Battlefield Potty

Operation Chill Baby Junk failed miserably.  Only mild discomfort.  Feel the need to drive to Huggies headquarters and sucker punch CEO.  Aggressive measures need to be taken.  War is imminent. 

Day 1.
Enemy has dirty diaper and must be changed.  While distracted, I slipped underwear on the enemy, signally the beginning of the war campaign.  Stealthy move was successful.  Enemy did not realize Mom had launched war until underpants were brought to attention.  Enemy engaged in vigorous negotiations.  Mom's war spanks are on so tightly that they cannot be removed.  War is now reality.  Beach towels and blankets are draped over furniture and area rug for preservation.  Potty relocated to living room.  There is no turning back.

The enemy struck back with great vigor.  Stood beside potty several times and soiled underpants in protest.  Psychological tactics employed by both fronts.  I captured enemy's tractors and have placed them in confinement until proper disposal occurs.  Enemy cracked once tractors were taken hostage.  He did find satisfaction in peeing on Fruit Loops in the potty.  Box of Fruit Loops will remain in bathroom.  I feel exhausted.  I believe the enemy is trying to drive me insane.

Day 2.
Battle resumes early a.m.  Forced Fruit Loop target practice.  More setbacks.  Sneak attack.  Enemy tries to take out potty by dumping entire box of Fruit Loops and flushing.  Reports potty broken and in need of Water Doctor.  Extra flushing fixed issue.  Back up box of Cheerios employed.  Wish I had ordered more underwear.  Made enemy spend time naked until willing to deposit in potty.  This bought time for me to clean underwear.  Naked was more than enemy could stand.  Won right to wear clothes.  Clothes clean for now.  Spider Man was contacted about successful negotiations and called to praise the enemy for his successful potty deposits.  Went online and ordered Spider Man undies.  Should have rushed delivery.

Day 3.
Enemy has softened stance against potty.  Now is embracing target practice.  Mom is considering taking off war spanks.  May need help with removal. They may have meshed into her skin.  Furniture is uncovered.  War may be ending soon.  Tractors were released to the enemy.  Cuddles were received by the Mommy.  Enjoyed cuddles.  Still exhausted.  Training my rat to run a maze in one of my psychology classes was easier than this.  May need spa treatment.

Day 4.
Truce is declared.  Enemy now termed Bubby.  Will continue underwear.  Mom is joyful over money saved now that diapers are not needed.  May invest in more coffee.

Lack of Bathroom Bliss

Why is it every time a mother has to answer the call of nature, the children think it is a group therapy session?  If there is ever a time when you need peace, this is most definitely it.  My son can be completely tuned into a TV program, constructing/deconstructing something, whatever, and if I make any movements towards the bathroom, he is on my heels.  The only time I find peace in that sacred room of the house is if he takes a nap.  The minute I lay him down on his bed, I am bolting to the shower, stripping down as I go.  Oh, the wonderful solitude of a shower!  Oh, the beautiful sound of the water beating down and the sight of the steam misting up!  Oh, THE RARITY OF THIS MOMENT!  Why is this a big deal?  Oh, let me explain...

Normally, my showers end up like this...rush to the bathroom, strip down, while water heats up, step inside, try to wash face while holding the shower door shut.  "No, RJ! It isn't your turn! No, it isn't slippy time in the shower---"  Let me explain slippy time.  When my son finally figured out how to open the shower door, he hatched a plan to severely injure or kill me.  He waited for my shower to begin, stripped down and decided to join me.  When two year olds get wet, they are like slippery explosions.  You can't catch them.  All you can do is survive them.  He slipped all over the bottom of the shower trying to escape being thrown out, and I ended up falling out of the shower onto the cold tile floor.  He thought it was a fun game and now refers to it as slippy time.  When he isn't trying to have slippy time, he is trying to help me by placing odd objects in the floor of the shower.  This can be dangerous especially if the shampoo attacks your eyeballs while trying to explain that you really don't need that backhoe to assist with bodily cleansing.  I am feeling nodding heads on the other side of this screen!  I feel you sisters!

One of my worst bathroom experiences involved food poisoning.  RJ was about 18 months old at the time.  Richie and I went to a restaurant and I enjoyed a shrimp dish.  I did not realize the shrimp were bad until about maybe an hour later.  As I sat on my toilet, sweat beads running off my face, having lower intestinal feelings that brought to mind volcanic eruptions of the largest scale, my sweet child climbed on my lap.  He stood on my shaking knees, caressed my sweat drenched face, and then started beating me on the top of the head like I was a kettle drum.  There was nothing I could do!  NOTHING!  I needed every bit of my strength to keep from falling over.

If you know me well, you know I have a sharing spirit.  So, I am now trying to share these types of experiences with my husband.  As soon as I know he has entered the shower, "Oh, RJ!  Da-da is in the shower!"  Those little feet bolt for the bathroom.  Okay, so maybe it isn't sharing.  Like they say, misery loves company!

