Potty talk - conversations with Brenna & Melany

Between the ages of about 3 to 7 kids seem to become fixated on the potty. No trip to a resturant is complete without at least 5 trips to the bathroom and a careful inspection of each and every toilet stall. It's enough to make a parent wish that spraying your child down with Lysol in public wasn't cause for someone to call social services.
(Just for the record, I have never sprayed my child down with Lysol in public or in private.)

And don't even get me started on the facination kids have with port-a-potties. Brenna is completely enamored of them. Recently we went to watch Michael run a 1/2 marathon. The course passed right by our house making cheering for daddy easy and convenient. B and I are walking along the sidewalk cheering for the runners. We get to the water station where they also have a row of port-a-potties...

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/
File:Porta_Potty_by_David_Shankbone.jpg

B: Mommy, I need to go potty (pointing to the port-a-potty)
Me [think quick and come up with a good reason why she can't use one of those nasty, germ infested cesspools]: Oh, you can't use those potties. Those are only for the runners. If you need to go potty we can go back to the house.
B: Oh.

A few weeks later we are driving in the neighborhood and we pass a construction site, complete with port-a-potty.


B: Look Mommy!! There's a runners potty!!

Sweet! I have succeeded in athletically brainwashing my child.

---------------------------------

Melany, age approximately 6.

It's snowing. We have been out to play and all the snow clothes are soaked (because southerners don't know from gortex). Mel comes to me and asks if we can go back outside. She has on a slightly damp scarf and mittens.

Mel: Ima, can we go back outside to play in the snow.
Me: Yes, but you need to wear a hat.
Mel: Oh. So we don't get crap on our head?
Me: Yes...Wait! What?! Mel, what did you just say?
Mel: I said, so we don't get crap on our heads.
Me: Uhhhhh.............
[not much useful came out of my mouth after that. I mean, she used the word correctly and in context but, well, um, she was 6, and uh.....yeah, I punted and told Michael to tell her mom that she needed to be careful about her language.]

I did learn something from that encounter, however, and when Ella, at about the same age, said something about crap I asked her if she knew what it meant and explained that it meant "poop" and was not a nice thing to say. This seemed to be a much better approach than stuttering and finally babbling something about "crap" being not a nice thing to say and um, yeah, well, don't say it.

Nice to know I'll be prepared in a couple years when B pulls the "crap" card.

----------------------
And as long as we're on the subject of crap. Melany's take, at approximately age 5, on the requisite number of bathrooms for a house...

Up until about 18 months ago, we lived in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath house. The house was built in 1923 when apparently people only owned 2 sets of cothing and nothing else, so storage space was limited. We own 10 bikes and enough bike crap (there's that word again) to open our own shop, along with the astounding collection of random stuff that 2 people collect over time. With no garage, the unfinished attic was our friend and we spent a lot of time pulling down the ladder from the ceiling to go "upstairs" to get this, that, or the other thing.

http://www.lemondrop.com/2009/12/22/
gift-guide-new-parents-friend-who-just-had-a-baby/

Mel: Ima, you and daddy need more pottys.
Me: We do?
Mel: Yes, at mommy's house we have 3 pottys, but you and daddy only have 1.
Me: Well, yes, you're right. We only have one bathroom, because our house is small and we don't have any place to put another bathroom.
Mel: You could put one upstairs.
Me: Mel, we don't have an upstairs.
Mel: Yes you do. Where daddy goes to get the bikes!



hmmm, maybe a port-a-potty in the attic was the answer...

I saw the future, and it was bright...blindingly bright

Let it be said now, that I appreciate my mother more than ever for having survived shopping with me during my pre-teen and teenage years.

 

On Saturday I looked into, actually walked into, my crystal ball and saw what happens when Farkles the Unicorn vomits neon rainbows.


http://crappypictures.com/farkles-the-unicorn/
Check out her blog! Buy her book! She is hysterical!

Seriously, I have seen my future, and it is bright. And I mean BRIGHT. Like neon-and-glitter-sequin-I-gotta-wear-shades bright.

 

Last week my eldest step-daughter, Melany, turned 10. A whole decade of life. Wow! To think I have known her for 7 years. Amazing. 

Along with turning 10, in the last 6-8 months she has also developed an extreme case of tween-ness. Case in point: recently she refused to get dressed and wanted to sit in front of the washing machine/dryer (for 3 hrs) because the only pair of jeans she was willing to wear was dirty. When I made the mistake of suggesting that she put on something else and change when the jeans were clean I was the recipient of THE LOOK and a loud sigh of despair. Translation: OMG! Like, what are you thinking?! Get dressed in something other than that one particular, perfect pair of jeans? How did you make it to adulthood being such a complete idiot?!

