Awaiting that PLOP of fabulosity.

Elmo, Big Bird, & Cookie Monster are my latest allies in The Great Potty Training Challenge.

Braden is so good at peeing on the toilet when he’s naked. I mean, seriously, I never thought I’d be writing these words about anyone, but:

I am SO proud of the way he hops on that pot and pees!

I’ve watched him progress from a potty in the living room to the toilet that’s off the kitchen near the garage. He’ll stop playing (!!!) hold it while he runs all the way there, move a stool over, put the potty ring on the toilet, climb up, hop on & slide back, and then let the stream go.

It is the best hissing sound I’ve ever heard (so far).

We’re working very carefully right now at getting him to be just as good at it when he’s wearing pants.

Some days are good. Other days? We’re swimmin’ in Peed Up Pants, Yo.

And, just in case you were wondering?

Good Things To Swim In:

• Water
• Beer
• Wine
• The Ocean
• Money (A La Scrooge McDuck)

I was going to say Jello, but enough to swim in would be enough to drown in. Yeah.

Note To Self: Save the Jello for the super awesome, fun Naked Wrestling with girlfriends at our slumber parties.

Bad Things To Swim In:

• Vomit
• Unpaid Bills (Speaking from experience here)
• Booger Pies
• Warm Spit
• Peed Up Pants, Yo

We are making strides, but it is bumpy and sometimes ugly. It is as if having anything on his butt is a signal to him that it’s okay to let’er rip.

We have been calmly and lovingly letting him know that we have other expectations, and encouraging small steps towards the final, desired behavior at all times.

Simultaneously, we’ve been talking to him about how FREAKING AWESOME WONDERFUL GREAT AND FABULO-TASTICAL it is to “put your Poo-Poo in the toilet!!!!!!!!1″.

And can I just say, that on the day that he pulls down those pants and drops a log into the porcelain throne, it will be the most FABULOUS PLOP I have ever heard.

I think I might cry a tear when it happens.

Or do some Naked Jello Wrestling.

One step closer to being free of Doodie Duty.

The potty has moved
slowly across the first floor
towards the bathroom

for a short time now,
and yesterday something cool
happened in that room.

A certain little
boy ran in, looked around and
chose the higher stool.

He WANTS to pee on
the toilet now and can do
it all by himself!

Now if we can just
address this annoying thing
called “shitting in pants.”

Singin’ the loose stool blues… oohhhhh, yeahhhh….

Thanks to everyone for not virtually slapping me for being such a whine-bag yesterday. And really, apologies if I offended anyone.

In other news, there is no post of any relevance today, as I’ve been crapping my guts out for the past 24 hours with some kind of Super Evil Intestinal Bug.

Maybe I should try to be all happy and positive and call it An All Natural, Surprise Body Cleanse!

Yeah, after this much explosive diarrhea, I’m having a hard time being happy & positive, so I’ll leave the positivity to you lovely and enlightened readers for today.

Because, really? It would not be too far from real to imagine brown waterfalls coming out of my ass.

My friends as of late:

Here’s hoping your week is going far more fabulously.

He’s not losing sleep over the sunglasses.

He’s more pissed off on a regular basis about things like why he can’t have a million and five cups of apple juice in one day and our infernal, never-ending desire to torture him orally with that weird plastic stick that has bristles, under the guise of “keeping his teeth strong, healthy, and clean!”

But the sunglasses?  Meh.  He’s so over that.

And I just can’t help myself.  I beg that no one gets offended, but I feel like I have to say, as per some comments on yesterday’s post, that Braden actually has not only 2 pair of sunglasses made to actually fit his face, but he has been given another pair of my old sunglasses to delight himself with.  So, no worries, he has sunglasses to play with.

I hid the broken pair from him that night (after he tried to wear them with one side broken off and got a bit annoyed when they wouldn’t stay on), and he never even cared.  I gave him the replacement pair a day or so later, and he happily put them on and ran around, no questions asked.

They are really manly, too. Silver Leopard Print, Baby.  Yeah. (Of course, again, he couldn’t care less.)

Eh… uh… about yesterday’s post… the sunglasses per se really weren’t the main idea I’d intended for the article to focus you on, rather they created a situation that made my mind stretch a little and my emotions warble and dance. I wanted to share with you the little emotional jig that was being performed in my head and my heart… see if maybe you could dance the steps with me.

By the way (*huffs and puffs, theatrically*), I’m pretty good at figuring out how to fix the silly little things that my 2 year old worries about, in a practical way.  Gimme a lil bit of credit as a mom, folks, dang.  I’m not a TOTAL moron, really! (No, really.  STOP LAUGHING BEHIND YOUR HAND. I CAN SEE YOU, DAMNIT.)

And no offense to anyone, cause I adore you guys (you commented, that means you gave a shit, and I adore you), but there is no amount of super glue or duct tape that could hold the metal/plastic together for long enough to withstand even 30 seconds of  Two-Year-Old-Boy-Play.  Braden can look at things hard enough to break them, sometimes, I swear.  So that made me giggle.

So, anyway… I was just making some connections between this little thing and larger emotions and issues… painting a small picture that mirrors a large and complex one in the adult world?

Bah, sometimes a girl just doesn’t get her point across.

I should stick to fart jokes, right?

*poot*

What you get when I’m saving you from the really bad posts I’ve written.

I’ve written a lot of posts lately.

But I haven’t published many.  Why?

No, it’s not because I was too busy taking pictures of my fat ass.

It’s because they are all either weepy and sad or angry and bitter.  And, contrary to what you may think, they are not all about the whole miscarriage thing.

