were called. But no Gibson. I wondered where he was. Eventually she took notice that I was still standing there. Waiting......

She looked at me with some confusion. "Are you still waiting for Gibson?" she asked me. I told her I was. "I called him," she said. "I wonder why he didn't come out?" She stuck her head back in the door. No Gibson. She asked the inside teacher if Gibson went back to his classroom. The inside teacher said No. She looked at me, I looked at her. We both knew he had to still be in the school somewhere.....we just couldn't figure out where.

So where had Gibson gone? Well, it appears that when she stuck her head in the door and told Gibson to "Go", he went..................straight to the principal's office. Now I ask you, what was that child doing right before she dismissed him? Because if that wasn't the mark of a guilty conscious, I don't know what is.

A letter to my son

Dear Landis,

Today you're four. And I can't believe it. I'm not sure how all that time has passed -- how you've gone from infant to full-fledged little boy in what seems like the blink of an eye. But full-fledged little boy you are, as proven by the fact that when I hold you in my arms and rock you, you are all arms and legs hanging off my lap in various directions. Yes, I still rock you. I do it because you love it. And for the record, so do I. I love the cuddly little bundle that you are when we sit on the back porch just before bed-time, you smelling of ivory soap, wrapped in blankets and soft in your pj's, snuggled in my lap as we rock slowly back and forth and wait for the stars to come out. I love the awe and excitement you express when you see the very first one winking at us, twinkling faintly in the dusky sky, and the sweetness of your wish when you say the words "star light, star bright...... first star I see tonight.....". Those are the times when I wish you could stay small enough to fit in my lap forever.

In some ways it seems completely appropriate that you are four -- that it's about freakin' time you turn four, since you've seemed older than your years for so long. It's not just that you are so tall, but that you are extremely coordinated, and whip-smart too. All of which causes people to ask me things like "Why isn't Landis in Kindergarten this year?" And when I reply with the appropriate answer - "Well, because he's only 3" - they practically fall over and say something along the lines of "3!?!?! He's only 3!?!?!". It's the same response you'll get your entire life when you explain to curious folks what your age and/or height actually is. And I know that your father is sorry he passed his enormous height genes on to you because the world is not built for extremely tall people. And I know he grows weary of answering the same questions over and over and over again about whether or not he played basketball, and just exactly how tall he is, watching people have the same responses time and time again. I can see already that it's going to play out the same way for you too, so I hope you have been blessed with patience and a good sense of humour. Or at least that your sense of humour develops beyond:
"Old MacDonald had a farm!
E - I -E - I - Ohhhhhhh!
And on his farm he had some POOP!
E - I - E -I - Ohhhhhh!
With a poop poop here and a poop poop there!
Here a Poop! There a Poop! Everywhere a POOP POOOOOOP!!
Old MacDonald had a farm!
E - I - E - I - POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"
Which sometimes I think will be the death of me.

When I asked you what you wanted for your birthday this year -- knowing full well that the teeny trike you've been riding for months without complaint is so small that it jams your knees up into your chin -- I was beside myself with excitement. I knew without a doubt that a bike was exactly what you'd ask for, and we were poised to deliver. You paused and gave it some serious consideration. Then you decided that what you really, really wanted more than anything else for your birthday, was jelly beans on your cake. And the simplicity and innocence of your birthday desires made me want to hug you, if, for no other reason than maybe some of that could rub off on me.

Your June birthday makes you a Gemini. And even if I'd never believed in the accuracy of zodiac signs before, having you would have converted me. The way you swing effortlessly between your cotton-candy sweetness and your devil-may-care attitude is impressive, if not completely exasperating. I often wonder how a boy so sweet and gentle and caring can at the same time be so stubborn and willfull, without the slightest desire to please anyone but himself. You didn't get that from me. And as much as that trait makes me want to pull my hair out by the roots, I respect you for it. You are not easily emotionally manipulated, and I hope that when you are an adult you learn to use that trait in a positive and productive way. It is, after all, a strength. Your brother, he's a "pleaser", and I have to admit that I supplied that genetic material. We (he and I) care an awful lot about what other people think, and what other people say, and how other people feel. And I'm not saying that's a bad thing. That trait too, is a strength, for as many reasons as it is a weakness. It's just that you seem to have been born with an innate ability to act on a principle that has taken me 34 years to implement: That sometimes you have to be true to you, without any regard for what other people think, or say, or try to make you feel guilty about.

