Making Me Proud

After his bath tonight, Ian climbed out of the tub, walked into the hallway, and promptly peed on the floor. Should I be proud of him for holding it until he was done? Or disappointed that he didn't pee in the tub so I could just wash the mess down the drain?

The Dangers of Sleeping In

I like to sleep in on the weekends. After a grueling four-day week of helping Abbie prepare for preschool, I appreciate the opportunity to roll out of bed when I’m ready.

If only my children shared my enthusiasm for loafing. They wake up at about the same time every morning whether or not we have a bus to catch. If I’m lucky, a major morning storm will strike to darken the skies and fool them into thinking the sun has barely risen. Otherwise I can count on them squawking at about the same time as my alarm clock.

I still sleep in a little on weekends. Instead of rushing from bed the instant my alarm sounds, I stay in bed and wait for one of my biological alarms to sound. When I hear rustling, I stay in bed for a few minutes, letting the sweet sounds of children playing sooth me between sleep and wakefulness. I rush from bed when the grating sounds of children breaking things fill my room.

This morning when the boys awoke slightly earlier than usual, I stayed in bed. They sounded happy in their room, and I was certainly happy in my room.

The next time I saw my alarm clock, I realized that I had spent a few more minutes drifting in and out of sleep than I had intended. I rolled out of bed and walked into the boys’ room.

The boys stopped their happy sounds when the door opened, possibly because they knew happy time was over. Tory was sitting on the floor, legs covered in poop. The carpet around him was also covered in poop, as was a toy train, and he was working on smearing poop on his upper body. He had apparently pooped, which was probably why he woke a little early. He knew he didn’t want to sit in a poopy diaper until I woke him, so he must’ve decided to smear it more uniformly across his body. Sometimes I make poor decisions first thing in the morning, too.

I didn’t even try to use wipes to clean this mess. I threw him in the tub and worked on cleaning the carpet while he soaked. His pajamas wound up in the wash this morning, his carpet still has stains, and his toy train is in the trashcan after I deemed it unsalvageable.

This wasn’t the lazy Sunday morning I had dreamed of while lounging in bed.

Abbie-isms

Straight from Abbie’s mouth:

“It’s naptime time.”
Translation: “It’s time for naptime.”

“Upside up.”
Translation: The opposite of upside down.

“I want to go potty!”
Translation: “I want a reward for sitting on the potty!”

“I want to watch basketball.”
Translation: “I want to watch Dora, but I need you to turn on the television first.”

“I want to say goodnight to mommy.”
Translation: “I want to play on the elliptical trainer next to mommy before going to bed.”

“I’m thirsty.”
Translation: “I want soda pop.”

Falling Behind

Ian pooped this morning while I ate breakfast. He immediately removed his diaper while I slurped my milk. By the time I reached him, his diaper and its contents were on the floor.

I’m used to this routine by now. My children usually immediately remove poopy clothing as a sign of their potty training aptitude and a reminder that I need to keep pushing them on the potty lest they dump poop on every surface in our home.

Ian dumped his poop on our hardwood floor, which is the best surface for him to do so. Hardwood floors clean easily with a paper towel and a few sprays of an all-purpose cleaner. Cleaning carpet by contrast requires paper towels, carpet cleaning solution, a lot of time and effort, and usually a little cussing.

I whisked Ian back to the changing table, cleaned him, and sent him on his way. I sped back to the mess on the floor before someone could inadvertently or otherwise step in it, and wiped the floor clean.

On my way to the trash, I stopped in Abbie’s room to check on her. In the time I spent cleaning Ian and his mess, Abbie had also pooped, removed her underwear, and dumped its contents on the carpet in her room. Tory, wanting to be just like big sissy, also pooped, removed, and dumped in her room.

I wound up drinking my orange juice a little later than usual this morning.

The Good Note

Abbie’s notes home from preschool are a mix of positives and negatives. When I first look at the notes, I search for clues as to whether I’m about to celebrate or cry. Words like “hit,” “threw,” or “leak” mean I need to take a deep breath before reading in detail.

Today’s note had good signs. Specifically, it had eight exclamation points, two stars, and a smiley face. They don’t just give those away for pedestrian accomplishments like counting to 20.

