Posts (page 2)

Day One of Dash's potty training has been...

... too easy.

(That thud sound you just heard?  That was the Guv falling over because I just used "Dash" and "easy" in the same sentence.)

Seriously, I'm in a bit of shock, here, because I anticipated screaming.  Resistance.  Failure.  We've been trying potty training off and on for over a year, and he just hasn't been ready at all.  I think he knows when he has to do #2, because he goes and hides in a corner or in a closet -- but he has no sensation of needing to pee.  He'll ask me to change a full #2 diaper, but he never, ever notices when he's over-wet.  So I wasn't sure he was ready, still, but his new preschool requires potty training -- so it's now or never (or more like now or Mama has no break in the fall, so off to the potty he goes!).

Anticipating backlash today, I told Dash last night that he'd be wearing Pull-Ups today because he needed to start being a Big Boy, not a Little Baby, because he's almost 3 1/2 and should no longer need diapers.  He hates Pull-Ups... or at least, he did.  Dash woke up this morning resigned to his fate, let me put him into a Pull-Up... and promptly peed in it.  And it leaked.  And THAT -- that wetness running down his leg -- he did not like.  Out came the second Pull-Up of the day, and a trip to the potty. 

He sat there and peed, and then a look of panic crossed his face.  He covered his face and said, "Mama, don't look at me!" so I turned away.  After a moment of silence, I asked, "Dash, can I look at you?" -- and he triumphantly proclaimed: "Mama, I pooped on the potty!  SEE!"

Pretty much any parent who's ever potty-trained a kid will tell you that it usually takes a long, long time to get to that point of willingness of dropping #2 in a potty.  But Dash?  He did it on the first run of Potty Training Boot Camp.  It was as if he was telling me that he knows what he's doing, already, so quit making such a fuss of it. 

The day has continued with several #1s and a SECOND #2 on the potty, no accidents, and no complaints.   I think we'll be ready for big boy underpants later in the week.

Then next week's boot camp: sleeping in his own bed in the room he's to share with his sister for the next couple of summers.  Wonder what I should expect for that one...

We've seen little evidence of moving-related stress in our easygoing Petunia.  She has always wanted nothing more than having her dad around has much as possible, and she understands that this move makes that a reality.  She can't wait to walk to meet him for dinner sometime, and she hopes that, every once in a while, she can do her homework in his office.  She's dying to meet her West Coast cousins and is generally excited about exploring California.  Her to-do list includes things like camping in Yosemite, checking out Tahoe and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Dash, on the other hand, does not want to be from California.  He wants to be from New Jersey for the rest of his life.  "Mervont" (what he calls Vermont) is okay only because we could, and did, always go home to New Jersey.  In part because of the giant moving truck that took away all of our stuff, Dash is finally understanding that we don't live in America's armpit New Jersey anymore, and he's not taking it well.  Here are some examples of our very frequent conversations:

Dash, at least twenty times each day: "Why did we sold our house?"

Mama: "We sold our house because we're moving to California."

Dash: "When we're done with California, and when we're done with Mervont, then we move back to New Jersey."

*****
Variation 1:

Dash: "Why did the moving truck take all of our stuff out of our New Jersey house?"

Mama: "The moving truck is taking our stuff to our new house in California."

Dash: "Okay, but after they get there, and after they put the stuff in our new house, can they put it back on the truck and take it back to New Jersey?  Back to our house?"

Mama: "We're going to live in California, Dash, for a few years."

Dash, with increasing anxiety: "No, Mama, we live in New Jersey.  I want to be Wally and Beaver's neighbor.  Can we live at their house next time?"

*****
Variation 2:

Dash: "Where did my swingset go?"

Mama: "A nice family with four children bought our swingset because the people who bought our house in New Jersey didn't want it."

Dash: "Is my swingset going to be in California?"

Mama: "No, but there's a park at the end of our street."

Dash: "When we move back to New Jersey, can I have my swingset back?"

*****

I have to be blunt: this move wasn't hard for me at all.  From the looks of it, our idyllic little town, straight out of Norman Rockwell painting, was the perfect place to raise children.  And I loved many of the people and places there. What wrecked that dream was my husband's long commute and frequent travel, coupled with constant sickness (Dash's especially).  It makes sense to choose to live in a better climate where the Guv can walk to work.  We'll all be together, and well, in one place. 

But it does break my heart that Dash doesn't understand that.  He invokes our beloved neighbors, the Cleavers, almost every day.  Today, he even said, "Can Wally and Beaver move too?" and when I told him that no, the Cleavers were remaining in New Jersey, he cried his little heart out. 

I'll miss them too, Dash, but I won't miss not being able to breathe from spring through fall, or my constant worrying about air quality for your sister, or the repeat visits to hospitals in Philly to address your many issues.  I won't miss feeling like your dad's never home, so much so that I had to outsource my sanity to an au pair.  It's time to move on, hard as it is.  You're only three, but I bet you'll remember this move -- hopefully for the good that's coming more than the heartbreak you feel now.  We can always visit your beloved New Jersey -- but no, we're not moving back.

