Sassafrass

Dirty words. Yes, about Michael Jackson.

The night Michael Jackson died, Lil E was introduced to him. As the news was breaking on CNN, I was camped out on the couch with my son and my laptop, furiously trying to get up a post on his death. Lil E is quite used to the spontaneous ways I sometimes am called to work, and he invested himself in the story as much as I did. He watched, listened, peered over my shoulder at the images I was choosing.

And he asked questions. Lots and lots of questions. I tried to answer them all, but we all know there are many, many mysterious surrounding Michael Jackson that are probably left un-probed, particularly for a wide-eyed preschooler. I have this honesty policy with my child and so I answered as much and as best as I could for his age and for the time I had in between cutting and pasting links.

Once the conversation about him began, Michael Jackson seemed to move right into our home and daily life. Just the other day, weeks and weeks since the singer was memorialized but strikingly close to the day when he was finally (finally!) laid to rest, Lil E emerged from the bathroom with his hands up in the air surgical style.

I looked at him quizzically.

"I went potty but I cannot wash my hands" he explained in voice that would lead one to believe he had a very rational reason for letting those germs settle into his palms.

I couldn't ask.

"There is some kind of brownish-peachish powder on the sink." This time, his rationale was laced with the furrowed eyebrows of concern.

Still quiet, I went into the bathroom and investigated.

"It's make-up," I said, wiping it up with a sponge as I explained. "I must have spilled some powder on the counter. Big deal."

"I didn't want to touch it!" His response was too quick, perhaps slightly dramatized. But then his words eased back to that calm, cool, a-duh tone as he stared at me, rolled his eyes and left the room. "I don't want to end up looking like Michael Jackson!"

My make-up wasn't exactly jumping up to smother his little face and from what I could tell, his button nose was still attached to his dimpled cheeks. Still, he had a point.

Not so fast with the celebrations and hoopla

It's not that I am any less proud of my boy, now Pull Up-free for many nights. It's just that he hasn't exactly stayed dry all night since he was liberated from the velcro-tabbed pee prison.

OK, that's not really fair. He has had a few dry nights. But none in a row and when they come, it is with the rarity of a pair of flats in my shoe-cluttered closet (they're there, honey, but you're going to have to hunt to find them...both).

And still, every morning, he wakes up with a report: Just a leeetle bit wet, Mommy or Ohhh, Mommy, there's wetness everywhere.

Soaked sheets or just a hint of wetness, it matters not. We strip down the bed, pull off the pajamas, slide comfy pants over his skinny little legs and move into our morning. On the days, he is dry, there is a freedom in his walk to the living room, carrying babies and the paci and a sippy cup of fresh water with him.

We are going through a lot, and some of that has swelled up for this boy in these past few weeks. I don't care that he's having trouble holding it. I am more concerned that he understands the bigger things -- the emotions -- are what don't need to be held in.

And yet, there he is on those mornings, shivery in those soaked jammies, and I want for him. I so so so want for him to be warm and dry and comfortable in the safe haven of his bed, where he can sleep and dream and rest his worried little 3-year old self.

Still, he is only 3-years old and he cannot always, or even often, control the comfort he wants to feel. I am in this, choosing not to acknowledge the heaps of laundry in the hallway and my worry that I will not find the way to point him toward this milestone of night time dryness. I am in it to strip down the wet and cold and make it warm and cozy once again.

I can't make our lives completely pressed and tucked in and perfect right now. I am not even sure how smoothly I am getting us through these other transitions. But I can make that bed in the corner of my boy's room. Sheets and blankets and waterproof pads, babies and a paci lots of soft pillows and stack of clean pajamas. I can make that a place to come back to and try again. That, I can do so he can settle in, safe and still hoping and dry. For now.
 

And this is how Pull Up-Gate finally came to a close

Night Nine became Nights Ten and Eleven. Then finally, by the grace of the bladder gods, there was one final morning with a very dry Pull Up.

We laughed, we high-fived, we did a happy dance. Lil E even did the move he calls "shaking his tail feathers." Then, as if the years and experiences flashed forward -- past those anxious steps up the school bus on the first day of kindergarten, past the grunting middle school years, past the drivers license acts of faith and fear, past the prom and rebellious switch to majoring in pottery or something Republicany, all hurdling into the days when bumping booties with mommy in the bathroom is soooo uncalled for -- and he sucked in his breath, pulled back his shoulders and nodded his head.

