Don’t let the man get you down.

And if you must submit, make sure you let them (the powers that be) know you’re going to do it your way.
Especially if your way is like a cocky little bastard.

Gah, I love that little troublemaker.

I clearly have superior parenting skills.

Braden is fully toilet trained.

I say this and feel odd, as if I’m talking about having gotten the puppy completely house trained. But yeah, it’s a lot like that, considering he used to piss on the floor pretty regularly.

And before you (I’m talking to “you,” the person who has spare time in his/her life to make asshat comments on posts because you hate yourself and you’re taking it out on others) go making some bitchass comment about how that wouldn’t have happened if I’d not let him run around naked all the time, please to be looking at this: click here for a special, pre-valentine’s day gift of love from me to you.

In all seriousness, though, leave any comment your heart desires.  I like it rough.

Also, I fully expect gratuitous thank you’s from ALL of you because for a split second, I considered posting Avitaballs as the link up there.

YOU’RE WELCOME.

Now we can move on.

So, Braden has been reliably doing all business on the toilet for quite some time now, but you’ll have to forgive me for not talking about that as the progress/training was ongoing. If you have children you know the rule: IF YOU CELEBRATE IT TOO SOON, THE UNIVERSE WILL PUNISH YOU WITH A SWIFT REGRESSION.

It is only now, after such a long time, that I feel safe telling you…

MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! MY KID GOES ON THE TOILET! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH DIAPERS ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO WASH SHITTY AND PISSY UNDERPANTS ANYMORE! THERE AREN’T PUDDLES OF URINE ON THE FLOOR IN THE BATHROOM ANYMORE! I DON’T HAVE TO PULL DOWN TINY UNERPANTS FULL OF BROWNIE BATTER ANYMORE!

When he can actually wipe his own ass, I think I’ll bake him a fuckin’ cake.

Now, having said all this, we *do* have occasional pee accidents because he has taken to doing the very same thing his Mommy does. He gets all wrapped up in something and he can’t.stop.and.go.pee.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my son is a Pee Holder.

He pretty much refuses to stop what he’s doing until he reaches CODE RED. At that point, he’s running to the bathroom like his testicles are on fire and sometimes he ends up wetting his pants while he’s right in front of the toilet trying to pull them down.

Which, yes, is maddening, and I’m all, “DUDE. You finally learned how to do this really well, don’t go screwing it up by waiting too long. Don’t wait, come right to the toilet!”

To which he replies, “What? All I know is that I’m totally going to forget everything you just said except that part where you said ‘don’t go screwing it up’ and I’m gonna yell that at top volume in public, repeatedly, the first time it seems like it might be really embarrassing for you. I might add in that word you said in the car the other day, too. ‘Asshole,’ right? Right. Now go wash my underpants, beesh.”

So, okay, yeah. I admit there are still a few accidents here and there. And the occasional shart. Which is really just funny, quite frankly, because he says, “Oooh, Braden pooped in pants,” and then quickly follows that with “It’s okay, it’s JustUhShart!”

It’s all par for the course.  Most of the time, things are now clean and dry around here, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

I have to admit that the Sentimental Mommy side of me does miss seeing that chubby hiney he used to flash as he ran around the house threatening carpets from wall to wall. Just a little.

But sometimes, we have special moments like the one that happened the other day:

Braden: *fidgeting in living room*

Me: “Do you have to pee?”

Braden: “Yes.”

Me: “Go to the bathroom.”

Braden: *doing the hammer dance in the living room*

Me: “What are you doing!? Go to the bathroom and PEE!”

Braden: “No, I DANCING FIRST.”

Me: *trying not to laugh. failing miserably*

Hey, at least he has his priorities. Sometimes, before you go to the bathroom, you just have to say, “STOP. HAMMERTIME.”

I stand by my celebration.  Because that? Is clearly a sign of superior parenting.

I only teach him the most important things.

And if you don’t think this is important, you wouldn’t fit in around here at all.