Your imaginary world is a lively one, and I love to watch you and listen in on the conversations you have when you don't know I'm paying attention. I enjoy the make-believe friends who join us for entertaining dinnertime chatter in the form of your hand-puppets -- each character with it's own voice and mannerisms. You have a fantastic memory, and can remember things I had no idea you'd absorbed. I played a KD Lang CD in the car the other day, and yesterday I heard you singing the words as you were digging around in the fridge. I'm pretty sure you'd only heard that particular song once. And it's because you were exposed to "Ren and Stimpy" at a young age, that you tell me endless stories of why it's important to brush your teeth so that the Tooth Beaver doesn't come chew on your nerve endings and make your teeth fall out. You're quite matter-of-fact about it, and since your brother has lost two teeth and gotten handsomely rewarded for it, I know you believe as whole-heartedly in the Tooth Beaver as you do the Tooth Fairy. (Though, due again to Ren and Stimpy, I'm pretty sure you think the tooth fairy is an old, bearded, balding man in a pink Tu-Tu.) Like I said, your imagination is extremely lively.

Tucking you into bed at night is one of my favorite times of the day, mostly because you're such a cuddler. You snuggle up against me, place your hand softly on my cheek and sigh deeply as you settle in for the night. We talk in whispers, sharing the parts of our day that we liked best, and eventually I tell you to sleep tight. You tell me not to let the bed-bugs bite. And as I get up to leave your room, you always ask for one more hug and kiss. I gladly oblige, and usually that's just exactly what I get: one more hug, one more kiss. But not always. Sometimes, just as I am about to make contact, you turn my face sideways and lick my cheek. It's disgusting, but completely hysterical. And you do it infrequently enough that I fall for it every time.


And that's how it goes with you. You keep me on my toes because I'm never one hundred percent sure what I'm going to get. But regardless of the mood swings, and the face-licking, and the poopy jokes, there is one thing I am one hundred percent sure about: I'm so proud of the little boy that you are, and the person you are growing up to be. And I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

I love you,

Mom

Good medicine

We were driving in the car, running what seemed like an endless number of errands, when I had a conversation with one of the boys that pretty much summed up the way my entire day was going. It went like this:

Mom!

What?

Mom!

What?

Mom!

What?

Mom!

What?!

Mom!

What?!!

Mom!

WHAT!?
MOM!!

WHAT?! WHAT!?!! WHAT!!??!!!!!!

ummmmmmmmm...........

OH MY GAWD!

Are you kidding me? After all that, and you've got nothing?! For a few minutes there, I considered channeling Linda Blair from the exorcist -- rotating my head 360 degrees on my shoulders while spewing all kinds of vileness from my mouth.

But you know how I handled it instead? I ate 1/2 a box of assorted chocolates.

Yeah, baby.

20 pieces.

AND IT WAS SO WORTH IT.

I'm saving this one for the teenage years.

When I was a kid, my mom had a prayer taped up in the inside of one of our cabinets. As I recall, it was newsprint. So, accurate or not, I remember it as something she read in the newspaper and thought was really nice. She cut it out and hung it up in the kitchen -- a place we used often so that it could be a daily reminder of the kind of parent she wanted to be. I'm 99% positive it had a line in it about being a patient parent -- A line I remember fairly vividly, because whenever we had a disagreement or when I was pushing her buttons and generally frustrating the living shit out of her, I'd whip open the cupboard door and read the poem to her, making sure to put extra emphasis on the 'having patience' part. Finally, in the midst of one heated argument, I whipped that cupboard door open one too many times. And as I was reading the prayer back to her, in the kind of nasty and exaggerated tone that is almost exclusive to teenagers, she reached across my face, ripped it off the cupboard door in one swipe, crumpled it up into a ball, and slam-dunked it into the garbage with as much force as she could muster. She spun on her heel to face me and said "That prayer does not apply to YOU!" Then she left the kitchen.

I remember it clearly because even then I think I appreciated how appropriate her response was.

So when I came across this little gem the other day, I determined that I would save it until my own kids become teenagers. I plan on taping it up inside the cabinet in the kitchen, and whenever it's appropriate I'll whip open the cupboard door and read it to them. It's not as pretty or well-meaning as that prayer was, but it should serve it's purpose all the same. It certainly reflects the kind of parent I aspire to be, and I think they're gonna' love it.

