Petunias

Today, during their tennis lesson, Petunia's 9 year-old friend Bee asked her how often she showers.

"Once a week," Petunia answered.

"Ewwww, that's not enough," Bee scolded.

Petunia already had her grump on today -- which is always comical, as she's only in a foul mood maybe three times per year.   She left her court and stormed over to me.  "Mama," she spat, "What's the deal with someone asking me how often I shower?  It's not like I stink!"

"How often did you tell her you shower?" I asked.

"Once per week!" she rolled her eyes, and threw her hands in the air, and crossed her arms.

"That thing that we do every other night, or every night after swimming, where I fill the bathtub with soapy water..." I started.

"THAT'S TAKING A BATH.  THAT'S NOT TAKING A SHOWER," she more or less shouted.

I called Bee over.  "Bee," I explained.  "Just so you know, there seems to be some confusion over showering versus bathing.  Regardless, Petunia is cleaned almost every day.  I promise."

Petunia looked ready to choke me as Bee said, "Oh, I figured that," and skipped away.

"Mama," Petunia asked, "Why did you do that?"

"Petunia," I answered, "Let's think about this.  Do you like to hang out with smelly, dirty people?"

"I'M NOT SMELLY AND DIRTY," she pouted.

"Exactly," I said, "And now Bee knows that.  Telling someone you clean yourself once per week doesn't really convey that message."

"Whatever," she sighed, and, with another eye roll and a turn on her heel, she returned to her tennis lesson.  She hit tennis balls furiously hard and well.  I'm thinking that maybe I should piss her off before every lesson.  (Kidding!  Maybe.)

Just for kicks, much later in the day, I looked up the definition of Petunia on Wikipedia.  Since I've used the nickname "Petunia" for her pretty much since her birth, I figured that it was time to make sure that "Petunia" had no nasty secrets to it -- like only showering once a week or something.  And there appeared my answer to raising her up right: "If growing petunias, it's best to leave them in full sunlight and only water them when their soil is dry to the touch."

So, in other words, when the mud of the lake is caked on her feet, and the Har-Tru grit of the tennis court is sticking to that mud, and the zinc oxide sunblock has trapped all of the grime transferred from her hands over the course of the day, and it all dries, then it's time to get clean.  Okay, then.  Bathtime!

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My Aunt Ess is in Afghanistan for a year as an attorney with the Department of Justice (after spending last year in Iraq), and she had the privilege of shaking future President Obama's hand.  My mom said that her sister's take on Obama was: "Nice ass, but I'm still voting for McCain."  Sigh...

*****

The kids, the au pair, Petunia's new BFF and I spent the day at Ben & Jerry's and running around Montpelier's state capital building, where there is this awesome portrait of former governor Howard Dean.  I love how Dean eschews convention by ditching the suit, tie and throne and, instead, had himself painted off-center with a canoe.  Does anyone else think this Presidential election has gotten dull?  I miss Dean and his barbaric yawp.

Where was I... oh, yes, today's travels reminded me just how glad I am that Petunia has a good friend up here now -- a friend that is the type that I'm happy to have over, to take anywhere we go, to spend the whole day with -- just a good, sweet girl like my Petunia is.  This friend, who we'll call Bee, is even patient with Dash.  Perhaps I should call her Angel for that reason alone!

In any event, the kids had a blast, and so did I -- and it's rare that I don't need three Motrin and some Goldschlager after a day-long outing with three kids, so that's really saying something!

*****

Lastly, Dash might have possibly decided that it's time to maybe start thinking about perhaps growing up a little bit. 

This came about because he woke me up four times last night saying "I want milk (which he prounces mee-yollk), I want milk..."  -- and I decided I've had it with sleepus interruptus.  We had a frank discussion in daylight about how there will be no more milk in bed at all, ever, because Mama can't get any sleep, and no sleep makes Mama crabby, and Daddy's gone, so crabby Mama means Dash might sleep in the bathroom closet if Mama can't take it anymore...

And I think he decided that the tile in that bathroom closet is cold and undesirable, because tonight, I didn't even bring up the no-milk-in-bed thing, and he calmly settled in and asked, "May I please have some water?"

I don't have to go to the fridge for water, so that's a big maybe, but let's see how often he wakes up and asks for it...

At least it's a step in the right direction.  Maybe.

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To her father this morning: "I like it when I can buy lunch at camp, because Mama's not there, and it's private."

Mama's response: Yeah, that and you think you can get away with buying total crap to eat... But I'm onto you, sister, because I got a printout of your meal purchases.  Cakesters?  Let's see if you're allowed to buy lunch next year.

