It goes both ways

We're potty-training with Rascal ... again. Just when it seems he's on the verge of it, he loses interest and then we have to start all over.

We've been working on this since last summer.

This time around, we're back to our same old tricks - bribery, letting him run naked, and leading by example. This is where it gets amusing.

I debated today about telling you all this, but then quickly realised that any shame I may have once had was swept away during childbirth - very possibly the most shame-shedding experience of my life (but that's another story!).

So there I was, on the can, with Rascal watching intently.

"Where da peeeeeepee?" he sang out encouragingly. I obliged.

"Ahh! Hi peepee!" He was very excited.

"Mama 'tand, 'tand." He tore off some toilet paper and attempted to help me-- well, you know. I thanked him kindly but took care of it myself.

"Good mama, you good, you choklit! Okee?"

We went together to get me a chocolate chip as reward. Once there, he held out his hand patiently waiting for his chip.

I guess I forgot he gets his cut up front.

Are you sure you're ready?

I have no comment.

You are what you eat

Rascal is a snacker. We mamas are always on the lookout for "healthy" snack options, and supposedly Goldfish crackers are a safe bet.

Safe for whom?

He was eating these and some raisins. I was playing with Baby on the floor. Tweenie was off somewhere probably counting her Barbies.

It was just like in a cartoon - the part where green smoke drifts past your nose and suddenly an odor engulfed the room. We're talking a brain-numbing nostril-hair-singeing eye-watering anaphylactic-shock-inducing stench.

I held my breath as I approached him. He looked up innocently, not yet fully aware of the carnage he had wreaked. I picked him up and held him at arm's length as I carried him to the change table.

Ground Zero was a surprising sight. For all the smell there were only a few rabbity turds in his diaper, but what was really super awesome was that they were neon green. I tell you in all my years of changing diapers I have never seen anything so weird. I remembered then when he had all those Freezie-pops last summer that his poo was strangely colored too.

I cleaned him up as fast as I could and then double-bagged the diaper before putting it in the trash. I opened the window to let the room air out.

When I returned to the living room and Baby, I realized that the stink was still quite strong. I opened a few more windows, but it didn't seem to help much.

It was then I noticed that Baby had swiped some of Rascal's fishies.

A strange association

Baby was slobbering on me earlier - it made me think of Jabba the Hut.

It started during a phone call from Tantie. Baby felt he had something to add and yanked the phone away from me. Within seconds the handset was covered in drool... I was concerned that the phone would short out and Tantie would be electrocuted on the other end. The last thing to go through her mind would be the sounds of shlurping and gurgling.

By the time I got the phone back it was so wet that the saliva was literally dripping off the end. Even I was disgusted and it must have shown in my expression.

Baby hooped with laughter and reached for my face. He grabbed a fistful of cheek and lower eyelid in one hand and my lower jaw with the other, then hauled himself forward until he was sprawled on my chest and in attack position.

All I could do was watch in horrified paralysis as his dripping maw approached. He crammed my nose into his mouth and went to work. His two little teeth anchored onto my left nostril allowing his tongue free access to the right. He was so delighted with himself that he giggled as the ooze escaped up into my nasal passages and down my throat, making me cough.

I struggled to free myself but his grasp on my eyelid and jaw was solid. Finally I used my fingers to pry his jaw off of my nose and then the rest of my face. I put him down onto the bed as quickly as safety would allow and went to the bathroom to clean myself off.

It took about a half-hour for the red tooth- and fingernailmarks to disappear, and I'm pretty sure I now have a few new wrinkles.
____________

Epilogue

The thought briefly crossed my mind that this was Baby's version of a kiss. However, tonight he did pretty much the same thing to Twit. It didn't matter how hard he yanked, that fluffbrained feline loved every minute of it. If affection is still implied, it's apparantly not limited to Mama alone.

Oh well.

I hate it when she's right!

Tantie the childless. Tantie the insightful. Tantie the smartass.

I called her a few days ago because I was at the end of my rope. Rascal was getting on my last nerve and I needed to hear someone feel bad for me. Husband listens but does not respond - I guess he learned his lesson a while back...

Tantie has a special bond with Rascal because they are both the 'middle child'. She claims she understands him.

So although I did get some ego-soothing platitudes about my fantabulous parenting skills, she also had some words of wisdom. I didn't expect advise on this topic from her but it appears she has some insight.

