Clue Me In

I'm looking for a motivational speaker that specializes in three-year-olds.

Anyone?

In potty training my eldest child, I learned three things:

1) You can lead a child to the potty, but you cannot make him pee.
2) Children potty-train themselves.
3) My child will only be successfully potty-trained when he wants to be.

So, here I am again. My child is 3.3 years old. When asked if he would like to sit on the potty his typical response is: NO! (and no, this answer does not change when there is a candy bribe involved). When asked when he's going to start using the potty, his typical response is: In five years.

May God grant me patience.

I wish I kept a better journal. I know that Ethan was somewhere between age 3 and 3.75 when he up and decided he was ready. Then, potty-trained himself--day and night, numbers one and two, in the space of about 5 days. So, my husband keeps reminding me that though I likewise feared sending Ethan to kindergarten with a diaper bag, or worse, handing his diaper bag to his bride, he did, in the end, pull through and this too shall pass.

I remember the day distinctly. At the urging of my dear friend, mother of five, (and shortly after Ethan threw the potty seat at me) I gave up the battle. I put the pull-ups and the big-boy underwear away in his closet and said nary a peep about the subject for some weeks, even months. Then, one morning as he's dressing he says: Mom, I want to wear big-boy underwear today. Alrighty then, you are in luck. There was that subsequent moment of panic when he pulls up the briefs and says They're Cold!! Knowing my child's clothing sensitivities and his propensity to never try anything again if his first experience is less than thrilling, I improvised. I grabbed the undies, tossed them in the microwave and zapped 'em for 30 seconds. Voila! Warm underwear! He never complained again.

Here I am now with Elliot. When? When?! WHEN?! WHEN will this child decide he is ready? We've tried bribery in all it's variations but wild horses cannot motivate my child to use the toilet (I tried--we played outside on a lovely spring day last week, watching the horses in the pasture. Elliot was coaxed into briefs and allowed to run around. Not 10 minutes later he was soaked to the skin). I keep thinking that tomorrow, I will set a timer and lead the child to the toilet every 20 minutes as my sister-in-law does in her potty-training-in-one-day madness. But let's face it, I am not that consistent nor committed. I tried to do this. I forgot to set the timer the first time and before I know it, it's afternoon. Besides, who's really being potty-trained here? Sure, a child may use the potty if he spends half his waking hours on the toilet. And mom is now trained to take him there every half-hour. And what happens when he refuses to respond to the timer or any coaxing? Did I mention I have stubborn children?

Alas, I am ready, the big-boy undies are ready. Dad and big brother are ready. We're just missing one piece: yagottawanna.

I guess it was Elliot, in the bathroom, with the potty-seat . . . Yes, but, what is the motive?

Spain . . . and why I won't be there.

I caught the travel bug some years back. I must have recovered, or caught something else. I have a perfect, relatively cheap opportunity to accompany my husband on a business trip to Spain. And I declined. I like to tell people that we were unable to find a babysitter. And that is true. What is also true is that I had decided not to go prior to hearing from our last hold-out sitter that he was unavailable. Granted, a friend in Ohio said I could bring my kids there and she'd keep them. But, she has her hands full with her own four and my kids have never been there before, and well, there's that whole kindergarten thing and on and on.

I was ready to buy a ticket. I even renewed my passport (I'm official again--I can flee the country should the need arise.) But then, I started thinking. It's a lot of money, even with a cheap ticket and paid hotel--but now I have to consider cost of a week long sitter and a plane ticket for that sitter.

Then, there were thoughts of small children left parentless whilst their parents are cavorting about another country and though I swore I would never be one of those parents--you know the ones that can't leave their children--ever, in that moment, I think I became one.

Then, I started wondering about the flight. The last transatlantic flight I took I was a good 30 pounds lighter and still terribly uncomfortable in the seat. (They've started charging double for persons of size these days).

What happened to the days when I bought the ticket to Greece and only then began to concern myself with the minor details?

What happened to the glorious days of travelling by my lonesome through Italy? (I LOVE traveling alone! --no offense Matt).

What happened to spontaneously moving to New York City via the overnight Greyhound and arriving at 4am alone with the world in Time Square?

Have I gotten old? Have I gotten fat? (don't answer that one) Have I become predictable? Have I become all that I feared and swore never to be?

You know, it's not too late, I could still buy a ticket and go. Do you know anyone that wants to stay with my kids for a week?

