Potty Training part 1

Now that the cat's out of the bag  fetus is out of the sack  enough JulieSue, we you know what you're saying word is out, I feel a bit more authentic blogging about my life.  It also helps to feel much better and have the energy to sit down and type.

And boy-oh-boy do I have a lot to tell you. 

Oh wait, first and most importantly, I should have said GIRL-OH-GIRL do I have some funny sh*t going on these days.  (Yeah!  Catch my not-so-subtle baby making drift?)

So here's my first of many upcoming posts. 

I decided to start potty training my not-yet-ready toddler.  Now, if you were to ask me which training approach sounds most effective and least painful and time consuming, it's this 1 week plan.  The gist?  It's like tearing off a band aid, err, or a diaper.  One wet week and then you're diaper free.  However, listening to the the voice from above Nanny and not my instincts, we purchased a potty seat and continue to let Ari sit on the toilet when we think he needs to pee...or poop...or, whenever he wants to sit on it.

The good news?  He loves the potty.  In fact, he can now remove his diaper all by himself!  He doesn't even need to remove the adhesives, he just shimmies and yanks and...

...there it goes.

He walks to the toilet, points and says "up", and...

...he sits patiently, makes a grunting sound like he's pushing (he must have learned that from his daddy, he definitely did not learn that from me over the last 4 months since I simply don't go anymore), and sometimes he even has a snack as he hangs out at the toilet.

But the bad news?  There's no action.  It's like waiting for Godot...or, more fittingly, for Ari to go.

And then, when we're both sufficiently bored and convinced nothing is ever going to happen, he hops off his baby throne, I take out a clean diaper, and...

...he does his business. On the floor.  Pretty often. (I can already hear our playdates calling to cancel.)

Crap!  Where did I go wrong?!

It's good to be back,

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Most fitting Father's Day card ever

 Dear Matt (& Dads everywhere),

(front:)

(inside:)

(Play this.  It's worth it, I promise.  Turn your sound up.)

(Full song lyrics can be found here.)

Happy Father's Day Matt.  And, to all the other Dads out there who used to have normal/philosophical/political/sports/religion/work conversations and now talk about baby poo, have a wonderful Father's Day.

(and a big thank you to my incredibly thoughtful friend amy for buying me this card.  they should have them for mother's day.  and birthdays. )

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Elimination Communication

I have friends who have successfully potty trained their 11 month old.  No joke.  Starting when the baby was a few days old, they used techniques to teach the little girl to communicate when she needed to go sink potty.  The term for this practice is Elimination Communication, and while I do not prescribe to this philosophy (no judgment - while I am constantly cleaning Ari's back armpits neck changing table clothing  tush, they simply wipe and flush), I have discovered that my baby and many other children have their own form of elimination communication.

Three examples:

1. While at a friend's home for lunch, the adults sat eating and chatting while the kids played in another room.  I was enjoying a bite of apple cobbler when a two-year old walked into the room, poked his mother, and proudly stated "I'm going poo."  The mom questioned, "right now?" and little boy answered, "yes."  I tried hard to swallow the warm gooey appley mush as my new little friend made a big public push.

2. Waiting for luggage at baggage claim at Logan Airport, I watched a mother struggle with two little girls and one little boy whose pants were drenched in the crotch area.  He was sobbing.  As he got closer, he screamed at the top of his lungs, "I peed my pants!"  (No, really?)  Everyone waiting for their luggage turned to look after he announced his accident.

3. And finally there's my baby.  We haven't taught him to signal before he goes #2 or tell us after he's finished.  But, guess what?  He communicates pretty well when he drops a deuce (shout out to my husband!). 

Now that is what I call elimination communication!

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Confessions of a Shopaholic

Last week, I admitted to my Tylenol PM dependence. (And, by the way, I checked myself out of rehab.  Can a Tylenol PM every night really hurt me?  Nah.  But not taking one sure can.)  Today, I will come clean with another addiction.  I am a shopaholic. 

Online shopping, particularly discount shopping, changed my life.  I used to plan my work day around the 11am RueLaLa and 12pm Gilt sales.  I'll never forget the reaction from my boss when I called to let her know I would be late to a meeting because Louboutin was on Gilt. (A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.  Work can wait.  Right?)   "Unacceptable JulieSue!  What are you thinking?!"  (BTW, guess who called and begged me to work for her again? Uh huh.)

Now that I spend my days at home, walking outside, and attending baby classes, I find I no longer want need to shop online for personal designer duds.  Plus, making the 11am and Noon deadlines is often difficult.  My new boss (you know, the 18-pounder who pooped up to his armpits yesterday) is even less sympathetic than my Loub-lacking manager.  When he's hungry or tired, explaining to him that "Mommy needs a new pair of shoes" just doesn't convince him to wait.   

So, to satisfy my shopping fix, Ari and I take a daily shop-walk.  Sometimes, we stock up at Trader Joes (and hope we don't run into a Trader Shmoe ), often we peruse the baby gear aisles at Magic Beans, occasionally we buy a pound of coffee at Starbucks, and a few times a week, we browse and buy at the Crap Gap.  I feel a little rush when I blow a few bucks in the neighborhood, and more importantly, I feel like a failure when I come home empty-handed.  

