Good parenting

Man y’all. Parenting is hard. And I was having one of those days. You know, the days where you question if you are doing right by your kids. If your best is enough. And you fret and worry and spend hours with an aching heart because you just want to know that you are raising your kids right, that they are happy and healthy and going to grow up to be awesome, productive adults and not jerk faces.

And then your kid’s Daisy troop leader sends you a picture she took at the last meeting and you are all…

Parenting. Nailed it.

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This is Kate using oranges to give herself boobies. Clearly she is pleased with herself. Thanks to Tracy Lyle for the photo. And for confirming that I’m killing it in the parenting department.

Labor day

I’m laying in bed nursing a terrible head cold while Ben takes the kids to the gym, so I can get some rest and they can have something to do and he can work out, which I think means watch something on his iPad for the allotted two hours of child care. Or, NOT… no, sorry, I’m mixing up MY workouts with his. He actually works out. So this is how we are spending our holiday. Happy Labor Day!

Labor Day is a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country. I know this because I looked it up on the U.S. Department of Labor’s website and it told me so. Labor. I know ALL ABOUT labor. You know what I call labor?

Potty training.

And we are in the throes of it. Right down deep in that thick, dirty, dark and scary part of potty training. The part where you want to believe you’ve got it all cinched up, until someone poops their pants in the middle of the library and you are all, “Hey, whoa there buddy, slow your roll. THIS IS THE LIBRARY MAN.”

It all started last week. I’ve been purchasing potty training tools on the down low for the past month or so, just knowing that when it was “time” I wanted to be “prepared” — ha, like anyone can be prepared for toddlers and bodily fluids, but hope springs eternal.

Well, I wasn’t ready last week, but when we got home from Target Beck dragged a package of super hero underpants out of the bag and said, in his sweetest voice, “PEEEEEAAAASSSSEEEE?” and then he batted his big ol’ blue eyes and I handed him my credit card, the keys to the car and a pair of underpants.

Huh. Now what? See, I was not ready yet. For Kate, she had been reading potty books and sitting on the potty before bath every night for months before we really started the good stuff, like panties and bribes. But Beck jumped the gun on me, we hadn’t gotten there just yet. So I rushed to iTunes and downloaded the only cartoon about potty training (Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, for the win!) and sat his little underpant clad tushie in front of the iPad and told him, sternly, to pay attention. About 15 minutes in, as Daniel gets a high five for going on the big boy potty, Beck unloads his bladder on our kitchen table bench. Riiiiight.

So I grab him, run to the little potty and let him finish. And then scream like a pre-teen at a Bieber concert, give him an M&M and a few stickers and then let him flush the big potty. He was pretty proud of himself.

So then for the rest of the day we played downstairs and he ran to the potty every time he had to go, and we did it. WE DID IT ALL DAY LONG WITHOUT ANOTHER ACCIDENT! There was some leaking before he caught himself a few times, but he was getting better and better at knowing when he had to go and by the end of the day I was all, WHAT? POTTY TRAINING GENIUS UP IN HERRRRRRRRR’.

The next morning he woke up, took a duece in the potty and I got all smug.

And that was my downfall.

Because I was all, “My son is a freaking genius. Potty training GENIUS. He is TOTALLY potty trained after, like, 12 hours right? So lets get out and run some errands. Lets go to the library. Hell, lets go to DINNER.”

I got all crazy. I have no excuse. Except, while I couldn’t remember much of Kate’s potty training experience, I knew it was easy. She was just easy to potty train. Except for that ONE accident. THE ONE. But I was all hopped up on my son’s incredible awesomeness that I didn’t do the one thing you should ALWAYS DO.

LEARN FROM HISTORY. Don’t repeat the same mistakes.

I didn’t do that. I laughed and maybe spit on my potty training history.

And history gave me the big F-YOU by taking Kate’s big potty training snafu (which involved poop and a Target) and jacked it up on steriods and let it loose in my sons underpants.

He pooped in the library. He pooped in the restaurant. He pooped in the last pull up we had and then he pooped while GOING COMMANDO (Ben’s fault here, I take no responsibility for thinking a potty training toddler should EVER go commando).

It was, in the middle of dinner, when Beck got off his chair, stood up and poop slid out of his shorts and down his leg that I learned my lesson. And ordered another glass of wine.

