Privilege to pee...

As I mentioned in my return post, I decided in June to use my two weeks of summer break to once and for all attempt to potty train The Incredible Hulk.  I promise that I will give you a post about our methodology (UPDATE, you can find that here), but the only thing you really need to know is who your kid is and what works for them.  Sure, I read up on some blogs and books and consulted my friendly BCBAs at work, but in truth, I just know TIH.  In fact, some days, that's all I know.

The other thing you need to consider before you embark upon this potty training adventure is the wide range of emotions you will experience along the way.  And, given my background in therapy, I was able to see a pattern of sorts.

This post will feature some frank discussion of poop, so if you're not into that sort of thing, you probably have never potty trained someone before.  Good for you.

No.  Really. Good. For. You.

The 5 Stages of {Potty Training} Grief

Denial
For me, this stage started a year ago when some of my friends successfully potty trained their children who were similar in age to TIH.  I tried to blame it on gender differences, TIH's lack of vocabulary, our tumultuous year, and pretty much anything I could think of to get me out of the idea that I would have to one day teach another person to defecate in a specific location.  His school gave him opportunities (most of which were successful) to try the potty.  But, at home, he was pretty darn happy in his diaper and I was pretty darn happy for him to be in his diaper.  (This coming from someone who once sobbed when she realized how many diapers she changed in a single day.)  Denial continued when we started trying him out in his underpants and he would wet them almost every time.

"Oh, maybe we should try after he turns 3."

"I don't want to push him and give him some sort of Freudian complex." (This coming from someone who has never enjoyed the complexities of misogynistic psychodynamic theory.)

"Our wood floors will never be the same."

Eventually, I realized I just had to jump right into it.  I had two weeks off of school and I kept him home with me for most of those two weeks.  Using the methodology I developed mostly from some educated guesswork, I got him to finally stop saying "I want to wear my diapers FOREVER!" and we were officially potty training.  We had three successful trips to the potty and I was on top of the world.

Anger
After some successful trips to the potty and a nap (wearing a Pull-Up, I'm not insane), TIH woke up, happy to put back on his big boy underpants.  And then, while we were playing, I saw him get a familiar look.  I said, "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" and he said "I NEED MY DIAPER."  What followed involved throwing little boy underpants in the trash can and an accent rug that I'll never be able to look at the same way.  I can't say I was angry at TIH.  He was new at this and we sort of sprung it on him..  But, I was really angry at myself.  Angry for not starting sooner.  Angry for starting so soon.  Angry for not having a degree in behavioral analysis.  Anger at poop in general.  The same person that at one time hated changing diapers, REALLY hated cleaning up accidents.  There were tears.  Both from me and TIH. He yelled at me a lot.  He really did not want to do this.  And he begged me...A LOT for his diaper.  I channeled my anger in healthy ways (like eating large handfuls of potty training M&Ms), but it was still very difficult to come home knowing that I would likely have to clean up another mess.  I also knew that we could not go backward by giving in and putting him in a diaper.  And that, made me more angry than anything else.

Bargaining
After one successful trip at "dropping the kids off at the pool" I started to feel a lot more confident about our abilities to conquer the potty training beast.  TIH did NOT feel the same.  He was still very much in the anger phase of "putting his poop in the potty," and avoided it at all costs.  This did include me physically lifting him onto the toilet SEVERAL times when I KNEW he was trying to go in his pants.  (For those of you well-versed in bathroom independence, I KNOW, I KNOW, but I could NOT clean another mess up off of my floors.  I couldn't.)  And with all of this assistance, it still rarely yielded results.

This is when I began to bargain with him.  I say bargain, but what I really mean is shamelessly BRIBING him to go on the potty.  Forget the behavior system I had so carefully worked out.  (I promise, I will share that with interested parties in the near future.)  Forget the fact that I do not have a million dollars.  I would have given it to him if he would just crap in the toilet.

I offered him a bike.  I offered him a scooter.  I offered him an entire economy-sized bag of M&Ms.  I said I would give him anything he wanted.  What TIH said was, "I want a plunger."  I said, "What color?"  He thought about it and said, "Yellow."  Check my Google history.  I SEARCHED FOR A FREAKING YELLOW PLUNGER.  (Also, can we talk about how apropos that gift would have been?  Didn't matter.  He pooped his pants like 3 minutes later.)