So her solution was basically to use huge amounts of positive reinforcement and to absolutely not acknowledge bad behavior, other than a single stern "No!"

"Be a robot. Don't let him see that he's got your number. He thinks it's funny when you're mad."

I didn't believe this at first, but last time I was on the verge of losing it, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was beet red except for some white splotchies around my mouth that was wrenched into a scowl, my hair was wild and woolly, and I am pretty sure there was smoke wisping out of my ears.

Ok, ok, so I did look pretty funny. Rascal didn't laugh, probably because he learned along with Husband that a poker face gets you into a lot less trouble.

I tried this method for a few days and I think there was some limited success. Ever looking to gain an edge, Rascal found a way to crack my armor. I called Tantie in a panic.

"I'm a robot! I'M A ROBOT!" I shrieked. "But it's not working!"

Calmly she replied, "What did he do now?"

"He whipped off his diaper that was loaded with %&*@ and is rolling around on my bed, smearing it all over the sheets!"

My knuckles were white, my eyes squeezed shut as I clenched the phone to my head, waiting for the pearls of wisdom to come. I waited... and waited.

Finally a response: "Oh!"

What, that's all? I could hear laughy breaths on the line. She was trying her darndest to hold it in. Eventually she got herself back together and proceeded to do some damage control.

"I know what you're thinking," I accused. "Better you than me, right?"

A pause, and then "uh, listen, hate to do this to ya but Y&R is on..."

____________

Lest anyone should think that Tantie is anything other than a wonderful aunt and incredibly supportive sister, let me assure you that she has been an anchor, sounding board, and cheer squad for me. I only tell this story because it's freakin' hilarious... well, it is now anyway.

Toddler-proofing: part 32,489

We thought of everything, supposedly.

The books are on the topmost shelf of the bookshelf behind glass doors - he took care of that Spidey-style.

His clothes are in the oldest dresser we own, the one that you have to really yank on to open it - he's in there almost everyday.

The garage door opener is way out of reach - he knows how to get into the van and press the remote control.

Husband's car door usually requires a certain amount of technique to open - Rascal can do it in 0.6 seconds and uses the seat controls to recline both front bucket seats all the way.

Here's another thing we never thought of: the venetian blinds that I hate and have been planning to replace ever since we moved in.

I was in the kitchen making coffee when I heard, "Hewp, hewp!" from the living room.

There he was - one leg on the floor, the other looped through the slats of the blind, one wrist tangled in the string clutching 3 Hot Wheels, and the other hand hanging onto the back of the couch for dear life. A very precarious situation indeed.

How does he think of these things?

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to!

Today marks another occasion where I shouldn't have to do anything except enjoy myself and leave the work to others. In the past, it has also been the middle of winter...

oh wait a sec, it IS the middle of winter, though to look outside you'd never know it.


Rascal is too young to understand that mama deserves a break today, so in typical fashion he started the day by dumping chocolate pudding on the table, floor, chair, a few of his Hot Wheels, and a plastic bag for good measure. Then he smeared the whole thing around with his hands and then on himself. This picture was taken after I had already cleaned up about half of the mess.


Now that he was clean, he trotted off to the living room and somehow - I'm still shaking my head - managed to spill Danimals drinkable yogurt down his back...

As I sat down to write this post, he was watching the movie Cars. He munched on some Princess cereal and at some point realized I wasn't paying attention to his antics.

So he dumped his bowl on the floor again, but at least it was only dry cereal. I scolded him and sent him over to clean up his mess. As long as I was watching, he dutifully picked up piece by piece. The moment I turned my back to continue this post I heard the crunchcrunch-crunching of naughty little feet.

I'd take another picture, but frankly I've already done more work than I was planning to on this day...

A place for everything and everything in its place

Is it horrifying or hilarious? Medical emergency or laughter as the best medicine?

Rascal is up to old tricks again.

He hasn't done this in a while, and so I didn't even worry about leaving certain items lying around the house.

A little background information while I allow the suspense to build to epic proportions! I am not the neatest housekeeper. Husband and I believe in the 20/80 rule (that we invented), which basically states that 20% effort will make things look 80% better. We also believe in the law of diminishing returns, which states that you can strive for perfection, but as you approach infinity you can never attain it.