And I fart in your general direction.

wonder and light

it’s in every wide-eyed stare
that seems to light up
his whole face

while softening mine

it’s in the way he views lights
sweetly breathing the word,
“wowwwwwww”

my heart stops for a moment

it’s in the excited, rising
pitch in his voice as he says
“Santa” and “Cwissmas”

that puts a twinkle in my eyes

it’s in his sincere concern
when he asks me with
worry stitched across his face
“Am naughty, Santa bwing no pwesents?”

i have to stifle a laugh

it’s in the mirth with which he replies
“That’s wight! If I good, Santa bwings
pwesents! on CWISSMASSSS!”
when i remind him there’s still
hope

i love him no matter how naughty he is

it’s in the way i can feel the joy
as he does because he
reminds me how to

i have a reason to let go and smile

he runs the years back
on my rusty clock
just by being himself

the ultimate gift in life

he is wonder and light
and i am grateful.

boundless

you are small in stature
with a giant personality

your size never stops you
from expecting the most

and after all, tiny is
only temporary

(much to my dismay)

your are revving and racing
through days and months and years

every day that finds you
meets its match

there is no morning
afternoon or evening

that you can’t climb
and leap from

into the starry sky you soar
landing in your bed
with a soft thump and giggles

that don’t want to go night-night
even though your small body

is tired and weary

from all the battles you won today.

The Talk. No, not *that* one.

I think I screwed up on “The Spider Talk.”

Recently, Braden and I were sitting at the table eating dinner when he started talking about a spider while staring the Big Eye Stare at the floor to his right.  I looked, and yes, there was a wolf spider near the baseboard a few feet away from him.

I had actually seen the spider run in the door when I was letting the dog out to pee, minutes before we sat down to eat.

“That’s a spider, Mommy, a spider. That’s right, Mommy, THAT’S A SPIDER!”

“Yes, that’s a spider, Braden. It’s okay. The spider came inside because it is very cold outside and he wanted to warm up.”

“Spider came inside because it’s cooooooooold, Mommy.”

“Yes, he did. But if you leave him alone you will be fine.”

“Leave the spider alone!”

“That’s right, leave the spider alone, because if you bother the spider he will bite you.”

His head whipped around so fast it almost flew right off his neck and he stared at me. He took a very serious tone.

“He will bite you?”

“Yes, spiders can bite and it hurts very much.  If you bother the spider, he will bite you and that hurts. So just leave the spider alone, okay?”

He paused, staring at me with a great deal of concern.  Then, he got a bit excited.

“The spider will bite you and it hurts. It weally WEALLY WEALLY HURTS!”

I was starting to worry that maybe I should have just left the whole biting issue alone.

“Uh… um, yes. It might bite you if you mess with it.  And it really hurts.  So leave the spider alone.”

“THE SPIDER WILL BITE YOU AND IT WEALLY HUUUUUURRRTS!”

“Hey, why don’t you eat some more of your fish?”

During the rest of dinner, he kept looking over at the spider, who was still just sitting in his same spot.  He was probably thinking weird stalker spider thoughts.  I have to admit, it was kind of creepy the way he was just chilling there, seeming to stare at Braden.  Maybe wolf spiders like fish.  Maybe they like cute little boys.

I forgot about it and after dinner Braden was in the living room playing and I was in the kitchen making apple cider.

Suddenly he started making a ruckus and ran up to me and started tugging my pants leg frantically, making anxious breathing sounds as he jitterbugged in place.

“Mommy, hold me. Pick me up. Up. Up. Mommy hold me! Mommy, hold me!”

While it’s not unheard of for him to want me to hold him, he is generally not frantic like this about it.

“Why? Mommy is making cider, Braden.  What’s wrong?”

“MOH.MEE.HOLD.BRA.DEN.”

“Why?”

“The spider is RUNNING!!!!” (I could almost hear the implied, “you stupid bitch!” at the end.)

AWESOME. I did NOT instill Spider Awareness and Caution.  Instead I planted SPIDER FEAR ZOMG!

I really don’t want him to be afraid of spiders, just careful.  Then again, I know some parents who can tell you spider fear is probably better than the opposite side of the spectrum.  My parents would likely tell you it’s way better than having a kid who tried to keep a black widow spider as a pet and then let it loose in the house.

And a grade school teacher of mine will probably let you know that it’s totally uncool when a little girl brings said black widow spider to school for show and tell.

But as for Braden’s possible burgeoning spider fear?  If he does decide to go the route of Those Who Fear Arachnids, I may be unable to relate to him, but you need not worry about him feeling alone.  You see, there’s a club around here for Spider Scaredy-Cats.

Previously, there has only been one member.  I might be the only one around here with a real, working vagina, but sometimes you’d wonder.

Maybe they can perfect their girlish shrieks together as a bonding exercise.

Time, Work, Need. It’s all relative.

John is gone and has been for weeks; he won’t be home still for some time. It’s okay. I miss him and Braden misses him, but the truth is that we’re used to him being away a lot. We have a rhythm we get into while he’s away.