Logic be damned!

So, yes, an extreme and possibly terminal case of tween-ness.

But getting back to the birthday. What to buy a 10 year old who claims that "I will like anything you get me" (Which, in case you were wondering, is a euphemism for, 'I can't clearly articulate what I really want, but if you guess correctly and buy it for me I will be thrilled. If you buy me anything else I will hide my extreme disappointment poorly, not to mention accidentally lose the gift within 48 hrs.')

As clothes are always, um... worn, Michael suggested that we buy her an outfit. Good idea?

Not so much.

Let's recap what happened back in December when I bought shirts for each of the girls as a holiday gift. I thought she'd love the shirt I picked since it had glitter, rhinestones, a graphic of a flower or bow or someting, and to my un-tween eye it looked exactly like everything else she wears. Mel said thank you, removed all the tags, secretly tried on the shirt (I never saw this happen but a later description of all the shortcomings of the shirt make me sure that it got onto her body), and put it in the dirty clothes. I washed it and put it on her bed from which it disappeared into the abyss never to be seen again. When it finally came out that she hated the shirt, among other ills the shirt had "weird" sleeves, we had a long talk about 'If you don't like something I buy please tell me. I won't be insulted and we can return it for something you do like.'

Given this experience with tween-hood, I wasn't exactly jumping at the bit for a repeat performance. In the end we decided that a step-mom/daughter birthday shopping outing would be a good thing to do.

The conversation went like this:

Daddy: Mel, for your birthday Ima (me) is going to take you shopping at Old Navy to buy a new outfit. You have a $30 gift card.

Mel: Ok. (note the lack of enthusiasm)

In a moment of inspiration and realizing that tween behavior does not differ substantially from 3.5-yr old behavior, I decided giving choices might be a better approach.
 

Me: Hey Mel! We don't have to go to Old Navy. We can go to any store you like: Old Navy or The Children's Place, or Justice... (I was running out of potentially acceptable options)

Mel: JUSTICE!!!! (note the extreme enthusiasm)

And so it was decided. 

We arrived at the mall, parked the car, and went in search of Justice. 

As it turned out, finding Justice isn't all that hard. All you have to do is look for the blinding neon, glitter glow that spills out into the center of the mall.
 

It's hard to describe the visual chaos that greets you as you stand outside Justice. It's like this... 

 

 ...only brighter and more visually jarring in real life.

It's a bit like staring into the sun if the sun were neon rainbow colored and covered in a layer of multicolored glitter. 

mine eyes have been assaulted by the neon glittered light...

Amazingly, tweens have some cognitive glitch that protects them from getting dizzy and nauseated by the ocular impact and Mel danced right in.

I took a deep breath and followed. Within seconds I was dizzy and bordering on hyperventilation. I took deep, steady breaths and the world righted itself. I honestly could not tell you if they actually had music playing in the store since my elderly synapses could only process the assault on one sense at a time. 

Mel bee-lined for a table of highlighters in cloth form. Her first selection had a combination of neon yellow and pink, glitter, and a Jackson-Pollock splash pattern (ooh, the '80's are back!). Even with a storewide sale of 40% off a t-shirt and pair of running shorts was pushing her $30 budget. 

To counterbalance the ocular-overload I grabbed at the opportunity for a teachable moment on budgeting and basic math (which should tell you something since my predisposition is to move away from anything math related unless armed with a calculator, pencil and paper). 

I convinced Mel to check out the sale rack but discovered that the "sales" on the sale rack were no better than the 40% off on the rest of the store. So we headed back toward the front of the store. Mel then discovered a hot pink and purple combo with black and neon pink Jackson-Pollocked running shorts and fell in love. We found her size and she took the ensemble to the dressing room. 

I knew better than to even suggest that I sit in the dressing room with her (even I'm not that clueless and old...ok, maybe I AM that old, but I'm not that clueless). I sat myself down on the large, round pouffe with several other mothers. 

What I found truly frightening, was that many of the mothers seemed to have dressed out of the same closet as their tween. Seriously, a yoga skirt with a heather gray and neon pink chevron stripe, a green tube top and a white semi-sheer top over said tubetop is grounds for a ticket to What Not To Wear and a $5000 gift card to shop by Stacey and Clinton's rules.