Depression
The feeling I got at this point was akin to the moment that I realized I changed 12 diapers in not as many hours.  It is overwhelming knowing that someone is depending on you for such a basic need while you are forsaking many of your own basic needs (sleep, showering, eating, etc.)  Except that diapers can contain the mess for a little while and cotton Mickey Mouse briefs cannot.  I felt very trapped in our home.  I felt like if we went to the store or even for a walk to the playground, there was a possibility of having to clean up a mess in a public place.  (Which sort of reminded me of my fears of going out into the public while breastfeeding and not wanting to do that in public.)

That isolated feeling made me feel quite depressed.  TIH was bored of our four walls and lost interest in the toys/stickers he was earning almost as soon as he earned them.  At this point, it was difficult even to celebrate the successful trips to the potty because I always dreaded if the next one would end up being another accident to clean up.

(I know, I'm really selling it on this potty training thing.  Don't you all want to run out and do this now?!)

Acceptance
Fortunately, I made my way through the depression stage quickly (years of experience, perhaps) and accepted that we had attempted this too early and that he would need to return to wearing a diaper. I reluctantly renewed my Subscribe & Save order from Amazon.com and went for a run to clear my mind.  And while I was gone, I got a text from my husband:

"WE HAVE A POOP."

TIH, finally accepting that the diapers were gone for good, told his daddy that he needed to use the potty and went poop all by himself.

They say that the day you have your kids is the best day of your life.  They're wrong.  For me, it was when we took a celebratory trip into the city and my kid asked me to go potty and was able to go by himself in the small closet that barely resembles a bathroom on the train.  (Dude, I'm almost 30 and that is still hard for me to navigate.)  In fact, he was able to remain dry for our entire trip to the city - utilizing a variety of bathrooms (the train station, a restaurant, a tree in Millennium Park...).


So, that's our story.  Methodology to come, but don't get caught up in all of that.  I say, with sage wisdom, it will happen eventually.  I can't promise that your journey through this madness will go the same way or have such a happy ending, but I can tell you that however you do get there - you're going to need a lot of Clorox wipes.

Say, say, say...

Welcome back to the semi-annual installment of "Why the hell is my child not speaking yet, it must be because I am a terrible mother and everyone is judging me for it."

I'll work on the title.

In the meantime, allow me to freak out.

WHY THE HELL IS MY CHILD NOT SPEAKING YET?

Am I a terrible mother?

Is everyone judging me for it?

The rational side of my brain says, "He is a boy.  You are a great mom.  This is normal.  He does say some words.  Give him a break, Tiger Mother."

The irrational side of my brain says, "What do you MEAN your child is identifying songs on the radio by artist?  Clearly, I am doing something wrong with mine."

I also think I may be going slightly crazy because we will go for long periods of time with him saying some words like "grapes" and "crackers" and "vacuum."  We've also had "Yes" and "Yeah."

Now we have none of those.  We have “bah” or “dah” (which can mean “ball” and “balloon” or “dog” and “duck” respectively.)  Sometimes I wonder if in a few months’ time we’ll still have those.

I have to admit, I am guilty of falling into the trap of responding when he does nothing more than pointing and grunting.  I mean, the kid knows how to get what he wants.  But, any mother of a late-talking toddler can tell you that failing to respond to pointing and  grunting in a timely manner will guarantee you a meltdown of epic proportions.  


Sometimes I just can't handle another meltdown.

We have started working with daycare on learning some of the basic signs they use (previously, The Incredible Hulk wasn't in places that used signs) and those are working (we know “Please” and “More.")  When he plays in the bath or takes a drink, I tirelessly repeat the sign for "water" and encourage him to do the same.  Want to know the response I get?

HE LAUGHS AT ME.

Oh yeah.  Apparently, mommy furiously throwing three fingers next to her mouth is freaking hilarious.

It's infuriating.