*****

To her father this evening: "We play this game for twenty points, you versus me.  Whoever wins gets to be the boss of the day tomorrow, and that's going to turn out very well for me."

Mama's response: Of course, because if you win, you'll think you're the boss, and if daddy wins, you'll still end up being the boss because he's a SUCKER.  Since you two have such a swell boss-day planned, can I have tomorrow off?

*****

Of course, not to be outdone, Dash had some last words for me before bed: "Mama, tomorrow I'm going to find some big, huge men, and do you know what I'm going to say to them?  PREPARE TO GET BEANED."

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You know what they say: You can take the girl out of West Virginia, but you can't take the West Virginia out of the girl.  I confess that despite having lived out of the state for more than half of my life, I've still got a little bit of redneck in me.  Here's how I know:

About ten years ago, maybe even longer, Dash's godmother's sister* played a recording for me that I've never forgotten.  It was called "Here's Your Sign" by Bill Engvall, whom I recently learned has his own TV show now.  That recording remains one of the funniest things that I've ever heard in my entire life -- and I live with the Guv, Petunia and Dash, so that's saying a lot.  Because of the story of Grandma Magda, below, reminded me of the routine today, I decided to google it -- and THANK GOD for YouTube, because here's your sign, complete with some singin' and dancin'!

So hopefully you've watched that awesome video, which is only part of the whole routine.  In celebration of my admitted redneckery, I have some signs to award right here on Rox and Roll today.  (I think this might become a monthly feature.)

Magda

To the grandma at the pool with kids around age 5 today: She asked her grandkids if they wanted tanning oil or suntan lotion.  One girl yelped: "Oil, Grandma!  Can I get tan like you?"  I gawked at this woman who looked like Magda from "There's Something about Mary" as she slathered oil into her grandkid.  I didn't even think they made tanning oil anymore.  I would be kicking myself for not saying anything -- like "hey, haven't you heard that one sunburn doubles the kid's chances of getting skin cancer" -- but I knew it was too late.  The kid is doomed.  And Grandma: Here's your sign.

To the blind dude hanging out in the tennis clubhouse while I'm standing outside in my whites, holstering my racket and guzzling water, who said: "Nice day!  You gonna play?" as my sweat dripped onto my shoes: Here's your sign.  And some glasses.

To the New Yorker, a magazine that I relished taking the time to read in my pre-children life, for the dumb-ass Obama cover that fails to meet even the lowest bar of satire and, in missing that bar, oddly panders to Redneck America: Here's your sign.  And another.   And another.  And I'm burning my stash of ten year-old New Yorkers that I never read, too.

To my older kid, who maintained for the second time recently that 1x1 is 2: No sign.  Homework.  Lots and lots of math homework.  I may have a little redneck in me, but I can still do math.  No excuses.  Get to work!

*****

* Side note: In West Virginia, she wouldn't be "Dash's godmother's sister" -- she'd be "Dash's godmother's sister, you know, the one that did the thing that messed up the tailgate at homecoming?  You know, Herb and Lucy's granddaughter, Dave and Barb's girl?  The one that works at the drugstore?  Yeah, that one."  And she'd be my cousin, too.

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My "new" skirt from Revolution

Usually when someone references a "hidden gem," I'm fairly certain that they're referencing something pretty crappy.  For instance, my old friend Glenna used the term "hidden gem" to describe this Hell's Angels bar in Lynn, Massachusetts where they served the best steak tips I've ever eaten in my life.  It was "hidden" because I'm fairly certain that I witnessed about twelve illegal activities in the time we took to be seated, and I guess the "gem" was the tips -- but that's a stretch.  There was no sparkle to that place except from a whole lot of chrome outside.  It was loads of fun to run around with a tough girl from Lynn, but I'm not sure that the steak tips were worth the fear that took a year or nine off of my life.

In any event, within the last week, I've found some REAL hidden gems, and they're all in White River Junction, Vermont.  First, I happened upon the Upper Valley Food Co-op.  While some of their organic products and produce are overpriced beyond belief, their Sweet Lilac Deli offers the most delicious baked goods for a fair price that I've ever eaten -- and they're almost all wheat-free!  I'll spend $1.30 any day on a spelt-based muffin, like today's: the Elvis, which was peanut butter and banana.  I had to stop myself from eating two, which is what happened with last Friday's blueberry coffeecake.  When you haven't had a muffin in a year, it's a little easy to go overboard!   They also have loads of great-looking African food (tagines, etc.) that I'll try soon.