Apparently I’m angry and bitter, and feeling ranty and shitty about lots of things.

And towards lots of people. Whoa, Nelly.  That just ain’t kosher, eh? I’m trying to BE A GOOD PERSON.

See that Tagline up there in my header?

“because survival requires humor”

I really do believe that.

But my funny isn’t sustaining enough for me to write good humor posts lately.  And that PISSES ME OFF.

And also?  I’m tired of eating beans and staring at the $12,000 in medical bills we’ve accumulated these past few months.

Because farts are funny, and all, but this?  This is not funny.  This is depressing.

And depressing farts don’t really make very good humor posts.

So I’ll go back to writing my private, weepy, rantlike, depressing, shitty posts on my computer. And then not publishing them.

But I’ll whine to you about it.  SINCE THAT IS OH SO FUNNY, RIGHT?

Just punch me in the face and get it over with.

*farrrrt*

(don’t laugh, that was a depressing one… couldn’t you tell by the tone? amateurs.)

The shoes are still sitting in the garage, being avoided. *sigh*

Dear Exceeding Disgusting Degenerate Who Frequented the Mens Room At Cracker Barrel:

I am really appreciative of the fact that my loving husband takes on diaper duties for our son when he comes home.  It offers me a chance to relax a little.

Unfortunately, he entered the restroom to change a wet diaper on Monday at some point after you were there.  And he occupied much of the same space that you clearly “used” during your time in the facility.

For future reference: That round, shiny porcelain thing that you were in a stall with?  THAT was your primary target.  Notice how it was just about the same size as your ass (not your face, but I understand your confusion, as you are clearly an Assfacian).  It must have seemed like such a coincidence, I know, but trust me – it is purposeful.  You are actually supposed to place your “dumping mechanism” over that lovely collection bowl and THAT is where you are intended to make your “deposit.”  This is the acceptable way of doing things in our part of the world.

In other words? Shit goes in the toilet. NOT ON THE FLOOR.

The scent of “shit shoe-sole”, even after it has been furiously rubbed on dirt and leaves in the parking area, is not a pleasant thing to a pregnant lady in a car on the ride home.

Please note that your anonymity is the only thing saving your life today.

Sincerely,

One of the MANY people who understand how this whole Public Sanitation thing works.

Fecal Matter Frustration and Hereditary Narcissism

We’ve been on the potty-training roller coaster with Braden for some time now, and seriously, this experience has been enough to really not want any more kids.  I’ve joked around about that before, but there are times when the whole thing really is just that frustrating.  Fecal and Urinary Trickery and Frustration really can make you want to rip your own uterus out of its warm, abdominal resting place and shove it down into the sink garbage disposal.

“Poop!” he yells.

We go to the bathroom, he sits on the potty.

For a long time.  And reads a book.

Then he’s “ah-dun!” and gets down.

No poop is in the potty.

But he delights greatly in telling me “Eh-Poop!” later, when it’s in his pants.  Then he runs like mad to the bathroom so we can put it in the toilet and flush it, while he says, “Buh-byyyyeee, Puh-POOOOO!!!”

If he weren’t so cute, I’d shove him in with it.

I’ve even tried this great tip (is that not hilarious?) but I don’t think he really cares what the poop wants to do.  It’s all about him, don’t you know!? (I have NO idea where he gets that from. *cough*)

He pees on the toilet more reliably, but by NO means all the time.  And he has “accidents” on the carpet/floor/step stool in the bathroom which are not really accidents at all, if you ask me.  I mean, when someone is just doing his thing, then he stops, take a stance that thrusts his crotch out, and smiles devilishly at you while he starts an incredibly healthy and strong stream of urine all over something you don’t particularly want urine on?  IT’S NOT AN ACCIDENT.  IT’S AN EVIL DEED.

He has also become incredibly obsessed with running to the bathroom and climbing up on the step-stool I placed in front of the sink to make it possible for him to learn how to wash his hands.  Does he want wash his hands very badly? No, he wants to flip the lights on and off (remember how he became obsessed with that a long time ago?) and “perform” in front of the mirror, with much silliness.

I’ve stopped him now by buying a cheapo wall mirror (about $4.75 for those of you taking detailed notice of what I spend around here) and hanging it at his level in the living room. 

Now he dances and performs in front of it, or just stands there laughing and talking to himself.

So yes, it is official.  Narcissism is quite hereditary.

*turns head, looks upwards, and starts whistling*

*walks away nonchalantly*






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Just for the record…

…going into my child’s room at night in response to Mega-Screaming, to change a diaper full of diarrhea and clean the shit off of his face and hands is NOT the definition of My Ultimate Fantasy. (I swear, he got some in his mouth. *gag*)

I mean, there was no Kiefer Sutherland, anti-gravity underwear, perfect boobs for life, endless supply of calorie-free chocolate, or no-cost, worry-free daily babysitting offer in there ANYWHERE.

And wait… wait… let me check… no. I did not have the world’s largest, multiple orgasm at any time before, during, or after the event. (by the way, if I had? I’d be seeking therapy RIGHT NOW.)

And nobody has come to my door to offer doing my dishes, laundry, and to vacuum my carpets for the rest of my natural life.

Additionally, in case you were wondering, I have not found the deed to my private island lying around anywhere.

Also, there is still cellulite on my ass cheeks.

So, confirmation: it had NOTHING to do with any ultimate fantasy of mine.

It was just runny excrement. YAY!

(Why, oh why, do they have to get curious and stick their hands in there?)

PS: Don’t worry, I’m no Poop Newbie. This is the home of Scatastrophe.