I have no doubt in my mind that I am the mother to an intelligent little boy.  He has a way of figuring things out that baffle my husband and me daily.  He has a beautiful imagination and "fed" his stuffed dog a cup of milk before laying him down and covering him with a blanket.  This sort of behavior expresses an intelligence that goes beyond simple language skills.

It's just a very quiet intelligence.  And it's making my lose my damn mind.

It would be splendid if this kid would start speaking in full sentences so that I would know exactly what he wanted and would be able to diffuse any impending tantrum that is about to explode.

Unfortunately, life isn't working out quite like that.

I know that I need to stop comparing him to other children.  Every ounce of my being knows that.  And yet, I can't help but wonder if I am secretly judged every time my child points and grunts at something and I respond in kind.  I want to scream, "I SWEAR TO GOD I READ TO HIM AND DO FLASH CARDS AND DO LANGUAGE PROMOTING ACTIVITIES.  STOP JUDGING ME."

Of course, that will probably earn me a one way ticket to a padded room, so I don't scream at strangers.  Much.

So help me out, mamas.  Well - mamas of other late talkers.  When did your little one finally start communicating effectively?  What was the turning point?  What worked?  What didn't work?

And, also?  STOP JUDGING ME.

Give us dirty laundry...

Since our house is now officially on the market and showings are possible at any moment (well - I hope they're possible, we haven't had one yet), I feel like now, more than ever, I am constantly doing laundry.

When The Incredible Hulk was a baby, I found a way to balance the never ending loads of baby laundry with the never ending needs of my new little one. For instance, at three months, we spent laundry time doing tummy time. Give that kid a light-up musical toy, a mirror, and something soft to lay on top of and I could have every little sock rolled and every little onesie folded while the baby was still cooing and giggling.  Once TIH became mobile, it got a little harder to keep up with this practice, so instead I would stick him in his crib with some toys and be done with the laundry faster than he could throw each of his toys out of the crib.

However, now TIH is a very active toddler.  Nothing (including doors since he knows how to open those now) can contain this kid.

People are always asking me, "New Mom on the Blog, how do you do it all?  Finish the laundry, show your house, and still manage to keep magazine-perfect hair?"  Kidding.  No one has ever asked me that.  And I'll tell you why.

Here's how we do laundry in The New Mom on the Blog household:

-  Balance basket of washed/dried laundry on one hip and toddler on the other.
-  Fight wriggling toddler (who is trying to escape your grasp so he can go chase the cat.)
-  Drop entire basket of laundry on the floor as soon as you make it into the room and narrowly miss dropping toddler on his .
-  Set toddler on the floor next to basket and attempt to put clothes back into basket.
-  Redirect toddler who is removing each article of clothing you put in the basket and dumping it back on the floor.
-  Take a deep breath.
-  Surround toddler with his favorite toys, books, and stuffed animals
-  Begin folding blankets and towels and make a pile.
-  Pry carbon monoxide detector out of toddler's hands.
-  Attempt to dismantle CO detector as toddler has somehow managed to make it beep shrilly every 30 seconds.
-  Take a deep breath.
-  Turn around and find that toddler has unfolded all of the blankets and towels and has dumped all clean laundry onto the floor...again, and is now sitting in the middle of the room with the basket on top of his head.
-  Reclaim laundry basket...again, pile all clean laundry back into the basket, shove blankets into drawers as best they will fit, and surround toddler with more toys, books, and stuffed animals.
-  Make progress on the pile of laundry while toddler is (momentarily) entertained by a rattle he hasn't played with since he was a few months old.
-  Fold two pairs of socks.
-  Pry package of wipes from toddler's hands (half of which are now sitting in a pile on the floor.)
-  Take a deep breath.
-  Give up on folding socks and shove a handful of them in another drawer.
-  Turn back from the drawer and see that toddler has pulled blankets out of his crib and dirty clothes from another basket and has piled them all into the clean basket of laundry.
-  Put toddler into his crib because MOMMY NEEDS A TIME OUT.
-  Take a deep breath.
-  Begin to sort dirty clothes from clean clothes.
-  Find a dirty diaper among the dirty/clean clothes.
-  Wash the entire load again.
-  Lather.
-  Rinse.
-  Repeat.
-  Take a deep breath.
-  Drink wine - but careful not to spill, you're out of fresh shirts.
The end.