I saw him nod and it stopped me, probably mid-air, and all I could do was nod back, toss the last worn but un-wet Pull Up into the trash and go on about our business. 

Sure, we celebrated. We had our moment, and later at my proud prompting, we had others with my parents and with his dad and the daycare lady. But the big moment was unspoken. My boy crawled out of bed and stepped over the line into night time dryness. He was thrilled with himself and I knew it. Even if he could only dance for a brief moment, I could still squeal and shake and cheer for us both.

And that, that and the last little dry diaper tossed in the trash, was enough to make my eyes well up. Silently, tail-shakingly teary for my boy, quiet and content and commando.

Pulling off the Pull-Ups. For good (fingers crossed).

Potty training Lil E -- or my grandiose attempts to turn it into a fabulous and enticing party -- taught me a valuable and frustrating lesson: Let the kid go in his own time.

That means go and go. By some miracle of evolution or genetics, he did not inherit the peanut bladder both his parents have (which, by the way, made every road trip we ever took sort of like we were a traveling band of pregnant ladies). The kid is a camel and can (and will, thank you very much) hold it all day. He has had very few accidents but mostly because his iron will oversees his southern regions and he refuses to go at daycare, co-op and sometimes even Grandma and Grandpa's house unless I am there with him. Handy in Target? Yes. Fun to explain to a daycamp counselor? Not so much.

The only time Lil E is challenged in cameling is at night. He's a thirsty boy and I thought I was being savvy in ending the late night wakings and calls for a drink into the dark by leaving a sippy cup full of water in his crib, then toddler bed and now, big boy bed. It's worked like a charm. So far. So far is important because tonight is Night Nine.

(Keep reading to find out why Night Nine's such a bedtime biggie).
 

Scratch that...You can call him Lil P now

Ever since Lil E has leaped into potty-pendence, he's carried himself, at least in the path toward the powder room, with a confidence and pride and excitement that I find delightful and amusing. Is it wrong to be so gooby about your boy going Number One upright?

OK, maybe. Is this, as my mom would say with her talk-to-the-hand up, "T.M.I!"? Sure. But I think we can all agree that it is entertaining. So I will just keep going until, one day when he Googles himself as a break from writing out (hahahaha, writing out...who knew I was so old school already?) college apps, the first thousand hits on his nickname will be categorized under the urinary tract.  Not to worry, I already have a therapy trust earning a hefty interest rate as I type. Back to the bathroom...

You can tell everybody this is your song

You know how smarty pants kids and obnoxious adults like to read fortune cookie fortunes with the oh-so clever addendum "in bed?" In the last week, Lil E has come up with his own addendum, randomly placed on the ends of sentences about lunch, the park, Dragon Tales, his friends, anything he considers of substance or simply needing a bit of boy-flavored spice. His versions of "in bed," however, are all about monsters and poop (which are arguably one and the same if you are a Freudian or a parent somewhere in the potty training timeline). They go something like this:

"I saw Sammy at the park and we played on the slide and ran in the field...and then a monster came and scared us away."

and alternately

"I saw Sammy at the park and we played on the slide and ran in the field...and then I pooped on his head."

Lovely.

The incessant potty talk both amazes and exhausts me. Who knew there were so many ways and so many opportunities to bring waste into the equation? I sometimes delude myself into believing this is just another exercise of his creativity and advanced verbal skills. But who am I kidding? He's almost three and this is what wee people do (wee people! ha! see it's catching).

Perhaps even more startling is how the potty talk has invaded his love of golf ("Does Tiger poop? Does Tiger poop on the green? What if there's poop in the hole?"), music and dancing ("Let's do a poop dance!" What kind of music does my penis make? Can I drum on my penis, mommy?"), and yes, even American Idol ("In the new American Idol, will Gina sing? Does Gina poop on the stage? When I'm a musician and I play all the instruments on stage, I will poop on your head!"). For the love of reality television, child, stop!