Then today, I had a haircut at a place called Classy Cuts & Tans.  The name freaked me out, but, seriously, there is NO place to have a haircut around here that doesn't also have a tanning salon.  As it turns out, the place was "classy"; for example, there were glass pitchers of iced tea and lemonade waiting beside a silver tray of cookies and fruit for guests lounging on modern leather chairs while waiting for appointments.   To boot, the good haircut I got was 50% cheaper than in New Jersey, and no one would've called my last salon classy.

After getting some class, I headed next door to a store called Revolution.  Friends will tell you that I am NOT a clothes-horse.  I pretty much hate shopping for clothes and shoes (jewelry, I like, though).  Case in point, a few summers ago, I found some Columbia shorts that fit me well.  I bought them in all six colors (black, dark blue, light blue, olive, tan and red), then bought duplicate dark blue and tan ones.   They still fit, and I have only one other pair of "fancy" khaki shorts.  Did I mention that I hate clothes shopping?

Well, Revolution may just make me change my mind.  Most products are from extremely local (as in down the street) designers, and most are made from recycled or scrap fabrics.  Some are "new" scrap fabric combined with vintage pieces.  The store sells some vintage things and also offers some screenprints on American Apparel organic tees.  I had to use all of my restraint to buy only one assymetric skirt, a jersey knit out of various shades of rose-colored sweatshirt remnants (see picture, above).  I have my eye on another skirt and two awesome dresses, but my fashion consultant (that would be the Guv) has to come with me to offer an honest critique.  We can have espresso and talk design with the friendliest shopkeeper I've ever met -- one who really cares from where her goods come. 

I've only just begun to discover this area.  Before I spread my wings yet further, I'll be heading back to White River to check out some more funky shops and The Center for Cartoon Studies.  With lunch at the tuckerbox, it should be a great day!

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This morning, as I sat down to breakfast with Petunia, this little blur ran past me, chanting: "I've got to go to the potty, I've got to go to the potty, I've got to go to the potty..."

And he did.  The funny thing is, Dash seems to do the potty run pretty well for #2, but I still think he has no idea when he needs to go #1.  His pull-up is usually wet in the front, and, when we tried underpants, they were quickly damp in the front too -- and he didn't even notice.  At any rate, it appears that we've got the harder part down.  Of course, this is yet another example of how Dash is going to do things totally differently from any other child.  I've never heard of a child learning to potty train #2 first, and I've known a lot of kids and moms. 

Oh well... as Uncle Frank would sing... "I faced it all, and I stood tall... and I did it My Way."

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This morning, we all had a hard wake-up.  I spent last night in a tent in the backyard with Petunia, and my air mattress deflated halfway through the night.  Since I also kayaked yesterday, I already had a sore tail end, made no better by half a night on the hard ground.  But since I really enjoyed listening to the wind rustling our forest of tall trees as I watched the sun rise, I'm not complaining -- I'm just sore.

That left the Guv to wrangle Dash in bed all night since Dash wanted no part of sleeping in the tent.  The Guv claims that Dash slept from 9:30 - 4:30 uninterrupted -- but the Guv lay awake for a long time listening to Dash snore and fighting Dash's sideways turns and kicks to his ribs.  When Dash finally woke up around 8, I dragged walked him to the potty straight away.  He wanted me to lift him onto the big potty, so I did.

And I lowered his foot into the toilet. 

Splash!

When something happens that Dash doesn't like, he acts as though you ripped the head off of his favorite teddy bear in front of him just to be mean.  "All hell breaks loose" doesn't describe it.  He has a way of imposing guilt that would make my sixth grade teacher, Sister Mary Rose Anne, beam with pride. 

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," I said, washing his feet in my tub.

He got over it and asked to play Wii with his sister.  After a few games of slot cars, he turned to me and said, "Mama, you're scary."

"Why am I scary, Dash?" I asked.

"Because you're the only one to put me IN the toilet, Mama." 

Fair enough, Dash, fair enough.

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I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when.  For the first half of the day, Dash refused to use the potty.  He didn't sleep well -- actually, it's more like we had a knock-down, drag-out fight from 1 - 3 am -- so he was exhausted, and moody, and screaming... and so was I.