**

Ten random thoughts

#10. Why does Gibson think he can speak fluent Spanish? And why does he think we can understand him? He knows he's just making it up, doesn't he? But then again, maybe not....... Maybe he really believes it. He certainly seems serious about it, and uses it at times when you'd think one would want to communicate clearly -- like when he yells out warnings to his brother. (Just so you can follow my train of thought here.....We'd been hiking a trail in a local park and a mountain biker was riding up behind us. Both boys were hiking up ahead, with Landis a good 10 yards ahead of Gibson, and I didn't want them to get smeared. "Hey you guys!!" I yell. "Get over to the side. There's a bike coming!" So Gibson stops in his tracks, leans forward, cups his hands to his mouth and yells out, "Landis! Basta did a ye yammo a la esta!" -- which loosely translated apparently means "Get over to the side so you don't get smeared by the oncoming mountain bike!") And that's just one instance. He does it all the time. He sings along to the radio in "Spanish", he gives instructions in "Spanish", and he speaks to native Spanish speakers in "Spanish". Seriously. He even rolls his R's and gets the accents in the right places. Where does a kid get that kind of confidence?

#9. At what age is it appropriate to decide that you will no longer be wearing underwear? Is 3 too young? Landis refuses to wear it, and I'm not sure if I should make him. When I insist on it he acts like I'm torturing him -- rolling around on the ground and yelling "PLEASE!!! NO UNDIES!! I don't want to wear undies!!!! NO!!!!!!! NO!!!!!!! NO!!!!!! PLEEEEEEEEAAAAAASE!!!!!!! I HATE UNDIES!!!!!!" The way he carries on, you'd think I'd lined his tighty-whiteys with sandpaper. Is he old enough to decide for himself?

#8. Hot dang! I just made some baked oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins, and it's FANTASTIC!

#7. How to you appropriately time-out a kid who enjoys being solitary? Like when, a couple of days ago, I sent Landis to bed 2 hours early for acting like a complete and total turd for the majority of the day. And how I cleared out his room so he wouldn't have any toys to play with, and how he pitched a huge fit about it, but then we found him an hour later skipping in circles around the upstairs wearing my kayaking helmet, lost in his own little world of make-believe. His early bedtime was supposed to be a punishment, but instead he was thoroughly enjoying himself and his time alone.

#6. I've been working so hard on my "post-baby saggy pelvic floor", doing yoga and pilates for the past year and a half so that I could finally laugh, sneeze, or cough unexpectedly without whizzing in my pants. I've been doing really well too. And then I went and got this horrible cold where I can't stop coughing and coughing and coughing and coughing........ and now I think I'm back to square one. (cough,cough,cough,cough,cough,cough,cough,cough...Dammit!!)

#5. Earlier in the week, when Mike went to the "chop-shop" for his appointment to render the boys useless -- or at least directionless -- and I was doing my usual pick-up at school, I found myself sitting in the car staring at the clock. And when I knew he was actually in the doctor's office, under the knife, I got all emotional and cried. And as I gripped the steering wheel and listened to the argument happening in the back seat about who was looking at whom, and who had to look out what window, and who had to wear what sunglasses, I had to ask myself "Self......? What is THIS all about?" I don't think it's so much that I am sad at the fact that we are done having babies. My kids are old enough to go to the bathroom on their own, eat on their own, play on their own, and for the most part they sleep through the night -- which are all huge accomplishments. And, if I may be frank, I can say with complete certainty that I am not anxious to go back to non-stop butt wiping, and diaper buying, and middle of the night feedings, and all the other things that make having a newborn exhausting. Square one is a hard place to go back to when you've been away from it for so long. Not to mention the fact that I'd have to put the brakes on going back to work for at least another four years. And as a family, we can finally do things like multi-day rafting trips, and roller-coaster riding, and lots of other super-fun things that would come to a screeching halt if we were to procreate one more time. I was, and am, totally on board with keeping our family as it is. So if the tears have nothing to do with the fact that we are done having babies, what then?

#4. Hmmmm.... Wonder if Mike minds that I just posted about his "boys".

#3. I've almost kicked my Diet Dr. Pepper addiction. I can say this with confidence, since I just made a 12 pack last for 2 weeks, instead of 3 days.

#2. Ugghhhh. It's bathing suit season. Our pool is officially open, and I'd still like to cut these last 8 pounds. How does one do that when everything tastes so yummy?

#1. Twix bar or apple? Twix bar or apple? Twix. Definitely the Twix.

(Cartoon credit goes to hugh macleod at gapingvoid.com)