Alas, it is hard for Lil E to separate his obsession from his art, which led us to our living room one afternoon last week, the keyboard turned up to 11 and the boy singing in full voice into the microphone. Soulfully, seriously, lyrically, this his song:

The digger is digging in the dirt.
The digger is digging on the sidewalk.
Somebody pooped on the digger!
I think it was the construuuuuuction workerrrrr.


There's nothing more to say, really. Just the moan of the electric guitar, the slowing beat of the bongo, the notes of the piano outro and a final flush and fade to black.

Oh. mah. gaw. Please pass the Zima.

I'm kidding.

Make it a Bombay Sapphire martini, extra olives, extra dirty. But whatever, a big glass of water and an ibuprofen will do fine. Or even one small square of the couch to myself.

It was one of those high-maintenance toddler days. And that's being diplomatic. Nothing horribly wrong happened. Everyone has all their digits and limbs, no one went to bed crying or hungry. Nothing is broken or torn or written upon (with the exception of the ballpoint pen on the couch Lil E was "accidentally seeing what it would look like, Mommy...sorry, but it was an accident, Mommy. I love you." that is still untouched from last week. I know, I know...hairspray).

Nonetheless, it was a tough one. There was a hacky cough and icky red gooeyness all over the face, arms, forehead and upper lip that I thought for a brief moment was a marker or lipstick before I realized it was Lil E's first nosebleed. There was physically holding the child to the potty until he peed and later, physically making him abandon his comfy spot on the potty (and magazine and toy cars) after 35 minutes and leave. the. bathroom. now.

There was a false alarm potty stop at McDonald's downtown when I was already rushing to a focus group (oh thank ye, Goddess of Market Study Cash in My Hands, you heal most parenting wounds for the small price of listening to some random dude's life story when all we're supposed to be talking about is fucking cell phones). There was a lot "NO!" and a lot more threats about doling out the time outs. And, no shock, there was a lot of TV.

Let me be clear, there was a lot of PBS. Lots of the educational zone-out shows that let me breathe out the frustration and crawl toward the coffee pot. Inside the PBS bubble, though, that nice-looking lady and the hamster (or guinea pig? what is that rodent?) didn't tell Mommy about the Lindsay Lohan rehabonanza (damn!).

I was so tired by the end of the day that when Bruce whooshed in from work just at the time when high-maintenance turns to cuddles and smooches and 24 pounds of ooey, sweet-smelling goodness on my lap, I handed the boy over and said, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." And then I kissed them all a bunch of times and ran to the couch.

So, my friends, I curtsy and promise to tell you more about our county fair experience (on pins and needles, are you?) tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Oh Sweet Mother of Mary in a Sippy Cup, this starts over tomorrow?

Sword-wielding poop samurai

So Lil E and I were sitting in the bathroom over the weekend, he half-nakey on his little potty and me teetering on the little stool next to the sink.

This is where we have long conversations, sing songs and ask each other Charlie Rose-like questions about the world these days.

"Mommy," he said seriously, "let's talk about poop."

Grrrreat. More of this, I thought.

I said nothing and he launched in.

"Isn't poop amazing?!"

For a moment, I became a ninja mommy, recalling the stealth conversational-avoidance skills from my days in nonprofit fundraising when I had a boss who could instantly appall me with the flick of a rude, inappropriate or mean-spirited comment right in the middle of a staff meeting. I used a move that was carefully developed and well-used: I just sat there, looking back at him, expressionless.

But like the boss, that didn't stop Lil E. If he'd been holding a sword (oh God), he would have raised it.

"Well, yes! Poop is amazing. And pee is beautiful."

I sat quiet, still, silent. Lil E stared me down with his lips slightly turned up and his eyes full of anticipation. And then, I really did get ninja: I burst into laughter. Loud, obnoxious, trying-too-hard, sarcastic laughter.

And the glory of it all was that it was just enough to throw off that little potty-saboteur. He laughed along with me, then got quiet again, looking down and concentrating on the real business.

I felt a little smug, I admit, halting that conversation before it went any further down the...ummm, tube. That and that the fact he's actually using the potty and not holding it six to eight hours at a time, is making me feel pretty victorious. And winning the battles is what parenting is all about, right?