The stars were at the top of the note. They accompanied “She requested to go potty & went!!!!” Hooray Abbie. It’s very encouraging to see that our hard work on the potty during spring break is paying off.

The smiley face was at the bottom of the note. It followed the comment “Abbie is closing lips making ‘P’ sounds. Yeah!!!!” The “P” sound is one of the hardest for Abbie. Abbie has trouble with any sound involving the lips (p, b, f) and guttural noises (g, k). She usually skips sounds she can’t make, but after a little hard work and a lot of tantrums, she’s making an effort now. It’s good to see her making the same effort at school when I’m not around to prod her.

I congratulated Abbie, and put away her school paraphernalia. I was planning a celebration, but when I found Abbie she had pooped in her pull-up, and dumped the contents on the floor. That brought me back to crying.

Training Cats

Our cats hate our children.

Maybe “hate” is too strong. “Hate” implies that the cats actively seek ways to harm our children, be it the physical harm of scratching and biting, or the emotional harm of peeing on their stuff. Our cats have never tried to physically harm our children, even on those rare occasions when a little hand grabs hold of a tail and pulls. They don’t emotionally harm the children either, preferring instead to just pee on the parents’ stuff.

It’s more accurate to say that our cats avoid our children. Perhaps they dislike the children and the attention they drain from the adults even though the cats were clearly in the house first. More likely they fear the children with their loud noises and poor coordination. Sometimes the children scare me for those same reasons plus their pooping prowess.

We’re trying to encourage the cats to accept the children, in much the same way that we might lead a horse to water and encourage it to drink from the lake with the scary fish visibly lurking just below the surface even though the horse isn’t really thirsty anyway. I let Abbie feed the cats now. The cats love food more than they dislike Abbie, and they hang around the dishes while she scoops food into them. My hope is they start to associate Abbie with food. They currently associate me with food and will rub against me purring fiercely until I finally tire of them and drop food in their dish so they’ll quit shedding on me. Abbie would be infinitely happy if a cat would rub against her, or at least not flee in terror whenever she walks near.

I also let the kids pet the cats, but this takes preparation. I have to find a cat, usually downstairs, and quite content because they’re protected behind the gate. I carry the cat to the children, holding tight once the cat realizes my machinations. I then sit with the cat in my lap within children’s grabbing distance. I encourage the children to be gentle while hoping the cat doesn’t emotionally damage me as soon as I let go.

For the most part the kids do great with the cats. They’re mostly gentle. They’re mostly quiet. They’re mostly calm. And I emerge mostly claw mark-free. The cats don’t do as well with the kids. They sit tensely in my lap, eager to yowl at every sensation and ready to flee the instant I loosen my grip.

Both the kids and the cats are learning to co-exist and treat each other well. The kids need to learn to be nice to the cats or they’ll hide all day. The cats need to learn to be nice to the kids or they won’t get fed.

Ready, Aim...

We have to teach Abbie many things in order to potty train her. She has to recognize when it’s time to go, tell us she needs to go, and assume the position on the potty. A failure at any stage leads to a mess on the floor. Al of this confirms why I waited almost four years to seriously work on potty training her.

I’ve found a new lesson to teach her: Aiming. Of all the skills needed to potty, I assumed this one would come naturally. She’s a girl. I’m not an expert on such things, but girls can’t really aim. They sit, it comes out, and they cheer.*

Sometimes Abbie aims properly. Other times it goes squirting onto the floor. This morning she shot a stream out front with a velocity and concentration impressive for either gender.

I told mommy that she should give Abbie a lesson on aiming. She looked at me quizzically, informing me that girls don’t need to learn to aim. I told her about Abbie’s shot this morning. She retorted that girls shouldn’t be able to do that.

Our girl is special. I’m now afraid of how brutal this potty training will get as I discover more skills that she needs to learn. At least I can look forward to the possibility of raising a girl who may one day be able to write her name in the snow.

* Maybe Abbie is the only one who cheers. Like I said, I’m not an expert on such things.

I'm Not Dead Yet

I've been super busy these past few days. I should be back up tomorrow.

PottyUpdate

Ian removed his pants tonight and pooped on the floor. Abbie ran into the bathroom tonight, poopy underwear in hand, eager to dump the contents in the potty.

This is progress, right?