Cartoon Brain Damage

Dear son my precious child, mommy doesn't want to turn the channel because it is her turn and she wants to watch Minnie Mouse!  Back away from that remote!

Cartoons are a way of life if you have a child...or in some cases wish you were a child. There is no escaping it, and I am not too proud to admit that I like some of them.  Just last week, RJ was watching something on Disney Junior and a commercial announced a new series of Minnie's Bow Toons.  I looked at RJ and said, "YAY!"  He looked at me like I had lost my mind and replied, "Mom, that weird."  Seriously?  Did my three year old just call me weird because I got excited about Minnie Mouse?  It appears to be so!

At this point, I own more animated DVD's and Blueray than anything with adult appeal.  Disney, Pixar, Dreamworks...whatever, the studio, I probably have it.  We watch so much of this stuff that I believe it has damaged my brain.  If you were to look inside my head (caution...you are entering a scary place), what once was active brain matter is now neon colored putty.  If you were to give me a Rorschoch Test and present me with a yellow smudge, I would probably claim it is Kevin the minion from "Despicable Me".  Prime example...this summer, we took RJ and my niece Hannah to the zoo.  As we made our way through the bamboo maze, I knew we were nearing the Meerkat Exhibit because I could hear people singing, "I like to move it, move it..."  What did my family do when we arrived at the exhibit, we sung the same lyrics and my Mom and I broke it down with some booty shaking.  This is proof that Madagascar madness has not only taken over my home, but that of my parents, too.

It doesn't stop there.  On my way to work this morning, "Livin' La Vida Loca," came on 90's on 9, and I began singing that song at the top of my lungs.  During the bridge of the song, the thought struck me, "I like Puss n' Boots and Donkey's version better..."  WHAT???  I am infected with Shrek-itis!  Sadly, I really do like the "Shrek" version better!  Where is Dr. Phil on days like this?

Backseat driver...

Dear son my precious child, yes, I see the light is green...no, I cannot go unless I drive over the car in front of me...no, I can't turn around and look at the tractor...yes, I like the balloons at the car lot...no, I can't drive faster because the police will take me to jail if I go too fast...yes, police are nice but mommy going to jail isn't a good wait to meet one...

Whatever part of my husband's DNA that makes him feel the need to instruct me on how to drive unfortunately has carried over to our son.  *side note...I have a much better driving record than my husband...  **second side note...if you ever see my husband on the side of the road, he gave me one to many driving instructions and was forced to walk home...  Driving with a toddler or any child is an adventure on its own.  Throw in driving instructions from the backseat from said child, and speed limits will eventually get pushed.  Just this past weekend, I drove about 2 hours to a baby shower, my son in tow.  The entire trip, I was informed of every traffic light, stop sign, tractor, lawn mower, cow, horse, train, lions, tigers and bears, OH MY!  Seriously, is there something in the male DNA that encourages this?  He is three!!!  I was trapped in my SUV, with a 3 year old driving instructor, on an unfamiliar road, in an unfamiliar place, and no matter how hard you try, finding that happy place is like finding Waldo in a sea of red and white stripes.  Being the perpetual planner, I thought I had all of my bases covered.  I had the DVD player loaded, music playing, blankie within reach of the toddler seat, and it was nap time!  Apparently, he didn't get the memo on nap time and somehow was able to multitask watching the movie and critiquing my driving.  Quite impressive really.  Before I knew it, I was driving faster than the little road signs suggested and as luck would have it, met a police car.  I did what any responsible parent would do.  I slammed my brakes and pretended to be distracted by my backseat passenger.  I used big hand gestures pointing to the train car on display beside the road, craned my neck back like I was in deep conversation (channeled my best Hoke driving Ms. Daisy), and kept on going.  What couldn't be seen were the beads of sweat forming on my forehead, bladder going into fits of "should it stay or should it go," and my pulse speeding up as I was trying to slow down.  Either I played the role incredibly convincingly, or I looked so crazy that he didn't want to take a chance.  Regardless, I took a different route home just in case.

"Good Times"

Dear son, my precious child, every man you see wearing a doo-rag is not a pirate, and please stop yelling "Hey, Jack" to every man you see with a beard.  He isn't related to the Robertsons.  Sincerely, the Mommy

When I was a young child, my parents were fans of the show "Good Times," and JJ was my hero.  Seriously, who didn't like that character?  I even wanted a bucket hat because he wore one.  One day, while eating with my parents at Long John Silver's on Riverside Drive in Clarksville, a gentleman entered the restaurant and my toddler heart just knew it was JJ.  I wanted to talk to JJ, and excitedly exclaimed to my parents, "It's JJ!"  My parents were mortified, and did their best to shut me up.  I still insisted it was JJ.

