77 posts tagged “dash”

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...