At the pool this afternoon, Dash saw a lifeguard wearing blue latex gloves to pick up trash. 

He exclaimed, "MAMA, WHO NEEDS BUTT MEDI?" 

I tried to play it off, but the naive 16 year-old lifeguard sensed that he was being addressed, and he approached.  "What did he say?" the lifeguard asked.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," was my response.

Apparently, Dash is now too old to be spoken for by his mother.  He pointed at the lifeguard's hands and rephrased, "Why do you have to give somebody butt medi at the pool?"

Again, the lifeguard asked, "What did he say?"

So I explained, "When Dash gets a fever, we give him suppositories to control the fever. He associates those gloves with the administration of the suppository."

Oh, my, but the lifeguard didn't get it.  "What's a suppository?" the sweet, naive, soon to be red-faced boy asked.

"BUTT MEDI!" Dash replied. 

"Ohhhhhh," the guard muttered as he turned red and resumed his trash duty.  I was going to make some joke about being raised in West-by-God-Virginia and/or the movie Deliverance, but all I could manage through my giggles was the banjo riff... dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah...

*****
Our fun with Dash didn't end there.  In the locker room changing after the pool, a very elderly women blew her nose while in a stall.  At the top of his lungs, Dash yelled, "MAMA! COOL!  SOME LADY FARTED!"

That time, there was no confusion about what he said.  Seriously, we're going to be lucky if we make it through this summer in Vermont without being kicked out of this family-friendly club!

Two nights ago:

Daddy: "Dash, are you going to sleep in your big boy bed again tonight?"

Dash: "No, because I'm freaking out, and, if I sleep in that bed, something's going out the window!"

(Editorial note from Mama: I'm glad that our house in California is single-story!)

Tonight, Dash had some "issues."  His naps are becoming increasingly irregular (his doing, not mine!), but, if we take a car trip, he's sure to have a little rest.  He woke up from the car nap demanding to be held by Mama for hours, until Daddy offered him some ice cream cake.  Then, of course, Dash only wanted Daddy.  Mental note: buy more ice cream cake. 

Then tonight, Dash wouldn't let Daddy put him to bed, not even in "Mama's bed."  He didn't want a story from Daddy and announced that he'd wait for Mama to get ready for bed.  When I slid under the cover armed with a Curious George book, Dash grabbed my face and said, "Mama, look at me."

With a little hand on each cheek, I turned to look at him.  With a dazzling smile, he said, "Mama's my favorite."

And I didn't even have ice cream cake.

Then he added, "And green.  Green is my favorite too."

So there he lies, asleep in Mama's bed again, diagonal and snoring.  I think that when he was born, we all had "sucker" tattooed on our foreheads in a way that only he can see and exploit -- because you know that I'm going to check every grocery store for green ice cream cake tomorrow!  Oh well, he won't be so sweet and little for that much longer...

Last night, Dash slept "like a big boy because I'm growing" for the very first time, almost for the whole night.  We moved his bed to the room he'll share with his sister for the next couple of summers, left a twin bed in there for parental supervision -- and the Guv tucked him in, and he went to sleep, all the way until 4 am when the Guv brought him down to me.  He had asked "May I please snuggle Mommy now?" so the Guv couldn't resist.  Good boys, both.

Tonight, after trying to host a one-man riot in his big boy bed for nearly an hour way past bedtime, Dash is now snoozing in Mama's bed again.  Diagonally.  Snoring.  Loudly.

Somehow, long ago, while finding our way down this parenting road, the Guv and I became attachment parents.  We never set out to have kids in our bed, they just ended up there.  Petunia's stay ended with her weaning.  Dash's stay, with the exception of a few month-long stints in his co-sleeper then his crib, is ongoing.  He used to need to be right next to me; he wouldn't awaken with reflux-related vomiting, and my arm kept him propped in the night to prevent that -- or at least I was there to turn him and to clean it up.  Reflux left around age 2, but chronic ear infections -- and lots, lots more nighttime vomiting -- followed.  Again, he slept right next to mom.  But the ear tubes were placed last month, and after weeks of complications, Dash was well.  For a week.  Now he's fighting a cold again -- fighting it well, but it's there.  And here he is, diagonal, on my bed, snoring loudly.  He is warm, snuggly, smells baby-sweet, and I want him the hell out of my bed, yesterday. 

Call me selfish.  I just packed up and moved to two different places, motoring on even after dropping a double-dresser on my toe and breaking it magnificently.  I will still play tennis tomorrow, because that's how I am -- strong and stubborn.  Dash inherited those traits from me, apparently.  So I'll crawl into bed now, shoving him over to his side, which he'll make me switch in the middle of the night, demanding milk and a story in the process... which, to me, means that he's not that sick, and he can get out of my bed now, thank you, and bother his sister instead.  Right?  RIGHT???

