Just when it can’t get worse, it gets better

Happy Throwback Thursday Friday friends! This week had been a whirlwind full of new schools, angst, bodily fluids and a little mania, so we got slightly off course. However, I have a #tbt that fits perfectly with my week, a gem from back in 2011 when Kate was potty training. Reading it made me feel slightly better about life, because whatever was happening in 2011,  Kate NEVER poops her pants now (uh, obviously). So even though sometimes it feels like I will be throwing away soiled underpants for a lifetime (seriously Beckett? At Chic-Fil-A?!?!?) let this serve as a reminder… THERE IS AN END. POTTY TRAINING DOESN’T LAST FOREVER. Enjoy, and happy Thursday Friday!

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Yesterday I was having a rough day. Not only was I coming down with a cold, but I had no energy and no patience. After ten plus days of 100+ degree weather, I was toast. All I wanted to do was lay in bed with the a/c turned down to “FREEZING”, while reading some senseless romance novel and rubbing lotion on my ever-expanding belly. Instead, I found myself rolling around on the floor of our play room, reading a book about Elmo’s first day of school for the 500th time and playing dolls while my two-year old literally used my aching, 35-week pregnant body as a jungle gym/barca lounger.I finally needed a break and hauled myself into Kate’s mini-chair (which I barely fit into). She followed me from across the room and handed me one of her dolls. “Say HI” she demanded for the millionth time. I burst into tears, tossed her doll across the room and sobbed “I don’t WANT to say “hi” Kate. Please, please for the sake of mommy’s sanity, please PLEASE play BY YOURSELF for just one tiny moment.”

Kate looked at me with VERY little pity for a moment, then wandered across the room to find where I had thrown her doll while I continued to boo-hoo. And in a case of perfect timing, Ben came home while I was still pulling myself together, so he got the full tattle-tale report from Kate who indignantly told him I threw her doll and cried. I gave her the stink eye, but apparently she is impervious to its power because I swear she just smirked at me over her dad’s shoulder and repeated “and then SHE CRIED daddy!”

Ben decided I needed to get out of the house so we packed up and headed to the mall to run some errands. He promised to be in charge of Kate and let me just wander around, leaking hormones and hopefully de-stressing. We walked into the mall and I mentioned, “By the way, keep an eye out for the closest bathroom everywhere we go. You want to be able to book it if she has to go.”

I don’t know if that comment jinxed my poor husband, or if this was all destiny, but not five minutes after I sat on a bench to do a little zen people watching, I saw Ben RUN out of a toy store with Kate in his arms. He ran down a hallway that I knew to be a dead end and then came running back out with panic on his face. I decided to take pity. “Bathroom?” I called. He nodded and I trailed him shouting directions to the closest toilet. He disappeared in the men’s room as I came huffing around the corner. I sat outside and waited to see if he needed any help.

Five minutes later, I heard Kate giggling and saying “OHHHH BUBBLES.” Another minute or two and Ben popped his head out of the bathroom to ask if we had any extra clothes. I had to tell him no, I had been a little too mental when we left the house to be my normal, prepared self. He popped back into the bathroom and then came out carrying Kate with paper towels wrapped around her bottom.

“Can you tell she is naked under there?” he asked me.

Not to get into too many details, but apparently Kate had some bowel troubles and Ben had to throw away her panties and wash out her pants. Which meant he had to carry her through the mall half-naked. With me trailing them, alternating between laughing out loud and then giggling to myself the whole way. Because, when it happened to me, yeah, it was pretty traumatic. But to see my daughter poop on my husband? That is some funny stuff right there.

We get to the car and use every wipe, sanitizing gel and napkin we can find to ensure both Kate and Ben are squeaky clean. And thanks to an extra set of Kate clothes in the car, we are able to head back into the mall to finish up our errands. The only real issue is the leftover poop stains on my husband’s long-sleeve work shirt. He rinsed and rolled up the sleeve to hide the offensive stain, but wasn’t sure if it was enough.

Ben: “Can you tell I’ve got crap on my sleeve?”

Me: “No, but you are wearing an undershirt, why don’t you just take your button-up off?”

Pause.

Ben: “Gross, no. I’m wearing a V-neck”

Pause.

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?

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.

photo (15)

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

Potty Mouth

Happy Throwback Thursday friends! Todays #tbt comes to us from October 11, 2011. To set the stage, B was just two months old and I was, um, er, coping. Sort of. Enjoy!

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It came to my attention a few weeks ago that when I am sleep deprived, I have the humor and vocabulary of an adolescent boy.

It all started when I was reading a new book to Kate. It is about a princess who outsmarts a dragon, and at the dragon’s door she uses the knocker to announce her arrival. And for some unfathomable reason, when I got to the word “knocker” I laughed my ass off. Which then sent me into a shame spiral because, I mean, SERIOUSLY?

I can only think it had something to do with how tired I was (and am). Also, since I’m still nursing, the word knockers seems pretty accurate for how heavy and awkward and just plain unsexy my boobs feel. KNOCKERS aren’t something you dress up in lace and shimmy at your husband. KNOCKERS are stout things that you stuff in thick cotton bras and hide in a t-shirt that has baby drool and last night’s dinner smeared across it.

I have knockers. And I found that to be freaking hilarious (because lets be honest, if you don’t laugh, you might just have to cry about something like that).

A few days later I experienced another “I’m a ten year-old boy” vocabulary melt-down. This one came about thanks to a “I’m new to being the mom of a boy” moment. When something new, er, popped up, I decided to turn to my trusty friend, Google, for answers. I sat down with my computer and typed in “Why do baby boys…”

I couldn’t finish the question. My brain was so tired, it had shorted. My entire vocabulary had just up and vanished. I just stared at the screen for a short while and then the only, and I mean ONLY word I could think of to describe what I was trying to research was this:

“Why do baby boys get BONERS”

(head slap)

WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME? I may be irreverent, and silly and sometimes crude, but ladies (and any gentlemen who actually kept reading past the section about my hooters) if my brain were firing on all cylinders I would NEVER be stupid enough to do a Google search about BONERS. Let alone baby boners. I’m nearly positive that I’ve now been flagged on some FBI database, but what shocked me was that GOOGLE KNEW WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT. Without blinking an eye, Google provided me with results from various parenting forums about the medical reasons a baby gets an ERECTION (OHHHHH riiiiiiight. Erection. THAT is the word I was trying to think of.)

But more shocking to me than Google’s understanding of the terminology is the fact that of all the words in the world to describe what I was searching for, I chose to use the word boner. Which, I have to be honest, I think I’ve used, like, um, NEVER IN MY LIFE. Its just not in my vernacular. Honestly. But when existing on only a few hours sleep, apparently its the only word to surface through the haze.

I’m so proud.

And THAT, my friends, is why you might not be seeing me in public for awhile. My knockers and I have to get some rest before I’m allowed in polite company again.