His sleep has always, always, always been a problem.  We had a couple of very brief stretches where he slept in his crib, but, mostly, he's been in our bed, waking us up all through the night for milk -- first mine, then his FiFi milk (soy milk in a sippy cup).  There have been good reasons to have him in our bed -- first for convenience while nursing, then for helping him sleep propped up when his reflux was particularly bad, and most recently due to the chronic ear infections that brought high fevers, delusions and yet more vomiting -- but now, finally, there's just no need for him to still be waking us up all night.  We're in the process of fighting FiFi at night yet again, but it's easy to cave when we're on night after night of interrupted sleep -- and that interruption involves hours of screaming with a three year-old assaulting us, to which we respond by simply trying to calm and contain him without hurting him back.  Effectively straightjacketing a three year-old who wishes to hit, kick, bite and headbutt his way into making you get him milk in the night is no easy feat.  It's physically and emotionally exhausting, and it just doesn't feel right.  So usually, after a few nights, we're back to: "Here's your damned milk, kid, now go back to sleep..." and, while everyone still gets woken up in the middle of the night, it's much less traumatic.

A lot of friends and family members propose a "tough love" solution for this, and they're all right -- if we were dealing with a "normal" child.  Petunia was "ferberized" to sleep in a mere three days.  She's a "normal" kid.  But then, we have Dash.  One of the world's leading behavioral psychologists threw her hands in the air and proclaimed him to be the most stubborn child she's ever treated for feeding issues.  She herself said that if he wants milk in the night, give it to him -- not only to up his calories, but to pick our battles.  Good sleep was a distant second to good eating; success with the latter would help with the former.  Potty training?  Not even on the radar.

But... Dash has to be potty trained, even out of even pull-ups to start his new preschool in California.  Since our au pair will be gone, I'm relying on the break that preschool offers me.  He must use the potty, period.   [Yeah, yeah, I know that I should put my foot down like that about sleep, but I'm too tired.]

In any event, in his exhaustion today, Dash balked at the notion of going to the potty.  He screamed and fussed until I took him with me to drop off Petunia at camp.  Then he demanded Dunkin Donuts, and then I wound up running my two errands with him too.  When he's in that much of a funk, I can't leave him at home even with our au pair of eleven months.  I have a hard enough time not tuning the kid up myself when he's so unbearable (and I never, ever believe in hitting my kids, so that's really saying something).  We returned home, and he screamed some more.  He screamed at naptime, as I held him in our normal "he can't hurt me, I'm not hurting him" straightjacket hold.  Until he said, "I HATE."

I turned him to face me and said, "Look in my eyes, Dash.  What do you hate?"

He looked right at me and mustered as much indignant anger as a three year-old can.  "I HATE your legs that hold my legs down.  I HATE your arms that hold me still.  AND I HATE..."

But he couldn't say it.  He couldn't say "I HATE YOU."  He just broke down and cried, and my last baby fell quickly asleep in my arms.  He woke up three-plus hours later, and he went to the potty straight away.

I don't know what goes on inside this kid's head much of the time.  I'm pretty sure he's smarter than a three year old should be, and probably even smarter than any of us -- like if we were smarter, we could see the world through his eyes, and he would make a lot more sense.   What I do know is that he's only three, and he will go to the potty when he's darned well ready, and he will stop drinking his milk at night when he's darned well ready, and he will sleep all night in his own bed when he's darned well ready... and us?  his minions?  We just have to respect that.  He's diagnosed as the most stubborn child ever, and we're not going to break that -- we just have to hope to contain it, and love him anyway.

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Dash decided that he was ready for "The Big Man Pot" today.  He also called it Petunia's Pot -- but he's since decided that it's Dash's Pot, and no one else can use it.  It's a good thing that we're spending the summer in a four-toilet house!

Since he wanted to use The Big Man Pot but was fearful of falling in, I hit K-Mart today to buy one of these rings that make the gigantic toilet seat toddler-sized.  Dash pronounced it "gurrly" (how he says girlie), but climbed aboard anyway.  I think he might have sat on the cushie thing for about four hours today.  He was particularly proud of the splash his #2 made.  Then I was floored that he commenced an attempt to wipe himself...

... which leads me to a funny Petunia story.  [Side note: this is the kind of story that is probably going to tick her off many years from now, but, one day, God willing, she'll have her own kids and see the humor in it!]

When I was five months pregnant with Dash, Petunia and I joined the Guv on a two-week long business trip to London.  It was the Best Vacation Ever.  Petunia was just over four years old, and she loved everything.  We spent every other day in an art museum, and she never tired of looking at art in any form.  At the Victoria and Albert, we spent the entire day imagining how the ancient furniture might fit -- or not -- in our home.  She loved the collection of porcelain bunny teapots best of all.

The only downside of that trip was the noise of the weekend.  We stayed at the Sheraton in Belgravia, a convenient location from which Petunia and I could walk to Harrod's or Buckingham Palace.  On the weekend, though, nearby Sloan Street was a major draw, and it was majorly loud.  So, being the light sleeper that I am, I slept with some earplugs, after instructing Petunia to make sure and yell for Daddy if she needed anything (we all shared a very nice, large room, with her on a roll-away nearby). 