Potty Problems

Things a Plumber Pulled out of our Toilet Today:

1. Toilet paper wad
2. Baby wipe wad
3. Swiffer sheet
4. Toothbrush

That explains why our toilet wasn't draining. I'd been looking for that toothbrush.

Future Plumber

We held an Easter Egg Hunt outside our house this morning. Abbie and especially Ian did a great job of finding eggs and depositing them in their basket. Tory needed more prodding to collect eggs, but he did find a few, and produced this lasting image for us:

Adventures in Potty Training

Saturday is apparently our crazy day because we did something crazy again today. Last week we left on a six-hour road trip on a whim. Today we put underwear on everyone just to see what happens.

This wasn’t done on a whim. This week Abbie’s spring break aligns with mommy’s vacation time. If we’re ever going to lock the five of us in the house and not emerge until everyone is potty trained, this is the time.

We know Abbie is ready to use the potty. She’s been using the potty irregularly for several months, but she’s backsliding. She used to happily pee on the potty once or twice a day, but for the past month we’ve had to drag her into the bathroom. Even if we convince her to sit on the potty she always screams, “there’s no pee in there!” until we let her off the potty, or until she realizes there indeed is pee in there and deposits it in the potty. She’s been perfectly happy peeing in her pull-up and letting us change that a few times a day. We believed that making her wear underwear would help her realize that sitting on the potty was a valuable use of her time.

The boys may or may not be ready to potty train. They loved sitting on the potty a month ago, but ever since they realized that I wouldn’t wait in the bathroom while they ran around climbing on and off potties for 20 minutes, the bathroom has been less alluring. Underwear might be the kick they need to convince them use the potty so they can quickly return to climbing on and off other furniture in the house.

Abbie’s potty training went fairly well with “only” two or three accidents. She understands that peeing in her underwear is a bad idea, so she holds it well. She doesn’t like peeing on the potty, but she’s realizing that it’s more enjoyable than sitting in wet underwear, so there’s advancement. She’s never pooped in the potty, though, and she didn’t poop today, so I’m afraid something is going to give tomorrow, and it’s probably going to be the underwear.

The boys aren’t using the potty as well. They’ll happily pee in the potty if we sit them on it. Unfortunately, they’ll happily pee in their underwear if we don’t sit them on the potty. They don’t give us cues that they need to use the potty either.

I printed off a couple of potty charts. I’ll try them tomorrow, letting the children place a sticker on it each time they successfully use the potty. Ideally, placing a sticker on the chart will be a reward, and they’ll start looking for cues when it’s time to go, and let us know so we can help them use the potty. Realistically, they’ll forget about the charts, and when they do think of the charts it will be to play with them by removing the previously stuck stickers and getting mad when they don’t stick again. Good thing we bought a lot of underwear.

I thought she looked different...

We found a large clump of hair on the floor of Abbie's room tonight. At some point today* Abbie grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen, ran back to her room, trimmed a substantial amount of hair from her backside, and returned the scissors to their rightful place. On one hand, we're a little frightened that Abbie can wield scissors with surprising efficacy. On the other hand, mommy says Abbie did a better job cutting her hair than I did, so maybe we should encourage her.

* I'm not sure when she did it either. I'm obviously not watching her as closely as I thought.

Half-Baked

I caught Tory standing on top the stove tonight. A couple hours earlier, the stove was on full blast as I cooked supper in the oven and on the burners.

His self-preservation instinct had better kick in soon.

25 Minutes to Go

Ten minutes before naptime, Tory removed his poopy diaper this afternoon. No problem. I was standing next to him when I heard the telltale “shrip” of the diaper straps being loosened. I whisked him away to the changing table, careful to avoid letting anything contact his contaminated behind.

Eight minutes before naptime, I discovered that Ian must have removed his poopy diaper right after Tory. I ran over to grab him before he could contaminate something, and he plopped down on his bottom to avoid my grasp. The floor and his shirt were now poopy. I whisked him to the changing table, cleaned him, changed his clothes, and wiped the hardwood floor clean.

One minute before naptime, I discovered that Abbie must have removed her poopy pull-up right after Ian. While I was busy with the boys, she apparently tired of waiting and locked herself in her room to roll on the bed. Poop was smeared on her sheets, her bed frame, and her carpet. Poop was also smeared on her legs, her arms, and in her hair just for good measure.