Sooooo, I make my children pick up their junk, but am satisfied enough if they use a bin or box that we have in the living room for such occasions instead of carrying it up to the playroom and put it away properly. That happens once a week or so, otherwise it would be hours and hours a day of trudging up the stairs.

Back to Rascal. He has a sense of order that will not tolerate deviation. He lines up his cars in roads on the coffee table and stacks his movies one on top of the other.

He also shoves sunflower seeds up his nose and pencils in his ears.

Didn't see that one coming.

You a bad puddy tat!

Twit has been "playing" with a bird all day. I finally rescued the poor thing from her because she wouldn't just kill it already.

It escaped into the house and I had a difficult 45 minutes chasing it back out. The last thing I wanted was for it to die behind the computer desk (where, incidentally, there is a heating vent). Eventually I got it out and it sat on the porch.

It still hasn't moved, except to twitch and peep piteously. I locked Twit inside to give it time to recuperate - unless it's fatally injured, in which case it really needs to die outside for sanitary reasons.

Tweenie came home shortly after that. She defended Twit vehemently, no surprise. When the topic turned to the fate of the poor birdie, she naturally wanted to adopt it too.

It's not that I hate animals; quite the opposite in fact. I just don't like being the one left holding the bag (of poop, all too often as it happens). We talked at length about why bringing the bird inside would not necessarily be a good idea. I was just getting to the part about the great circle of life when she cut me off.

"Sorry, ma, my show's on."

I suppose I should simply be grateful that I got my way...

It's not a Lemon, it's a Pickle

Rascal loves cars. It's all he thinks about, the only game he'll play. He lines them up end to end and if you mess with his road, you need to head for cover.

I put out some pickles for supper a few nights ago. Rascal looked at them for a long time.

"Carcar?" He stuck one in his mouth. "No carcar."

Oh well, what's a boy to do? He grabbed it in his fat little hand and trotted back to his road.

Later as I was washing dishes, he came in with tears in his eyes yelling about his carcar. He only has about 700 carcars, so I sifted through the whole box. None that I produced satisfied him.

Eventually Husband looked up from his Blackberry, wondering what all the commotion was about. He looked beside the couch and found Rascal's huge Tonka 4X4.

"Carcar!" Rascal shrieked. He ran over, yanked the truck away and dug in the driver's seat. He held the pickle aloft.

"Carcar, carcar, carcar, CARCAR!"

Okee dokee. So now everything could be a carcar I suppose.

The next day he was still driving the pickle, now covered in a fine layer of carpet lint and other unsavory items. Since then I have seen him drive Goldfish (the snack), pens, and a "Littlest Pet Shop" toy Tweenie got in a Happy Meal.

Kids are weird... but in a good way!

Husband would not approve

Rascal is all boy. He loves Buzz Lightyear, Hot Wheels, playing in the muck, and playing cowboy...

during Twister...

with Tweenie, who is maybe 15 pounds heavier than he...

really, anything he can get away with. I even saw him once try to sit on Twit (actually, I'm pretty sure she deserved it).

So basically very stereotypically male. Well, mostly.

This morning after Tweenie left on the schoolbus, Rascal got up and wanted to watch a movie. He uses mainly nonverbal communication sprinkled with vague comments, so figuring out which one he wants can be hard sometimes.

Mama: "Which one, buddy?"

Rascal (pointing at the whole rack of movies): "Dis."

M: "You want Buzz? Woody?"

R: "No. Dis." (point)

M: "Nemo? Tarzan?"

R: "No. Dis." (point patiently)

M: "Shrek? Larry Boy?"

R: "No. Dis." He finally approaches the stack and selects one.

I look at it in disbelief. It's Disney Princesses - A Christmas of Enchantment.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Yeth. Dat."

Ok, whatever makes him happy I suppose. He sat on the couch clutching Tweenie's pink fleece blanket featuring (who else) Aurora, Cinderella, and Belle. Tinkerbell whooshed onto the screen lighting up the Disney DVD logo. Rascal clapped happily.

I went into the kitchen to make my coffee. A few minutes later he trotted over, grasped my finger and instructed me to come with him. He led me back into the living room.

A bouncy tune sung by all the Princesses was playing. He wanted me to dance with him, which I did. His dancing mainly consists of pumping his knees, interrupted by an occasional twirl. When Ariel sang her solo, he began to shake his tush.

Someone's been watching mama dance.