I want my MTV...

As I'm sure several of you are aware, last night was the annual MTV Video Music Award show.
Unless my memory fails me, I haven't missed this show for at least the last 15 years running.
But it's funny - the way that I watch this show has changed since I was in high school.  Here's are a few of those changes.

-----
Then:  I would write down every winner in a notebook so I could gab about it with my friends at school the next day.
Now:  I refreshed my Twitter feed obsessively and made comments to my best friend from high school (even though she's 300 miles away) in real-time with the show.

Then:  MTV sometimes actually AIRED the videos they were honoring this night.
Now:  The only reason I've seen any of these videos is because of curiosity and YouTube.

Then: Only the biggest names in music and sometimes film were invited to attend.
Now:  These guys were invited:

Then:  Britney Spears stripped, made out with two girls on stage, and showed her crotch to the world when she got out of her limousine.
Now:  Britney Spears thanks God in her speech while dressed completely glamorous and classy and looks horrified at most of the people showing up at the awards.

Congratulations.  You've made Britney Spears look normal.
photo credit: MTV.com

Then: Katie Holmes was an attendee at the awards because she was on the hit show Dawson's Creek.
Now:  Katie Holmes is an attendee because...I don't know why?

That sweater is STILL better than Nicki Minaj's outfit.

Then: I was so "in the know" when it came to all of the nominees and attendees, their personal life dramas, and the music they were being honored for.
Now:  I'm still not totally sure who Gaga was supposed to be last night.

Patrick Swayze in The Outsiders?

Then:  I took a break from watching the show to refill my soda, make a bowl of popcorn, and chat on the phone to someone who was also watching it.
Now:  I took a break to give TIH a bath and do a load of laundry after he threw up all over his crib, himself, and his stuffed lamb.

Then:  I watched the show front to back and stayed up to watch the replay to make sure I didn't miss a single thing.
Now:  I saw that it was 9:30 pm and decided to call it a night.  I can watch it on DVR tomorrow.  Without commercials.

Putting it together, that's what counts...

Dear Small Tots,*

I’d like to tell you how I spent almost two hours of my hard-earned weekend, but first I have a question for you:

Do you know the meaning of the word “some?”  It seems to me that the answer is no.  Because otherwise, you would never have dared use the phrase "Some assembly required." on the outside of your delightful box.  That was not some assembly, you a-holes.  Perhaps it would be considered some assembly to a mechanic.  Or an engineer.  Or NASA. 

For someone like me?  It was your-cup-of-coffee-will-be-ice-cold-before-you’re-done assembly.  It was cancel-the-rest-of-your-plans-for-the-day assembly.  It was question-the-validity-of-your-college-degree assembly.  It was not-enough-steroids-in-the-world-for-that-kind-of-strength assembly.  It was call-in-reinforcements assembly.  It was tell-reinforcements-to-go-back-into-the-basement-before-you-hit-them-repeatedly-in-the-head-with-a-toy-steering-wheel assembly.  But, I would certainly not describe it as “some” assembly required.



In fact, if I were you, I would remove that word from the outside of your boxes where it seems to exist solely to mock the idiots like me who CLEARLY think that it should (at the very least) say “A LOT” of assembly required.  (Though, I can tell you the boxes at the Walmart by my house have been destroyed fixed already.)

I don’t know if you realize this – but your toys are marketed for small children.  Small children who lack the fine motor skills and executive functioning required to put such a toy together.  Small children who will need their parents to do the some assembly required to play with these toys.  Parents who have small children.

Can I ask you a serious question?   Have you ever met a small child?  They’re not exactly spilling over with patience.  The minute my toddler saw the brightly colored blobs of plastic I was supposed to form together and make a car, it was all over.  I removed my child from the makings of the toy approximately 765 times during the “some assembly required” process.  And that was in the first 10 minutes.  All of which was spent opening up packages of tiny screws and nuts and bolts and brackets and areyoufreakingkiddingmewhatthehellisthis?  I  do not have the strength nor the time to wrangle a kid, make sure he doesn’t swallow any of your tiny little parts, put together a car using freaking power tools, and make sure that one or both of us does not get hurt.