One minute after naptime, I threw everyone in the bathtub. Ideally I would’ve just bathed Abbie, but when the kids sense that one of their siblings is in the bathtub, the other two will throw a tantrum at the door until I let them in the tub. It takes less time to unnecessarily bathe the other two children than it does to calm them down from a pre-nap tantrum.

Fifteen minutes after naptime, I re-entered the bathroom. Everyone had been sufficiently soaped, and I left them to play in the bathtub while I gathered towels and clothes. As I stepped through the door I discovered the boys were playing in the bathtub by throwing water on the floor.

Thirty minutes after naptime, I shut the boys in their room. They were clean and dressed, and the bathroom floor was mostly dry. They were screaming, possibly because I just skipped the entire naptime routine. I’m pretty sure the fact that they were a half-hour late for their nap contributed to their crankiness too. I turned my attention to Abbie and set her down on a clean bed with clean sheets while walking across a clean carpet.

Forty-five minutes after naptime, I laid down for my nap. I needed it.

Puddle Jumper

It’s been a long, hard winter in Iowa. Frequent snows left plowed snow piled high beside streets, and children trapped inside my house with nothing to do but find new things to dump on the floor. Today Des Moines broke 50 degrees for the second time since maybe November, though. To celebrate, I took the kids outside.

We were going outside anyway since today is Abbie’s speech therapy day. The celebration came in the form of a longer trip across the parking lot. We exited the building from the far door so the kids could walk across the entire parking lot and enjoy the fresh air. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s nicer than watching the snow fall outside our window every other day.

The warm temperatures finally put a dent in the snowdrifts along the parking lot. The snow transformed into water, and that water accumulated in the numerous parking lot potholes that appear every winter as reliably as the snow.

I’m still fairly new to this parenting thing, and I underestimated the pothole puddles’ allure to small children. As we trekked across the parking lot, the kids kept finding new puddles and streams to stomp though. Ideally, I would grab my distracted child’s hand and drag him/her away from the puddle before socks got soaked, but with three children and two available hands I was at their mercy to continue walking. I held the boys’ hands and let Abbie walk alongside since she’s older and better able to follow vocal directions. Theoretically.

While I drug the boys beside me, Abbie dawdled through puddle after puddle. I only needed to mutter a single “Abbie” to remind her to keep moving through the first few puddles, but I quickly had to grow more threatening to vocally prod her. I had to growl “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abigail.” After I resorted to shouting “Abigail” repeatedly, a passerby reminded me to use the middle name too so she’d know she’s really in trouble.

As we neared the car, Abbie found the biggest temptation while realizing the impotence of my voice. The boys and I stopped at the car, and Abbie stopped at the edge of a pothole puddle at least two-feet in diameter. I saw the hamster spinning its wheel in her head, and immediately went for “Abigail Leigh.” When I saw that had no effect, I added “don’t you dare.”

That didn’t work either. Abbie walked across the puddle, and seemed surprised when it came halfway up to her shins. I told the boys not to move and ran out to whisk her to the car.

I locked Abbie in her seat while the boys refreshingly listened to me and stood next to the car. I admonished her naughtiness, not just for ignoring me and walking through a puddle, but for wandering in a parking lot, which I frequently remind her is a big no-no. Then I locked the boys in their seats and drove home. Abbie screamed the entire trip, possibly from the scolding I gave her, but more likely from the cold runoff soaking her shoes, socks, and pant bottoms.

Tournament Time

I’m a bit of a college basketball junkie. I most closely follow my alma mater, Drake. Drake usually stinks, though, so come tournament time I have to follow other random teams if I want to keep following the game.

Not this year. If you follow the game, you may have noticed that Drake is playing well. As of this weekend, they were ranked in the top 25 and on the verge of their first NCAA tournament appearance in over 35 years.

As I watched Drake win their conference tournament semifinal game on Saturday, I said to myself, “it would be fun to watch them in the conference final tomorrow.” Shortly after that, I wondered, “why not make the trip? It’s only a six-hour drive each way with the three kids in the backseat. The time will fly by.”