I felt positively drab in what I thought was fashionable mom garb: skinny jeans and a grey-blue knit t-shirt with a cowelneck. Maybe I need that trip to NYC for What Not To Wear?

While Mel tried on her selections I wandered around the store...


Press-on nails? For 9-12 year olds?
Really? How do these kids go outside to play???

And swore that I will shield Brenna from these wonders for as long as humanly possible...



10,000 reasons not to have your child's ears pierced until she is old enough to sign the waiver herself

Finally Mel emerged from the dressing room resplendent in her birthday outfit (not to be confused with her birthday suit which would have been wholly inappropriate and cause for a very different blog post).


the proud, beautiful and very bright birthday girl

Happy birthday Melany!! May your tween years be filled with rainbows, and sparkles, neon!!

And I can rest easy knowing that 20 years from now she will look back at this picture and wonder, "What the h3ll was I thinking?!" Not that I've had that experience or anything....

Happy Mother's Day?!

Received via my work email from someone I've never met...



I'm not sure what to make of a Mother's Day wish that tells me I should fear the Lord.

hmmmm................

Geek attack: When science, pet ownership and mortality collide

The 9 lives of cats: A brief report on a (pseudo) scientific theory

There is a belief that the common house cat has 9 lives. While this may, on average, be true, I submit that in reality not all cats have 9 lives. I posit that nine is actually the average number of lives that cats, as a population, have. The number of lives each individual cat has, is, in fact on a bell-curve like continuum from 1 to n+1.

1.....................................................9................................................n+1
Number of lives

In order to arrive at the average of 9 lives, analyses must be done. Taking a statistical mean is the most basic approach: When outliers are dropped from analyses and the number of lives for each cat is summed and divided by the annual incidence of house cat mortality the mean number of lives is approximately 9 (+ 5%). 

However, more sophisticated analyses are required  in order to arrive at the statistical mean of 9.0 and other factors, that have either direct or indirect impact on the odds that a cat will have multiple lives, must be included in the equation. For example, there is anecdotal evidence that the number of lives a cat has may be indirectly proportional to the positive qualities of the cat. Therefore, positive qualities of the cat must be quantified and included as potential modifiers in the analyses. Thus, a cat that is friendly, has wonderful soft fur, does not completely destroy the furniture in the first 6 months in the house, and doesn't try to scratch your eyes out in the middle of the night while you are sleeping is likely to have substantially* fewer lives, perhaps only 1, than a cat that is mean, stinky, and hisses at your significant other every time he/she enters airspace within 75 feet of the cat. The latter cat is likely to have substantially* more lives than the average, say 12. These positive and negative qualities must be statistically counterbalanced by the number of opposing qualities. For example, the first cat described above may also have flea treatment resistant fleas (a negative quality) and the second cat described may submit docilely to handling by young children (a positive quality). These factors, too, must be accounted for in analyses. Hence, when all positive and negative qualities are included and analysed at the population-level, the statistical mean number of lives per cat works out to be 9.0 lives.

Luna

Two case studies:

Luna: Awesome cat. Put up with a toddler poking him, a 7 yr old trapping him under the laundry basket, and a 9 yr old carrying him like his legs were broken. Softest fur ever. Like kitten fur but long beyond kittenhood. Willing to let you rub his belly and so friendly that the neighbors referred to him as Mr. Friendly. 

Lived: 15 months

  

AN



AN: Loved, ok, tolerated only one person (me) and probably only because I fed her. Hated everyone else - passionately. Made "Grumpy Cat" look gregarious. Hissed, spit and pooped every time Michael (husband) came within 20 feet. Ran and hid anytime anyone else came within 50 feet. Managed to live through 2 falls off a 2 storey balcony, getting lost in Vancouver, British Columbia while on a cross-Canada road trip, 4 house moves and one major house renovation, disappearing for 6 months and reappearing literally a step away from death, and 2 dog attacks. 

Lived: 12 years

Not surprisingly there is interest in early prediction of lives in order to reduce the trauma of selecting a cat that, ultimately, may have only a single life. Unfortunately, there is little empirical data in this area and it appears that the early predictive value positive of personality traits is limited. Kittens are endowed with deceptive qualities (e.g., adorable-ness, extreme cuteness) and all appear, on the surface, to have the capacity for attaining, at a minimum, the mean number of lives. More research is needed in this area.

* Note: I use the term "substantially" rather than "significantly" because we lack empirical data of sufficient quality to substantiate statistical significance.