Throughout my childhood, my mother hexed me repeatedly and insured me that I would have a child like me.  I know there has to be a doll in my image with roots laid on it, hidden in a secret compartment in her house.  This hex has slapped me two fold!  RJ's obsession is pirates and anyone he thinks is a Robertson from the show Duck Dynasty.  A few months ago, RJ sat with me in the waiting room of the clinic and in walked a gentleman who favored Si Robertson, RJ's favorite bearded man.  I could NOT keep him away from him.  RJ escaped my grasp and quickly walked by the man, whispering, "Hey, Jack!"  The gentleman didn't notice.  I grabbed my son and sat down.  Again, he escaped and grabbed the man's bottle of water, looked at him and said, "Hey, Jack!"  For a moment, I thought about pretending he didn't belong to me, but impulse pushed me to fetch my child, apologizing as I went back to my seat.  Fortunately, the gentleman found the adoration funny.  You could have toasted marshmallows on my beaming, red face.  At my cousin Adam's wedding, RJ thought a guest was Willie Robertson, and coaxed my Aunt Dixie into taking him to see the "Hey Jack."  RJ was awestruck and the kind gentleman played along.  I now try to avoid bearded men if I have my son with me!

A few days ago, we passed a house where men were installing windows.  Two of the men were wearing doo-rags.  He asked what those pirates were doing and fortunately, rolled up windows prevented them from hearing, "ARRRGGG," as we drove past.  He has already insisted that for Halloween, he is going to be Hook and I have to be Smee.  Don't bet on that one!

My one JJ incident has me plagued!  Well played, Mom.  Well played!

Throw Back Thursday...from the beginning

September 16, 2012

Dear son, my precious child, 5 a.m. is not the time to get up and play. We aren't roosters...by the way, roosters who get up too early are sold to McDonalds and made into chicken nuggets. Cockadoodle-doo.



November 3, 2012

Dear son, my precious child, not everything your Grand Daddy teaches you is considered sane. While those little lady bug looking things are annoying, it isn't necessary to stomp each and everyone you see and then force Mommy to vacuum it up. Woe and misery for the Mommy not the bugs!



December 2, 2012

Apparently my son thinks one of the Santa's has continence issues because he tried to put a diaper on him. Hmmm.



December 10, 2012

You know you are exhausted when you wake up from a nap feeling like you are smothering because your child flopped across your face during his slumber, and the impact of back to face never woke you...



December 17, 2012

When I get sick, Ramen noodles are a comfort food I love. Earlier, I fixed a bowl of Ramen and my son leaned over and began blowing on them, saying, "hot..." I thought to myself, "how sweet," and then he spit in them.

Around the bowl and in the hole, let's go PEE!

Dear son, my precious child, it is true that encouraging words can go a long way, but encouraging your wee-willie-winky to pee thus far has not accomplished much.

I have always heard the perils of potty training and that training a boy is likened to teaching cats to swim.  In other words, it can be done...but with great difficulty.  At this point, I truly believe that teaching our cat, Spaz, to swim would probably be easier!  Shortly after RJ turned two, he began making deposits in his potty.  After three successful days, his can-do attitude changed to won't and I have tried everything.  I even purchased a book called "Prince of the Potty," which RJ loves.  I read that book often and every time I ask if he is going to be prince of his potty, he replies, "Nope.  Prince of dipey!"  Shoot me now.  Thanks in large part to my father (RJ refers to him as Granny, yes, Granny) who yesterday incorporated some unique tactics, we are back on the pee train, kind of.  Last night before bath, RJ slung off his pull-up and sat on his potty with no prodding!  YAY...kind of.  He sat and sat...nothing.  I gave him a cup of warm water to play with (ode to slumber party pranks)...nothing.  He dumped the water on his wee-willie...nothing.  Finally out of desperation, my son looked down and said, "Come on!  You can do it!  PEE!  PEE!  PEEEEEE!!!!"  Nothing.  I still give him an A for effort!

Spanx...a little throwback

Originally posted April 20, 2012



I think Spanks should come with an instructional video so women who use them aren't surprised by certain nuances. For example, when putting on your Spanks, one must have someone hold them open while you climb onto the roof and jump into them. Trying to put them on any other way will prove unsuccessful. After application, the veins in your forehead and neck will bulge temporarily. Once your body realizes it isn't being attacked by a boa constrictor, normal blood flow will resume. Do not wear a thong with Spanks. You will not find it again without invasive surgery. Your bladder will be unable to hold anything more than .01 ounces of fluid because everything contained in the Spanks is greatly compressed. When removing Spanks, bungee cord yourself to a chair and hold on for dear life because removal will sling shot you across the room. You have been warned. Oh, but they do work.

 

VIOLA!!!

After much considerable prodding by my friends and family, my Facebook ramblings are now going to be blogged.  What does this mean exactly?  Well, for one thing, my rantings will be less contained and restrained via character limits.  Translation...I get to be long winded...can include pictures...and possible statistical charts...diagrams of accidents/incidents (could be useful in the event that insurance comes into play)...things of that nature.  Sit back, enjoy the ramblings, and say I prayer I survive my son.