So we loaded the kids in the car and drove from Des Moines to St. Louis on a whim. We stayed that night in a hotel, ate a lot of chicken nuggets on the way, and took a lot of pictures at the game to help me remember the experience because I certainly wasn’t paying attention to anything happening on the court.

Keeping the kids corralled at the game was challenging. I mostly kept the boys entertained by keeping food in front of them. They snacked on chicken strips and fries, and dumped honey mustard on the seat in front of us when the fried foods ran out. Abbie was even more of a challenge since the large crowd frightened her. Mommy bought a mini inflatable basketball for her to toss, which worked great until she decided to toss it several rows in front of us. When the very nice and slightly annoyed people handed it back, mommy and Abbie left in search of less crowded seating. I stayed in my seat, pinned down with a boy on each knee, and moved with her at halftime.



Here’s Abbie before the game looking deceptively cute in her cheerleading outfit. That’s the one and only time that outfit will be worn. Tory is behind her in a grey sweatsuit sitting on mommy’s knee.



Here’s Abbie and Ian watching Drake warm up. This is proof that I actually drug them to the game.



Here we are in the car on the way out of town. The Arch is proof that we were in St. Louis, and the burgandy Suburban’s Kansas license plate reading “SHOXFAN” is proof that it was conference tournament time. The kids melted into screaming puddles shortly after halftime, and we finally gave up and left with about eight minutes left in the game. Drake was comfortably ahead at the time, and won 79-49 to capture the tournament championship and guarantee a trip to the NCAA tournament. We drove straight home that night, returning just in time for the kids to scream themselves to sleep after an exhausting day. I plan on traveling to Drake’s NCAA tournament game(s), but this time without the kids.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I love this time of year when college basketball tournament games start popping up on weekday afternoons. Now I just need to find a way to distract the kids for the afternoon while I watch games. We have a television set up in the playroom for them to watch DVDs. It’s on the floor, though, so the kids tend to turn the television off, pull the discs out of the player and chuck them around the room, or just unplug the system when someone senses their siblings are enjoying the program a bit too much.

I'm Not Sure I Approve of This Preschool Curriculum

Abbie's latest chant is, "Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me." Where does she pick this stuff up? I can understand her learning the occasional swear word, but that childhood chant has never before been uttered in this house.

Now We Just Have to Find a Way to Pay for It...

A mere five-and-a-half weeks after our furnace started giving us trouble, we're finally getting it replaced tomorrow. 60-degree days should start appearing any day now.

Hair

I always appreciate Abbie’s notes home from preschool. Sometimes they alert me to new behavior, such as the one about Abbie loving to play hide and seek. Sometimes they remind me about behaviors, such as the few notes we get every month about her hitting a teacher. Today’s note home from preschool said Abbie is “having problems keeping hair out of mouth.” This was a reminder note.

Abbie started chewing on her hair about a week ago. She had a cold at the time, and I assumed her hair chewing was related. Maybe it was a tic to take her mind off the sinus pressure, or maybe she was trying to even distribute snot across a wider area of her head. Whatever the reason, it was disgusting and I discouraged it.

At first I reminded her not to do it. Reminding her not to do bad behaviors didn’t stop her from climbing on the counters, it didn’t stop her from throwing food, and it didn’t stop her from chewing on her hair.

My next step was to threaten to cut her hair if she chewed on it. That affected her for a couple days; she wasn’t quite sure what a haircut involved, but it sounded bad. Then I made one of the more common parenting mistakes: I followed through on my threat.

One night after repeatedly threatening to cut her hair if she kept chewing on it, I grabbed a pair of scissors, and lopped off the wet lock. I had hoped to frighten her, but instead I taught her that a haircut is at least interesting if nothing else.

Now I simply tell her to take her hair out of her mouth, and Abbie adds “or we’ll cut it off.” It might be a game, and it’s certainly not curbing the behavior.

Tonight she even asked for a haircut. I obliged and took advantage of her rare cooperative streak. I trimmed her bangs above her eyebrows, and I snipped several strands around the cheeks that keep finding their way into her mouth. She still has plenty of long hair on her back to munch, and the side hair will quickly grow back, but at least she has fewer targets now.

Maybe tomorrow’s note from preschool will comment on the unique haircut I gave her.

Bathroom Dilemmas

One of the most stressful things I do all day is walk into the bathroom. While Abbie hides in her room if I even think “potty,” the boys rush the bathroom door the instant I open it.