Today, the longest day of the year, is the Guv's and my 11th wedding anniversary.  (It was also the longest day of the Guv's life since he was at a -- ahem -- "club" until 2am the day we were married at 10:30 am, but, anyway...)  We're celebrating from our Green Mountain home.  I would be celebrating more if I could escape the smell of rotten eggs (aka sulfur) coming from our water heater, which means either cold showers forever or a call to the plumber since our attempts to remedy the situation did little.  The heater needs to be bleached out and drained, and we need to remember to remove the magnesium anode before we leave next time, as magnesium provides the electrolytic conversion that makes the smell worse.  Or something like that... I almost failed chemistry, which is why I'm not a doctor right now.  Mmm-hmmm.

So, we're going out to dinner, to escape the smell and to marvel at all of these green, leafy trees.  That, and eleven years without killing each other... And this'll be the best year yet, I'm just feelin' it.  Happy anniversary, Guv -- onward and upward!

The packers come tomorrow, and I am dead on my feet.  If you're like me, any night before taking a vacation, you're up until 1 am packing... you've had that happen too, right?   Except tomorrow, we're not leaving for vacation -- we're leaving for good.  We've only been in this house for a little over four years, but there are a lifetime of memories, princess objects that Petunia (my budding paleontologist) no longer wants, and, still, many pencils left to sort through.  My curb already has ten black trash bags full of garbage, and there will be ten more by the end of the day, alongside some rebar, an old window, and various other things that we should've thrown out long ago -- except that this was supposed to be our last house.  Ha.

Last night, the Guv doubled over laughing hysterically.  He fell on the floor, and I couldn't tell if he was laughing, crying, having a heart attack or what.  (This is fairly normal behavior for the Guv, so I didn't call 911.)  When he came to, as I stood over him, arms crossed and waiting for him to shut up and do something already, he said: "I just finished cobbling together hundreds of thousands of dollars for a down payment on a house I've never seen.  A HOUSE I'VE NEVER SEEN." 

Whenever I am angry with him, like RIGHT NOW AS HE IS GOLFING WHILE I'M DOING EVERYTHING FOR THIS MOVE, someone needs to remind me of that comment by the Guv, as he lay on the floor, because I don't ever require proof that he loves me (after almost twenty years, I just know)... but the proof in this pudding is that he's buying us a ridiculously overpriced house that he's never even seen just because I told him it's the one.  So I'll stop my whining, and return to my packing, and try to tuck my frustration and sadness and imminent hyteria and, most of all, my fatigue away in some corner of my heart where I can't find it until we get to the Green Mountains on Friday, when I can finally have my nervous breakdown.

New Jersey, it's been a real pleasure, but I won't be back.  I'm moving to my last house, again.

In this post, I am participating in a Book Club sponsored by the New Jersey Moms Blog.  Participants read “Writing Motherhood” by Lisa Garrigues and responded to a writing prompt.  Below, I respond in 250 words (exactly!) to the invitation to write about my most outrageous or inexcusable bad mothering moment.  (I took the liberty of changing that to “questionable” mothering moment – I can’t bring myself to write something wholly negative!)  Anyway, here it goes:

My most questionable mothering moment happened when I failed to take care of myself.   When my daughter Petunia was three, I attended graduate school full-time, commuting from NJ to NYC for evening classes after caring for her all day. I felt I was The Poster Mom for Having It All, though it was exhausting; at 29, I didn’t know my limits.  Taking an overload of classes, I’d sacrifice sleep for my homework so that I could be there for Petunia during the daytime.

Then one day, Petunia and I picked up her babysitter, and I needed to run an errand before dropping them off and heading to class.  As I nosed into a parking spot, I hit a parked car.  As I sat there aghast, a box truck hit the front of my car – also my fault. as I was not parked legally.

A lot of realizations unfolded from that accident, including the firing of our babysitter, who gave a fake name (“Maureen Amaureen”) to the police!  Sitting on the curb and calling my husband, I cried because I knew that I shouldn’t have been driving while I was over-tired, especially not with my daughter in the car.  I thanked God that I only hit a parked car and not a person or a pole.  My harsh awakening involved realizing that by not taking care of myself, real danger could result.  Now, when I’m “Maureen Amaureen tired,” I don’t take any chances, and I’m a better mom for it.

To read other responses to our Book Club writing invitation, please click here for the New Jersey Moms Blog.  If you are interested in reading Writing Motherhood, which I do recommend, you can borrow it from me if you’re local, or you can order it here.

Just a quick post to wish my Dad, the Guv and the many other fathers whom I know and love a very happy Father's Day!  I'd write more, but I'm packing.  And packing.  And packing...