Reported by F. E. Line, PhD, Institute for the BS Scientific Study of Pets, Wild Cat, KY, USA

From the mouths of babes - Mortality and the 3 yr old

There is nothing parents less want to do than find themselves in a situation where you have to explain to a child that a loved pet has died.

And there I was this past weekend. Here's how the conversation went:

Brenna asked if Luna was still lost.
I said, no he wasn't lost but he would not be coming home because he had died.
B: How he die?
M: He was trying to cross the street and didn't look both ways (always a teachable moment) and had an accident with a car.
B: He got a boo-boo?
M: Yes.
B: Where? Here? (pointing to her arm)
M: I don't know, sweetie.
B: Here? (pointing to her other arm)
M: Probably here. (I pointed to her ribs)
B: Does it hurt?
M: No. That the good thing about being dead - boo-boos dont' hurt when you're dead. (well, it's true!)
B: Oh. Where he is?
M: I think he is in kitty heaven where he can play, and chase squirrels, and do all the fun kitty things.
B: Oh.

Then we had a long discussion about how we can remember Luna and look at pictures of him and even make something to put in the garden to remind us of him.

B: I need to tell daddy that Luna died.
[Given that daddy was the one who got the news, I'm pretty sure he was aware of this fact but who am I to quash her sense of control?]
M: Ok.
B goes running into the family room where Michael is watching TV.
B: Daddy! Luna died!
D: Yes. I know. I am so sorry. I'm sad. Are you sad?
B: No.
D: No?
B: No. He happy.

Mommy score! I managed to talk to my child about death and not freak her out. I guess sometimes I manage to do this parenting thing right.

RIP Luna dude

We'll miss you cat-man-dude.

Luna Little-bits

2/2/2012 - 4/26/2013

enjoy chasing the squirrels in kitty heaven. 

Suddenly my inner grizzly bear came out

B & E at soccer

Brenna has a best friend, let's call her E. Not only is E Brenna's BFF but she is also her tormenter and worst enemy. Sometimes concurrently. But B and E adore each other. They have been friends since the day they laid eyes on each other at the age of 10 months. E is big for her age. B is tiny. Together they are like Mutt & Jeff. They scrap. They make up. They scrap. They make up. They are in the same class at school and their teachers are constantly telling me how they fight like sisters but then turn around and are best friends again.

E out weighs B by close to 20 lbs and is a head taller.
Where as B is generally laid back, E is in-your-face  do-it-my-way-or-else. B's response to frustration is generally to shrug her shoulders and walk away - although B did once get so angry at another child that she bit....herself. E's response to frustration is to hit, pinch, push, or grab.

Because they are such good friends, B is often the target of E's behavior. Since B does not have a sibling who is close in age, I figure that E is her opportunity to learn to stand up for herself and I generally let the two girls sort out their spats on their own with reminders to both to use their words not hands.

So there we are on the playground after school. B is playing with a group of other kids and E comes out. B has climbed up to hang from the monkey bars and is precariously perched with both hands over her head grasping the bar above and her feet on the top rung of the ladder. Given her lack of stature, this is a precarious feat indeed.

I am chatting with another mom. Kids are all over the play structure. Parents are milling about chatting and making sure no one does anything that is sure to result in a quick trip to the ER and the need for cosmetic surgery. Then I hear B loudly say "No! Stop!" and I look over to see E pushing B's feet and legs as she stands stretched to swing. Keep in mind, E outweighs B by 20 lbs and E appears to be putting some effort into pushing B off the ladder. I say, "Carefull E! No pushing please!"

In response E looks directly at me, pauses, and then gives a good, hard shove to B's legs.

Suddenly, my inner mama grizzly bear appeared

http://www.animalsw.com/wallpaper/Angry-Grizzly-Bear/

and I covered the 5 or so feet of space between myself and E in nano-seconds, got down to E's level, grabbed her and moved her away from the ladder and virtually growled, "You do NOT push another child on a ladder. That is DANGEROUS!" E immediately flopped backwards and started to scream that she wanted to go on the monkey bars. I tride to pick her up but 40+ lbs of screaming squirming child was more than I could handle.

I am certain that my tone of voice scared the hell out of E, and my voice must have carried because suddenly all eyes, child and adult, were on the two of us and you could hear the crickets chirping. E's babysitter came running over and immediately extracted her from the playground.

There was another 10 seconds of silence and then the activity and volume level returned to normal.

In the end, everyone was fine, but now that I have met my inner grizzly mama, I will be aware of her existance in the future.