Right? Well, no matter what, I was stealth as hell. And that counts for lot.

Wee bit of progress

To all you parents who told me to ride out the two-week period of potty hell with stickers and sweet treats in hand and to whom, in response I teared up, laughed nervously or said,"Oh hell naw" just to think about enduring fourteen freaking days of carrying a limp child to the bathroom, rubbing his back, pretending I didn't care but really caring a lot, calling my mother, drinking heavily once the evil PullUps were safely on (or at least thinking about it...seriously), questioning my judgment and sanity as a mother and a person who can teach smaller people basic life skills to succeed in the world and in social situations where not everyone is holding it or has a little puddle in their pants: I thank you. You were right.

Something clicked. God only knows what it was, but it did indeed click. I am pretty sure it wasn't me and my pleading, reasoning or silly songs about pee. It could have been Bruce's patience of a lion that kept him locked in the bathroom with the boy and a golf magazine. Whatever it was, thank you, Mother of All Toddler Triumphs.

It started out with one teensy little tinkle and a handful of M&Ms, cheers and even a potty dance. From there, things got bigger and better and happier and more confident. Yesterday, Lil E went potty about 8 or 10 times, having only one little accident. And get this, he told us several times he had to go. You can't even imagine what a good day it was for us.

This morning, I asked him if it felt good to wake up knowing he is so good at the potty. And he just nodded this exaggerated nod, eyebrows up, big brown eyes wide and lips pursed together in a little proud kiss.

He got it and he knew he got it. And I, mama with the M&Ms smeared on my chin from kissing him so much, was so proud of my little pottier. So (ahem) relieved just to see the depression and anger and general pissed-offedness simmer away  and see my  crazy little monkey  return, kicking his heels and shaking his  tiny  white booty and pumping his fists into the air.

"Mommy!  I'm so excited to do the potty dance!" and then he sang one of our silly songs back to me, giggling, "Pee pee in the potty! This is how I wee wee! Aren't you proud of me? "

I know it's not over but I am so glad we are sitting right where we are.

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Yep, again.

Because it's the Wednesday after a big deadline that kept me up until 1:30 a.m., followed by some deadline decompressing while devouring Operating Instructions (oh how I adore the and clever Anne Lamott) until well after 2 in the morning. Because I think I will spend my forties imprisoned on a treadmill or impoverished from expensive cosmetic surgery to undo all the ass-flabulation happening while I spend my thirties in front of the computer. Because I seriously need a shower. And I'm lazy.

Dig in:
Sarah thinks I rock. Flash backward to the first boy-girl party in seventh grade Deborah Ballis invited me to. My aunt bought me a new pair of parachute pants and lent me her rhinestone bracelet for the occasion. This feels that good.

Kimberly thinks this might help inspire Lil E to pee in the potty. I think it might inspire my husband to giggle while he considers doing things I have no interest in discussing further. It gave me a good laugh in the midst of much frustration, so I'm throwing caution to the wind and ordering three. Maybe as shower gifts. Nothing says Congratulations and welcome to the world of parenting! like a place to put your boy business, or at least pretend to.

Shaq thinks the chil'rens need help getting healthy. Did you watch? I admit it -- I cheered, I shooshed, I cried, I posted about it here.  

Yes yes yes, I'm going. But like I said, I'm lazy. I swear I'm registering tomorrow. And then I'm getting even snappier business cards than the ones I have now. And then I'm going shoe-shopping. Maybe not in that order.

Potty update: Well, at least I'm peeing like its my job

We've passed the eight-year...I mean, one-week mark for potty training. And for all you sweet mama supporters who were sure something would click by now for Lil E, please keep the finger-crossing, faith and comments about how much potty training sucked for you too coming. I need them.

Lil E's still putting all those fine motor skills to work, mostly holding it until nap time or night time when we put on the evil Pull-Ups. Or as he excitedly referred to them yesterday: Oh! My pee undies!

So yeah, he gets it. He really gets it. And let's hope my mom is right that the iron will he's displaying will serve him well later in life. And let's hope that a brand new batch of construction stickers that he can stick on his scorned little plastic potty will work some magic (enticing, right?).