Of course, after a while, Mommy gets a little cranky and somewhat tiredish. Braden and I do get along well. We have fun and I laugh even when he’s a turd. When he’s a brat, I am firm and I’m not afraid or unable to administer discipline. But it gets hard sometimes for me to reel in my anger when he’s really difficult, especially when I’m particularly, ahem, hormonal.

I’ve gotten to that point this week, and I’m needing some time for a break, a bit of quiet, and oh yeah, I have work to get done! I get frustrated at the lack of time for myself. I get Teh Selfish on me.

Today is rainy, again. Today is a bit colder again. He is annoyed that I am staying on the couch a lot this morning because my uterus is once again suffering for the sins of Eve (Hey, Eve, ya bitch, apples aren’t even THAT GOOD. I mean, I could understand if it had been friggin’ TIRAMISU or something, but really? Oh well.) and I’m Grumpy Tired.

He’s spending the morning running around the room throwing toys at me. He’s asking me to come outside. I’m being a jerk, telling him Mommy is too tired. We play ball while I sit on the couch. It’s fun, until I get hit in the titty. Then it’s hilarious. But painful. Ouch.

Naptime comes and I can tell he’s not ready; he’s too wound up. I let it slide for an extra thirty minutes. Then I pick him up and he whines. There are protests. I meet them with a favorite book and he slumps in my arms, tension flowing away, talking about Fluffy and Baron in excited anticipation.

We read and then the lights go out. We snuggle under a blankie and I rock as the lullaby CD plays in the background.

I wait for him to fall asleep so I can get some things done.

He is restless. He talks and I remind him that “naptime is quiet.” He whispers.

I wait for him to fall asleep because I really need to get some things done.

I close my eyes and rock, holding him close, feeling the tension in him as he moves around trying to find a position that feels sleepy, but it’s not coming to him.

I will never get things done!

I am frustrated. The minutes are stretching into forevers and I have work to get done. I want him to stop wasting my time. I want him to quit being annoying and just go to sleep.

I open my eyes and look down at his little face. His head is resting in the crook of my left arm and he is looking up at me. He is grinning to himself over jokes in his head. I feel annoyed because he does not look tired at all. I look at him with disdain. His eyes sparkle back at me. For a moment there is a new tension in his small body and then there is the undeniable sound of a toddler fart above the enchanting lullabies.

For a split second, we are frozen, eyes locked, our faces inches away from one another.

We both burst into laughter, giggling madly, still close to one another. He is delighted that I am laughing with him. I am defeated that he broke my quiet naptime stoicism, but in a pleasant way. The unexpected mirth feels good.

It falls quiet again. He is whispering to himself. He snuggles closer and traces the letters that stand out on my shirt. I close my eyes and rock as the lullabies keep drifting around us. His fingers fall on the hollow spot right at the bottom of my neck, tapping.

They become still and I open my eyes. He is looking up at me and suddenly his little palm rises from my chest and warmly rests on my cheek. He presses lightly and murmurs a cooing sound of “mmmmmms” that has always meant “i love you,” since before he could say words.

That feeling that comes right before an emotional sob rises in my chest, blurs behind my eyes.  There is love and regret and guilt. It recedes and I just look at him.

His little hand slowly drops back to my chest and curls there. I put my palm on his cheek – something that has always calmed him.

His eyes are heavy and his lashes flutter like butterflies that can’t find the courage to land.

They finally rest and I listen as his breaths grow deeper and longer.

He is asleep now.  I touch his soft chin with my finger, and I linger in the chair.

Suddenly there is no work and I lose track of time just staring at him.

I can’t think of a thing I really need to do right now.

Fwee Yee Olt

Oh, Braden.

On your birthday in 2008, you asked me to let you sit in a “big” chair for the first time.

You didn’t want your highchair any more. I was torn: pride, awe, amusement, and sweet sadness tumbled and mixed inside of me as I watched you try to be as big as the chair you were sitting in.

You never sat in your high chair again. But that is the least of it.

Steadily for the rest of the year, as children are wont to do, you just kept getting bigger and bolder. You got cuter, wilder, and funnier.

More difficult.

Infinitely more wonderful.

You just keep developing at a break-neck speed and you always seem to be at least two steps ahead of me.

My boy is charging through life.

I’m helpless to stop it.

Which is cool, because it’s awesome to watch.

Every day, you learn new things.

And because of you, so do I.

Thank you. I love you.

Happy “Fwee Yee Olt!” Birthday, Braden.

As you said this morning, “It’s party time!”