I believe if you continue to sell your product with as many small parts and steps in your helpful instruction manual, you also need to include in every package a certificate for a free nanny service.  You may also want to figure out how to have an emergency medical service on stand-by in case mommy drills a screw through her hand.  And a bottle of wine.  Because it was Sunday morning and I was NOT above getting drunk after that experience.

Stop smiling at me, you bastard.

You'll be happy to know, the car is now fully assembled and it has brought hours of delight to my little boy.

Now if you could only send me the directions to re-assemble my sanity.

Sincerely,
The New Mom on the Blog

*Name of toy manufacturer changed to protect the “innocent.”

A word to the thick soul sisters...

Hi Clothing Industry!  At roughly 10 weeks pregnant (before I started to show), I entered one of your fine establishments to purchase a pair of desperately needed black dress pants.  I remember dragging about 10 pairs into a dressing room and trying on each of them.  For probably the first time in my life, they all fit, they all looked great, and none of them were ridiculously overpriced.  I came out of the dressing room holding two pairs, telling my husband I couldn't decide so I was just going to get them both.  He said, "Why don't you just choose one?  They aren't going to fit for very much longer."  He was right.  Why waste money on a pair of pants I'd only be wearing for a few more weeks?  Reluctantly, I put back the more expensive (though more flattering) pair and thought to myself, "Don't worry.  They'll be here when you (and your body) get back."

So, here I am, Clothing Industry!  I'm 32 weeks postpartum and, though my figure isn't what it used to be (nor will it ever be, I'm beginning to think), I'm ready to buy those black dress pants.  They may have to be a size bigger and I may end up pairing them with a different shirt in order to better hide my midsection, but they're perfect and I'm ready for them now.

What's that you say?  You don't have those pants anymore?  You only carry "skinny" pants now?  But, um, Clothing Industry, those kind of pants didn't look good on me before I acquired my post-pregnancy padding, and they certainly won't look good on me now.  And, I know we've talked about this before, but just as a reminder can you please not even say the word "skinny" in front of me?  (Unless you're pointing to a thin woman and following the word "skinny" with the word "bitch.")  So, if you could just give me the pants I asked for, I'll take them and be on my way.

...

Clothing Industry, I asked you to hold those nicely tailored, non-skinny pants for me until I got back.  And though I know it took over a year for me to return, I did so, faithfully. So, I would really appreciate it if you would just hold up your end of the bargain and give me the pants I asked for.  And, could you please stop thrusting these "jeggings" in my face?  What is a "jegging," anyway?  Should I have my son vaccinated against it?  Besides,  I have cankles and we both know it, so stop teasing me with this tapered look.  It just...doesn't work for me.

Listen, Clothing Industry, I am willing to pay double what I paid before I was pregnant for a nice pair of pants for work.  All I ask is that they do not hug me in all of my unflattering places and that they do not seem to exist solely for the purpose of making it look like I have cellulite.  Which I don't.  Kind of.

...


Wow. So, you really have nothing to offer me, huh?  Are you suggesting I should keep wearing the same pants I wore to work from before I was pregnant?  Very funny, Clothing Industry.  All the wiggling and holding my breath and tucking in in the world is not going to make that happen.  And, you know that I already shipped those off to your cousin Goodwill and I am not going back there to get them.  So, we're going to need to work something out here because I don't make a habit of showing up to work wearing my husband's basketball shorts and that's almost all I have left.

...

I DON'T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND THE SEVERITY OF THE SITUATION.  ALL OF MY CLOTHING LOOKS BAD ON ME.  I LEFT A BUNCH OF REALLY GREAT PANTS HERE BEFORE I WAS PREGNANT AND ALL OF THEM WERE PERFECT AND NONE OF THEM WERE "SKINNY" AND I JUST NEED YOU TO PUT THOSE PANTS BACK WHERE I LEFT THEM AND GIVE THEM TO ME NOW AND I WILL PAY YOU FOR THEM AND WE WILL BE FINE, BUT I NEED YOU TO DO THIS NOW BECAUSE I AM ABOUT. TO. LOSE. IT.

...


FINE.  PAJAMA JEANS IT IS, THEN.




Skinny bitch.