I admit I have a problem.  According to this 12 Step Program, "shopping addiction operates the same way as heroin addiction."  Before I star on an episode of Cops (high on a shopping spree, bloody, naked, sweating, and in possession of a bag that "isn't mine"), I better get my shopping in check.

...Oh crap, there's a big sale at Bloomingdale's AND I have a coupon.

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Let me see the tootsee roll

I hate to admit that I sometimes watch "16 and Pregnant."  On one hand, I am truly disturbed that MTV has glorified teen motherhood and that my trashy Hollywood magazines (Um, Matt, my US Weekly subscription ran out...) have turned these mothers into celebrities.  On the other hand, I totally slow down to see the scene of a car accident and likewise, I love watching a good teenage train wreck. 

I was watching an episode yesterday (sorry, I don't recall the name of the mom...but she was young and didn't have all of her teeth...and her parents lived in a trailer...and they were in the deep South...oh wait, that's every episode!) and one of the new mom-to-be's friends asked her if she was scared of labor.  She replied, "They told me I'd have to push like a bowel movement.  I didn't know what that was.  I thought it was a new dance move."

Aside from the obvious "ohhhhmygawd are you kidding me, this girl's going to have a kid?" gut reaction, my next thought was, "what type of dance move could even vaguely resemble labor?", followed by a little chuckle as I recalled pushing like a bowel movement. (...after I made a bowel movement.  Whatever, you choose to read this blog.)

Anywhooo, I've been thinking a lot about what term we should use to refer to "#2". My parents believed that the more technical the better so they referred to it as "BM."  I casually call it "poop" (obviously).  So, is there a right and wrong word choice? 

Parenthood sure is tricky.  I don't know the answers to all of this crap. 

What did your parents call shit?

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Talk to me!

About three months ago, I was promoted.  I left an office I loved, a title I desired, and a paycheck that supported my Ruelala addiction to take care of my baby 24/7.  I was thrilled to hold the new position of stay at home mom.  My maternal instinct kicked in (shockingly), and I have felt an incredibly strong bond with my baby.  I feed him, I change his poopie diapers,  I take him for walks, I attend classes, and as I detail in this blog, I get drooled on and spit up on and pooped on all day long.  And I am very happy. 

But now, I am jealous.

Ari babbles constantly.  He's been vocal for a long time and loves to make funny noises and practice different pitches.  Until the last week, nothing has sounded like English, but I have been coaching him by saying repeatedly "mommmmmmy" "aaaaarrrrrriiiiiii" when he "talks".  Much to my chagrin, he now says one word over. And over. And over.

Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da, Da-da.  All day long. And from 5:45am-6:30am. Da-da.

Come on little guy!  It just ain't fair!  "Da-da" changed 1 poopie diaper in the last month!  "Da-da" didn't gain 35 pounds for you (though he did gain his share of sympathy weight.)  "Da-da" didn't push your cantaloupe-sized head out of a hole the size of a grape.  "Da-da" doesn't even hear you in the middle of the night!

Puh-leeease.  I need a "ma-ma."

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Oh sh*t (part 1)

You knew this was coming.

It started out like every other day.  Ari woke, ate, played, napped, woke, ate, pooped.  I scooped him up, brought him upstairs, and plopped him down on the changing table.  In a great mood, he was cooing and smiling and banging his chest Tarzan style (it's his new thing). I lifted his legs and removed his dirty diaper like I always do, and placed the dirty diapie (poo side up) about 2 inches from his tushie so I could place the used wipes in the soiled diaper before I wrapped it up and threw it away.  And this is when the seemingly ordinary day became, well, blog worthy. 

Ari kicked his legs so hard and fast that I dropped his little feet right in the dirty diaper.  His right foot completely covered with crap, I carefully picked up the left foot and right ankle, grabbed a few wipes, and began to clean up the mess.  It was simply too difficult to maneuver with an awkward grip and before I knew it, Ari's foot swept against my palm like a paintbrush.  At this point I said the heck with it, readjusted my grip, and held both feet in my now poop covered hand.  I cleaned up his bum using my clean hand, and then followed with a one-handed foot scrub the lead in 127 Hours would appreciate.  He lay naked staring at me as I considered my next move.  I had two options: 1. use wipes on my left hand or 2. wash my hands and then dress the baby. 

Nauseated by the look and smell of my phalanges, I desperately wanted to wash my hand under warm water with anti-bacterial soap.  Cardinal rule of baby rearing - never leave the baby on the changing table unattended.  So, using only my right arm, I slid his little body closer to mine, maneuvered my arm under his body, and using my left arm for balance, picked him up and set him down on the rug in his room...without smearing any more poop.

I quickly ran to the bathroom and washed my hands well, returned to the room, put him back on the changing table, and finished the dressing job.  Moral of the story - move the diaper off the changing table or wear latex gloves during each diaper change.  Or, better yet, let Dad change the dirty diapers.

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