OHHHHHH. Right. 12 hours accident free AT HOME does not a potty trained child make.

So it is a work in progress. WORK. LABOR.

Happy LABOR Day, friends.

May your labor be a little less messy than here at The EdelSpot.

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Nothing to see here. Just reading my library books, pooping my pants. Like a BOSS.

Conversations of a mad woman

A sane person should never have these conversations. And I’ve had them all. GO FIGURE.

“Don’t wipe your boogers on your car seat. Well, I can’t REACH a tissue, I’m driving. Okay, fine then, wipe them on the car seat. Just don’t eat them.”

“Do not let the dog lick your food before you eat it. I don’t care that you are sharing, don’t share. Yes, you SHOULD share with your friends. But do not share with the dog. Yes, unless he is starving, then you can share. No. Jackson is not starving right now.”

“I don’t know what lady bugs eat, but I’m fairly certain peanut butter isn’t it. I’m also fairly certain that petting her like that is going to kill her.”

“Sure you can clean all the bathroom floors, what a fun game. Here is a wipe. Yes. Yes that IS gross. Here are some plastic gloves to wear. Now get to cleaning.”

“I am NOT calling you names. Hellion is a term of endearment.”

“Everything that is covered by your swimsuit is private. Do you know what that means? Good, so what are your private areas? Yes, and yes. And no. That is your armpit, it’s not private. Okay, fine, sure, it’s private. Don’t let anyone touch your armpit.”

“If you sit still, I will give you a cookie. No, you know what, if you sit still for just five more minutes, I will give you 10 million dollars. Fine. I’ll keep the dollars, here is your cookie. Sucker.”

“Be a giant! Come on, be a giant and eat your trees. Yummy. See? Mommy is a giant, YUM! Ew, yuck, yeah, don’t eat those. Let me put some butter and seasoning on those trees, plain broccoli is super gross.”

“Go play. Mommy just needs a few minutes of privacy. Don’t bang on the door with a toy Beckett. Kate, I can hear you telling him to bang on the door. Stop it. Guys, seriously. Just a minute. Go away. GUYS! THE NEXT SET OF FINGERS THAT REACH UNDER THAT DOOR ARE GOING TO BE CHOPPED OFF SO HELP ME GOD.”

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Driven to distraction

I have three identical scars on my arms. Two on my left arm and one on my right. Just three straight lines, all on my forearms. It kind of looks like a wrestled a tiger. Or maybe I saved several children from a burning bus by punching out a window. Yeah, either of those sound good. You know what DOESN’T sound interesting or heroic? That I burned myself, three separate times, on the racks in my oven. Nope. That is not at all what happened. Because that would be DUMB.

Okay. So yeah. That IS what happened. And I can’t even say it was when I was a young whippersnapper, just transitioning off my Easy Bake Oven. All three times have been in the last year. So I’m giving my oven the evil eye the other day, thinking “What the hell is our problem Mr. Oven?” and then Kate comes crashing into the kitchen screaming about something or another and Beckett trips in after her ranting in his half real words/half toddler gibberish and they start wrestling over some toy like oversized obnoxious puppies and I’m all, “Ohhhhh. Yeah. Sure, thats it.”

I’m distracted.

Like, ALL the time.

It is fairly common for Ben to ask me what is up with our friends when I come home from a play date. It is also fairly common for me to stare blankly at him for about 30 seconds and then report something like, “I have no idea, but Beckett pooped whole blueberries and Kate got in a fight with a little girl with pigtails. Oh, and the kids both hate the color green now.”

Because I haven’t had a full, uninterrupted adult conversation since 2009. I’ve also decided it’s a miracle I am alive at this very moment despite all the distractions in that tiny metal hell hole on wheels we call a car. Demands for dropped toys, drinks of water, fights, screaming, singing, repeating a single word over, and over (and OVER), all coming at you in rapid fire. So yes, I may have swerved into your lane sir, but I was just reaching for the Buzz Lightyear in the floorboards of the car because OH MY GOD HE WONT SHUT UP UNTIL BUZZ IS IN HIS SWEATY TODDLER HANDS I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND GAAAHHHHH.

… uh, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. So if you see me out and about and I ignore you, or if I forget a birthday or text you my grocery list, please give me a pass. At least for another sixteen years or so.

I’m distracted.