Cagematch: Ariel vs Iron Man

We have had some meager success at the potty training process.  What I mean by success is that I am quite adept at mentally spinning our latest debacles into some sort of positive progress.  I delude myself, Link continues to go about his merry way & largely we are happy.

While at Target yesterday, I decided that our small (fabricated) victories deserved a reward: new big kid underpants!  I had visions of him feeling proud to sport his favorite character on his rump & knew that his loyalty to McQueen or Thomas would surely motivate him to go in the potty. 

I pulled the cart up to the display & asked him which one he would like.  I started pointing out all of the choices: Mater, Thomas, Spiderman.  "Princesses."  Yup, there next to The Hulk were Jasmine, Belle, Ariel & Cinderella. 

I strongly believe in dispelling preconceived gender bias.  Link has dolls, sometimes he asks for a pink cup at lunch, he has a pink shirt--I'm all for it.  When Coraline becomes less susceptible to choking & gouging out her own eyes, she can play with cars & dragons & dinosaurs all day long.  But, given that we are on such tenuous ground with potty training & the fact that he has previously been a little bit afraid of underwear, it seemed a bad idea to stack the deck against him by giving him clothes into which his little boy parts just weren't meant to fit.  I asked him to pick something else, hoping he would just move on but he was resolute, "I want Princesses."

*Sigh*  I tried to pick my words carefully.  While avoiding "those are for girls," I tried to logically explain that those wouldn't fit his body & were made to fit girls' bodies better.  Wouldn't he be more comfortable in underpants that were made to fit big boys?  Unfortunately,  my logic & reason could scarcely be heard above his escalated pleas.  With much gnashing of teeth, he wailed, "I NEED Princess underpants."  Repeatedly.

I abandoned reason & tried distraction.  I started wildly waving McQueen & Percy in his face.  At this point,  I was having one of those parenting moments where I was absolutely 100% certain that everyone in the whole store was looking at me.  Due to the topic of conversation, I also knew that the looks were coming with a heaping helping of judgement as to how I was responding.  Half of the store was vilifying me for having a son that would even know who the princesses are...the other half was irate that I was raising another misogynistic male.

I had only one option.  I tossed a package of Superhero undies into the cart & then, like any good American, I decided to employ the ultimate distraction: food.  If there is one thing Link loves above all, it's food.  Thankfully it was clearly more fun to pick which color of grapes to bring home than to continue crying about Princesses. 

Now that we are home & out of the critical eye of Target patrons, I have to say that I am absolutely not above drawing a tiara on Captain America or a wand in Wolverine's claws...whatever gets us in those undies & out of diapers!

Poopy Goes in the Potty...or at Least Not in Your Bed

And now for something completely different, my other obsession (other than the size of my rump): my kids.   Here is a tale of Link.

 Link has found himself (dragging me along with him) in potty purgatory--not quite potty trained, not quite cluelessly soiling himself .  The mantra at our house is "poopy goes in the potty, not your diaper," "pee-pee goes in the potty, not your diaper."  I had hopes that the constant indoctrination would worm it's way into his sub-conscious & would result in a miraculous potty-training coup.

It turns out that effective communication requires two parties to interpret the message in the same way.  A couple of days ago I learned that Link had picked up on the "not your diaper," but was fuzzy on the "in the potty" portion of our platitude.

I heard him screaming from his bed during nap time.  It wasn't your garden variety boredom scream, it  intense & loud enough to wake Coraline in the next room.  Thinking I would settle Link quickly & then be able to take care of the baby, I went to Link first.  I walked into a grizzly scene.  Through tears, Link proudly held up his clean diaper & said, "I didn't go poopy in my diaper!"  There was my half naked kid standing in an epic pile of poo.  It was everywhere.  He had it smeared all over his legs, his treasured stuffed giraffe, his blankets, a book & the pack & play.  Standing there flabbergasted, all I can think is "who lets this kid eat so many vegetables?!?!" 

I threw him in the bath & proceeded to skim the chunks off the top of all applicable surfaces.  I wished on every lucky penny, birthday candle & shooting star for a can of Vapoorizer (the mythical product from "Envy"--a movie that only I & 17 other people bothered to watch). 

The book was deemed a casualty of war.  The pillow & giraffe came out of the wash a little lumpy, but feces-free.  I feel a touch of PTSD every time I go into his room.  All of that aside, I'm choosing to call this a step in the right direction.  He didn't want to put it in his diaper.  I just have to give him an alternative to painting the town brown.

Epilogue:  The next day, Link found the scrub brush I used to scour the pack & play & left to dry in the bathtub.  He promptly dipped it in the dog's water & used it to "clean" Dave's recliner.  A mother's work is never done...at least not until there aren't any trace amounts of fecal matter on the furniture.

Here Comes the Bride

Five years ago tomorrow, I got hitched. We had a beautiful wedding, I wore a beautiful dress. Upon returning from a gluttonous honeymoon, I found that the beautiful dress no longer fit & hasn't fit for the entirety of the last five years. Not that I had occasion to wear such a dress, but a gal's wedding dress is one of those items that can either be an encouragement or an albatross. Mine was such a big albatross that I shoved it in a box, in a pile of boxes, on an extremely high shelf, in a closet I never look in--wedding dress maximum security.

It's not like I strutted down the aisle in a size 2. I wore a plus-size dress in a size smaller than I wore when we got engaged. On my wedding day I felt gorgeous & glamorous & for one whole day I didn't once think about whether I was sucking in enough (wasn't really an option, the infrastructure of the dress demanded it) or if my butt looked huge (again, the dress came through with its full skirt camoflage). But, the fact that my dress was a "reasonable" size & I couldn't even get it half zipped within a month of the wedding was disastrous for me mentally. I didn't have it "preserved" (or even cleaned--I'm pretty sure you can recreate our whole reception by following the stains on the dress) because I wanted my future kids to be able to see & touch a piece of the history of our family from the day it all began. Now my future kids are my real kids & the dress had yet to be a tangible reminder to anyone except me.

After I lost my baby-weight I needed a new mini-goal. Wedding dress by anniversary seemed very attainable & fun. Now, not only am I in the dress (as I sit here typing!), but it gapes in places. Some good (hips) & some bad (boobs), but all a testament to hard work! Not only am I less than the weight/size that I was on that day, but I'm a totally different shape.

Now I have an occasion to wear the dress: Thursday! Link just told me that I look like a "pwin-cess," & Coraline is picking at the beading thinking that she has never seen anything that looks so delicious. For my part, I think I can safely say that my albatross has flown the coop & I'm already looking forward to next year when it'll be a good thing that it isn't a strapless dress, because otherwise it would fall right off!