Another Year Older and Deeper in Debt . . .

Well, not in debt, but I just had a Joe vs. the Volcano flashback (tell me you LOVED that movie!).

Ethan had a birthday on Saturday. I'm still startled by the thought that he's already six. When did this happen? Wasn't it just last week I was looking forward to my wheelchair ride that thankfully released me from my hospital bed-rest prison for a blessed 15 minutes every day? No, actually it wasn't. It was six long years ago and though I attempt to repress much about my former life as a parasitical host, every time the memories surface, I am again reminded how satisfied I am with the fact that I do not plan to be pregnant ever, ever, ever again. I'll spare you any more details. I love my children. I despise pregnancy.

Speaking of being miserable, on the drive to the zoo, I had another startling realization. In the two months since we arrived here, I do not believe I have been carsick AT ALL! I didn't realize just how much I do not miss the winding mountain roads of Fairyland until that moment.

Back to the birthday. It was Ethan's day. We went to the zoo, Ethan had crab legs and chocolate cake for dinner. "It was the best, funnest birthday EVER!" Little kid heaven.

No Friends? Snow Friends!

We're new in town. We don't have a lot of friends yet. It snowed Monday and my poor, snow-deprived children thought they had won the lottery. We went sledding and built a snowman. And Tuesday, when our snowman had melted enough to tip over, they turned to plain old shoveling. This is when things got a little weird.

Have you met my friend Zon, mom?

Ethan asks, holding up a small crystallized bit of snow.

Um, no. Nice to meet you Zon.

It's like Jon, but with a z.

Elliot, watching with fascination and awe at his brother's social prowess, quickly searches out his own bit of snow.

Mommy! Did you meet my friend Shoveler?

Pleased to meet you as well, Shoveler.

Later Ethan put Zon in a little snow cave and covered him up. When he went to retrieve him with his shovel, he couldn't determine which bit(s) of snow had been Zon.

Did you smash your friend with a shovel?

No. Well, yes. But he'd already had hypothermia, so he already died.

It appears that kindergarteners in Michigan learn early about the dangers of hypothermia. Perhaps they should also discuss death by snow shovel.

For the record, Shoveler met a similar fate (as did New Zon and New Shoveler, as well as Tuesday's incarnations: Trucky and Truck Driver).

We need friends.

Dame the Turtle

A turtle appeared in our yard last week. Poor thing.



She was examined, moved, corralled and named Dame.



She eventually made a successful run for it.

Worn Out Welcome

When we were first married we received a nice welcome mat as a wedding gift. We moved into our first apartment after our honeymoon and placed the mat out front. Within a week, someone had stolen it. Welcome to the neighborhood.

Our basement in our new home has been described to me as a scary Michigan basement. As I pondered the possibilities of storage, I asked for clarification. Can I put my food storage in it? I was told it had a dirt floor and could be used for storage if I desired, but I was told just don't go down there after dark. Well, I wasn't creeped out until now, thanks.

One night, before we moved in, I went over there late in the evening. As I was leaving, I noticed a little bit of light emanating from the basement window well. Creeped out, I drove back to the lakehouse and somehow kept forgetting to go down in the daylight to check on that light.

Finally, once we moved in, I again noticed the creepy light on after dark. With visions of a ghost living in my basement (because a ghost would need a light of course), I told Matt that I was going down to check something out and if I didn't come back in twenty minutes to call the police because the ghost or vagrant in the basement had gotten me. (As a side note, I believe Matt has yet to venture into the basement.)

My heart beating quickly, I discovered a bulb that was not connected to the main switch. I quickly loosened the bulb and ran upstairs. I was told a ghost lived in our last camp home, but not to worry since she was happiest when children were in the home. I'm hoping that if there is a ghost here, he also likes children (in a friendly way, not roasted with a nice plum sauce way) and that he doesn't mind that I turned out his light.

So last week I bought a new welcome mat for our new home. The one left here is a bit worn out. It says elcome in a fading script. I almost threw it out, but as I have use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without etched into my soul, I found a new home for it. I placed it at the bottom of the outside basement stairs. The stairs are accessed from an outside storm door--you know, the run for your life it's a tornado storm doors, or the Ghost Access Door if you will.

As I shut the storm doors, I could make out the faint elcome on the mat and was once more creeped out at the thought that I may have just made the ghost's abode a bit more inviting.

Wanna come visit?