If I force them out of the room, I have to deal with them screaming until I open the door.

If I let them in the bathroom, they immediately remove their pants and begin playing. They might sit on a potty, throw things in a potty, or just dig in the shelves. Whatever they do, they do it without a diaper, and whether or not they’re sitting on a potty has no bearing on when they evacuate their holding tanks.

This morning I snuck in the bathroom to use the facilities, and to brush my teeth. This would take a few minutes, and luckily the boys were obliviously playing in the living room when I closed the bathroom door. I didn’t have to endure the boys screaming at me from the other side of the door, which was good, but I should’ve realized that silence is never a good thing when caring for children. When I emerged from the bathroom, Ian had climbed onto the kitchen counter, reached onto the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet, and dumped a previously unopened bag of soup crackers onto the kitchen floor plus a few grains of rice from a previously unopened bag just for good measure. Not to be outdone, Tory had found a bottle of children’s vitamins on a different kitchen counter, somehow defeated the child-resistant cap, and was munching away on several times his recommended daily allowance of iron. Both were equally angered when I stole his morning snack, although the soup cracker mess spread across the floor made it impossible for me to quickly deny the boys all of their ill-gotten goods.

This afternoon I let the boys into the bathroom with me. They immediately stripped and pooped on and near the potty. I drug Abbie into the bathroom too because adding a third uncooperative potty trainer only adds slightly more stress. After I was convinced that everyone had fully emptied their holding tanks, I corralled everyone, cleaned everyone before they could leak, and cleaned everything before someone touched something. With the bathroom and my children sparkling, I herded everyone out of the bathroom and quickly shut the door before someone rushed back in. In my haste, I failed to notice Abbie’s fingers resting in the doorframe as the door closed.

It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last time I shut Abbie’s fingers in a door. She screamed. I examined them and assured her she was fine. After several minutes of comfort from me and screaming from her, I re-examined and reassured her. She was bleeding a little under the fingernail, a fact she pointed out by exclaiming, “It’s red!”

Eventually she calmed down and everyone realized that nothing was broken. Thanks to a little ibuprofen, everyone drifted off to nap. I fell asleep too after a stressful day.

The Annual Refrigerator Lock

Today we answered the age old question, “Which will break first? The refrigerator lock? Or the children’s desire to open the refrigerator?” Turns out, it’s the refrigerator lock.

Our old refrigerator lock had served us well for about a year, but too many tugs, pulls, and slams killed it. The plastic lock cracked, limiting its effectiveness. It would still work if positioned perfectly, but I wouldn’t trust it to guard a freshly opened gallon of orange juice.

I considered leaving the lock off the refrigerator. The boys are 2-years-old now and nearing their half-birthday. That’s old enough to know and follow rules like “don’t open the refrigerator.” If I simply establish rules and enforce punishment every time those rules are broken, they’ll learn to follow the rules.

After I had visions of the kids making a berries and cream dessert on the kitchen floor with contents from the produce drawer and milk shelf, I decided to kick the can down the road a bit farther. Everyone will be better prepared to follow rules in another year. I’ve successfully kicked potty training down the road for years using that philosophy.

I took the kids to the nearest big box store this morning to select a replacement. I had hoped to buy a copy of our old lock so I could just replace the old locking mechanism. That way when the kids find a way to break the lock base too, I’ll have a replacement ready in the drawer. Alas, refrigerator lock technology improves at a dizzying pace, and the big box store carried a completely different model a year later. Perhaps research found that new side release buttons are more aerodynamic than the old top release button.

Once home I opened the lock package, read the installation instructions, and realized I had to wait. While lock technology has improved, adhesive technology has not; the adhesive needed 24 hours to cure on the appliance before using, which meant I had to let it sit overnight before letting the kids yank on the door.

I watched the unsecured refrigerator carefully all day. The kids usually did well to stay away from it. They’re learning the rule about opening the refrigerator door, but it’s still nice to have the lock on there as extra insurance. I have to leave the refrigerator unattended for extended periods, such as when I need to clean the bathroom after another attempt at potty training. It’s good to know that when I walk back into the kitchen I never have to worry about finding bite marks in every apple in the produce drawer.