Well, she didn't yell for Daddy when she decided that she had to go #2 in the middle of the night, and let's just say that she was far from able to wipe herself adequately yet.  In an attempt to do so, she soiled every single towel, handtowel, and washcloth in the place trying to get herself cleaned up -- after she had overstuffed the toilet with paper, of course.  Her banging around finally woke me up, earplugs and all.

And when I got in the bathroom -- and I'm sorry, there's no delicate way to put this -- it looked like there had been a shit explosion.  I stood there, gawking, speechless, surveying the mess.  Petunia was so proud at herself for her valiant effort that I couldn't be angry.  At least it wasn't in our house, I kept thinking...

So after I showered her off, using a t-shirt of the Guv's to dry her off, I piled all of the soiled towels in the tub until borrowing a trashbag from the maid the next day.  I handed it back to her, full, and tried to apologize and explain, but guess what?  Hotel maids in England don't speak English either, and I have no idea what she spoke, because Spanish didn't work either.  It was a major bummer, because they had a major mess on their hands, much (but not all) of which I had attempted to clean up... So, to this day, I wonder if they understood and took pity on my four year-old or if they exacted revenge in some particularly unpleasant, undiscovered fashion.  Some things are better left unknown.

I spent a lot of time that trip teaching Petunia how to clean herself off adequately, so I told myself that I would try to teach the next kid a little better, a little sooner.  I never figured that he'd take over that teaching himself.

By the way, when I asked Petunia why she didn't wake me up, she said: "Mama, you need your sleep."  That's why there aren't a ton of stories on Rox and Roll about my good girl.  She has few antics to report -- and a shiny, golden halo over her head most days.

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I have held my breath for a long time today, for day two of potty training Dash The Impossible has been as seamless as day one.  He's gone #1 and #2 multiple times today.  There was one #2 accident in his pull-up -- while he was running to the potty, though.  I hit the local Dollar General to stock up on some rewards, but I'm not sure I'll need them -- he seems to feel that the act of going, getting praise and flushing it away is reward enough.  I did pick up this Little Critters book as today's reward, and we've read it twenty times already.  So... my prediction is that, by the end of the week, we'll be trying underpants (in the smallest size made, might I add).

Here are some of Dash's recent quotes about this experience:

Last night, we called Grammy to offer a Potty Progress Report.

Dash: "Hi Grammy.  I pooped on the potty.  And now I'm playing with Toxic Play-Doh!"

Mama: "NON-toxic, Dash, NON-toxic..."

Grammy: "Did you really poop on the potty?!  You're such a big boy!  Can I bring you a present when I see you in California?  I'll have a present in my suitcase."

Dash: "Can it be a big one?"

Grammy: "I'm not sure that I can fit a big one in my suitcase, but I can take you shopping and let you pick a toy.  Would you like that?"

Dash: "Or there's UPS."

*****

Dash ruminated after reading his new potty book before bed: "Diapers and pull-ups are for babies.  And I'm a Big Man.  Soon I will drive a motorcycle and be a garbage man and drive I Stink... (pause)... And then I will hug a pillow when I sleep like Daddy.  And I will wear a shirt."  (Dash gets really annoyed when his hairy, hairy dad doesn't wear a shirt to bed -- or any other time, actually.) 

He lounged thoughtfully, looking out our tall windows onto the trees swaying in the dusk and tracing the emerging stars with his little fingers.  "Sing to me, Mama," he asked.  (He NEVER asks for me to sing to him.) 

I started "Twinkle, Twinkle," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Hush-a-Bye," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Go to Sleep," and he said "Not that one."  I asked, "What do you want me to sing, then?"

"Not baby lully songs, Mama," he replied.  "Man songs."

I was cracking up inside.  What's a man song?  Rockstar?  California Girls?  Honky Tonk Badonkadonk?

Finally, I pulled myself together enough to ask, "What's a man song, Dash?"

"About boats.  Sing about boats," he sighed, frustrated. 

After "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," "Row Row Row Your Boat," and "Dip Dip and Swing," he was drifting off to sleep, hugging a pillow, just like his daddy does.  It's bittersweet to see my last baby parting with his baby-ness.  Then again, I think that this is why we parents do this: to see them grow into people who are hopefully even better people than we are, who set off into the world and make it a better place just like we made it a better place by having them.  The circle of life -- it's a beautiful thing.

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