What A Bunch of Crap

There are some days when it seems like all I do is deal with shit. And I'm not using shit as a synonym for errands or listening to arguments or cleaning the kids' bathroom: I'm talking about poop/crap/fecal matter/shit. Between picking up the dog shit in the yard (or on bad days, in the house), five people in the house with fairly predictable digestive systems, the geese that have arrived with the spring weather and that one guy at Best Buy last week who smelled like he just crapped his pants, the topic of shit seems to come up several times a day. Or in the case of Zoe's life, it usually comes out around 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and that's where the drama begins.

I know plenty of kids that, before the age of six, occasionally have weird issues about taking a crap. Some kids are completely potty-trained, but refuse to poop in a toilet and insist on getting a diaper put on for the big show. I know one kid that would happily poop in a toilet, but would only do so if all of his clothes were removed -- shirt, socks, everything. Another girl would only crap if she could stand on the toilet seat and squat down because sitting for so long was uncomfortable. And if I had a dime for every time I heard the phrase "my kid is always constipated" and had invested heavily in Miralax, I wouldn't be thinking about how to someday monetize my blog.

Just when I thought that my days of having to deal with dung drama were over, Zoe decided to appoint me as her designated butt wiper. Wow, lucky me. The only thing I can compare this development to is the consumption of schnapps, and the theory that if you have one bad experience (like hurling), you never want to try it again. Similarly, since Zoe did a half-ass job of wiping her butt one time and then ended up with some pain and discomfort, she has decided that she will never wipe her own ass again. I know, it's pathetic.

I have to be honest and say that this glitch isn't entirely her fault. When you consider the fact that the gigantic toilet paper dispenser in any germ-infested public bathroom is about six-feet away from the toilet, and that the toilet paper has the same texture as 80-grit sandpaper, I haven't been overly eager about getting the toilet paper for her, handing it off, and then having her scrape all the skin off of her ass. It's moments like these when I'm sure that Cottonelle created those handy individually-wrapped pre-moistened butt wipes just for me and my need to wipe my daughter's ass.

Lately, when we're at home, I've been better about just walking in, handing her a wipe and making her do it herself. But even then I still have to hang around the bathroom door until she's done because unless I were to install a table right by the toilet, she can't reach the wipes.

I realize that this dilemma doesn't have the same level of drama as other people saying things like "my kid won't wear anything besides Superman pajamas to school" or "my ten-year-old will only eat Hot Pockets and Twinkies," but I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person in the world saying: "I need to get my kid to wipe her own ass!"

Ten New Rights For Twenty-Ten

Winter break is officially over! Now that Doug is back at the office and the kids are out of the house and enjoying school's nurturing atmosphere, I can finally get back to my hobbies, which alternate between running around and running around maniacally. Since this is Minnesota and, for the next two months, the temperature will rarely crawl above 25 degrees, the running is pretty much limited to errands and kid-related crap. Once it gets nice out, though, I'll get busier and the crazy people will start to surface, pasty-white legs and all. In order to keep these outings as pleasant and stress-free as possible, I have decided that since I'm not making any New Year's resolutions, I needed some new rights.

1. If I am behind someone that is driving more than ten miles under the speed limit, weaving between lanes, failing to accelerate at a green light, sitting at a stop sign with no intention of proceeding, or basically being a shitty driver, and this person is obviously texting or talking while simultaneously trying to fetch French fries off of the car floor and shove a double cheeseburger into their mouth, I have the right to honk at them no fewer than five times. Gestures are also acceptable as long as there aren't any kids in the car with me.
2. When another shopper at Target or the grocery store repeatedly gets in my way, and they're talking on the phone, I have the right to say "Excuse me" in a voice louder than necessary, while simultaneously giving them a look that says: "You're an inconsiderate moron. Get off the fucking phone."
3. I have the right to not have to love all of my neighbors, especially the one that specializes in using loud yard equipment after 9pm.
4. If, while at the park, someone starts talking to me about potty training, ECFE, moms clubs, sleeping habits, or is bitching about their spouse, I have the right to say: "Those topics bore me. Go away." If, however, the person compliments me on my cute flip-flops, shares details about a little-known happy hour, or wants to rip on the mom who is talking about potty training, I have the right to ask her to move in with me.
5. If a teenager that doesn't belong to me shows up in my backyard at noon for the 16th day in a row this summer, I have the right to ask him where he's having lunch and say, "Sorry, but we're all out of food."
6. If someone gives me a backhanded compliment, I have the right to not always accept it gracefully and with a smile.
7. If a little kid with a giant booger hanging out of his nose asks me for help on the monkey bars while his mom sits her bib-overalled butt on the park bench talking about potty training, I have the right to say: "NO! I'm busy. Go ask your mom."
8. When some skinny bitch fishes for compliments by saying that she "looks fat" and is "getting lines around her eyes," or asks me, "Does this Brazilian-cut bikini make me look fat?" I have the right to agree with her and answer "Yes, it does."
9. If unattended kids are throwing fistfuls of rocks at the park, and my daughter is in the direct line of fire, I have the right to yell at someone else's unattended kids and/or throw rocks back.
10. I have the right to grill more steak, less chicken, and drink more vodka.

Feel free to add to this list of rights, or use some of them for yourself as needed. After all, sharing is fun, even though I always reserve the right to say "No, it's mine!"

The Brown Stain

An inevitable topic of conversation that every parent will have to deal with is potty training. I hate talking about it, because arguing about the best potty training technique is like debating the best way to order a margarita. Some people voluntarily choose the high maintenance approach (passion fruit, blended, sugar rim, umbrella), some like to buy an expensive little toilet and 42 cases of pull-ups (Patron, Grand Marnier, freshly squeezed lime juice), and some like to keep the process as basic as possible (pre-mixed jug, on the rocks). The end result is always the same though; the kid quits using diapers and the margarita budget gets a little bigger.

Fortunately for me, I'm a basic girl and the boys potty trained without much fanfare. They still have occasional issues with the aiming thing, but I have never had to find a public bathroom every 20 minutes or haul around extra underwear and pants. They've never had an accident in public, and I have yet to receive a call from school informing me to bring new clothes. Now that they are in 6th grade and junior high, it better stay this way.

Getting Zoe to ditch the diapers was a bit trickier, but then everything about her has required a little extra effort and patience. She didn't leave any puddles at pre-school last year and I don't anticipate having to deal with one in kindergarten, but I've learned to never get too confident.

Yesterday was "Pajama Day" at school, and I had bought Zoe a pair of polka-dot fleece pajamas for the big event. After a quiet morning, I went to meet her bus at noon and saw the stain even before both of her feet were on the pavement. A huge brown smudge, right in the crotch area. I wondered if I had somehow missed/ignored a call from school, and prepared myself for the eruption of tears, the accusations of "Thanks a lot mom! I pooped my pants! You fed me too much fruit and dairy!" Instead, she skipped home, telling me about her day, how she read a book to the class, and: "Oh yeah. The teacher brought s'mores for everyone and I got chocolate on my pajamas. Right here. But that's why you do laundry, right? Oh, and Joe got in trouble today. Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?"

I was very relieved to know that I was only dealing with a chocolate stain, and realized that even if she does have an accident at school it's really no big deal, because kids at school are really forgiving, they never tease, and they never, ever call people names. Right?