Earlier this evening I was sitting on my couch scouring Facebook while a cheesy chick flick played partially unnoticed in the background. A friend of mine posted a link. I clicked on said link and watched a short video about a woman from New Orleans who, with a simple gesture, created something so incredibly powerful.
By taking the side of an abandoned building in her neighbourhood and turning it into an oversized chalkboard, she, with a simple unfinished sentence, allowed the hopes and dreams of hundreds (and now millions) of people, find a safe place to land. "Before I die I want to..."
Insert answer here.
Silly, intriguing, superficial, inspiring...whatever the answer, those letters etched in chalk on the wall of that abandoned building are someone's hopes and dreams for what they want their lives to be.
What would your answer be? How would you complete that sentence if you could answer it with complete anonymity? Go ahead...think about it...I'll wait...ok that's long enough. I've got 3 kids, a load in the dryer and I've got to hit the loo before bed.
Now that you have committed to your answer inside your mind, stop being a chicken shit and commit to it on the outside. Pick up the chalk.
http://www.ted.com/talks/candy_chang_before_i_die_i_want_to.html?source=facebook#.UE1O_jIUC3N.facebook
Monday, September 10, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Remember That Mommy Guilt Thing?
Remember that post I did oh so long ago talking about Mommy Guilt? Man, I don't think I truly knew what I meant back then.
Mommy guilt tripled is exhausting...and never ending. Today alone, I heard Madison asking if anyone wanted to play with her. Of course I did, but was it possible right then? No. She asked again. Same answer. She played by herself for a while, then played with her brother while Daddy and I tried in vain to prepare for our huge road trip that has been in the works for almost 2 years and has somehow snuck up on us.
Two hours later, I hear that goregous little girl of mine ask once again in a sad voice..."Doesn't anyone want to play with me?". There goes what's left of my heart. So, setting aside a (finally) smaller mountain of laundry and strapping Ewan into his highchair for a meal of zuccini seasoned with cinnamon, we had at it. Disney princess figures were transformed into the many different characters of my incredibly creative daughter's newest obesession, Harry Potter. Accents and all.
I always say that the laundry will still be there when the kids are sleeping, when the kids are at school, when they are cramping their little fingers playing Scooby Doo Wii. Fur on the floor isn't going to kill anyone and the toilet will still flush if it hasn't been scrubbed since the last time we had company.
Yes, I say all of that, but living it is a very different beast. I hate constantly having to ask my kids to hang on a second, or tell them I can't sit on the floor and re-enact every scene from Scooby Doo, Harry Potter or Cat in the Hat right now. I have to clean the kitchen (which truly is my nemesis most days), sweep the floor, or chase down their now mobile little brother before he decides to give himself a pet water facial.
I love every second that I get to spend with my 3 amazing children. Even the ones where I want to squish their little heads together. But (and there's always a but isn't there?), each one of them can make me feel like the worst Mom at times. Madison has so many wonderful ideas, so many scenes running through that amazing little head that she needs to get out. And I just don't always have the time or the energy to really let her share them. Not where she is my only focus like she deserves to be.
Brayden, he is just a little cuddle bug when he's in the mood. All he really wants is a quick game of Sponge Bob Memory Match (which he is a master of by the way), some chocolate milk and some face time - the actual face to face version, not the Apple kind.
And Ewan, he just wants Mommy...all day, every day. I can't even go pee without someone crying...sometimes that someone is me.
Nobody gets my full attention, Andrew included. The house is never truly clean. The cat, well he's just a bugger who secretly cuddles with me once everyone else has gone to bed, and the dog (you know, the one with the bullet in her back) looks longingly at all of the other dogs trotting by the house with their leashes in their humans' hands.
If I could split myself in 2 to get things done, I would. Then again, one half of me would always miss out on something that way, so not really an improvement on the current situation.
And now of course, I'm ignoring even myself. It's almost 2:30 in the morning and I have yet to go to bed, knowing full well that my 9 month old will be up with the roosters, full of broken toothed smiles and drool skin treatments that really should be bottled and sold.
Mommy guilt tripled is exhausting...and never ending. Today alone, I heard Madison asking if anyone wanted to play with her. Of course I did, but was it possible right then? No. She asked again. Same answer. She played by herself for a while, then played with her brother while Daddy and I tried in vain to prepare for our huge road trip that has been in the works for almost 2 years and has somehow snuck up on us.
Two hours later, I hear that goregous little girl of mine ask once again in a sad voice..."Doesn't anyone want to play with me?". There goes what's left of my heart. So, setting aside a (finally) smaller mountain of laundry and strapping Ewan into his highchair for a meal of zuccini seasoned with cinnamon, we had at it. Disney princess figures were transformed into the many different characters of my incredibly creative daughter's newest obesession, Harry Potter. Accents and all.
I always say that the laundry will still be there when the kids are sleeping, when the kids are at school, when they are cramping their little fingers playing Scooby Doo Wii. Fur on the floor isn't going to kill anyone and the toilet will still flush if it hasn't been scrubbed since the last time we had company.
Yes, I say all of that, but living it is a very different beast. I hate constantly having to ask my kids to hang on a second, or tell them I can't sit on the floor and re-enact every scene from Scooby Doo, Harry Potter or Cat in the Hat right now. I have to clean the kitchen (which truly is my nemesis most days), sweep the floor, or chase down their now mobile little brother before he decides to give himself a pet water facial.
I love every second that I get to spend with my 3 amazing children. Even the ones where I want to squish their little heads together. But (and there's always a but isn't there?), each one of them can make me feel like the worst Mom at times. Madison has so many wonderful ideas, so many scenes running through that amazing little head that she needs to get out. And I just don't always have the time or the energy to really let her share them. Not where she is my only focus like she deserves to be.
Brayden, he is just a little cuddle bug when he's in the mood. All he really wants is a quick game of Sponge Bob Memory Match (which he is a master of by the way), some chocolate milk and some face time - the actual face to face version, not the Apple kind.
And Ewan, he just wants Mommy...all day, every day. I can't even go pee without someone crying...sometimes that someone is me.
Nobody gets my full attention, Andrew included. The house is never truly clean. The cat, well he's just a bugger who secretly cuddles with me once everyone else has gone to bed, and the dog (you know, the one with the bullet in her back) looks longingly at all of the other dogs trotting by the house with their leashes in their humans' hands.
If I could split myself in 2 to get things done, I would. Then again, one half of me would always miss out on something that way, so not really an improvement on the current situation.
And now of course, I'm ignoring even myself. It's almost 2:30 in the morning and I have yet to go to bed, knowing full well that my 9 month old will be up with the roosters, full of broken toothed smiles and drool skin treatments that really should be bottled and sold.
Friday, August 3, 2012
So, what have you been up to?
Ok, so it's been a long while. A really long while. It's almost like when you reconnect with an old highschool friend and say "So, what have you been up to for the last 15 years?". Obviously much has happened, but really, how do you explain it all?
There have been many times when I have wanted to write and share what it's like to be a mother of 3. But really, my beloved MacBook went tets up (good Lord is that a whole other post and a half) and I can't make it through the next chapter of Harry Potter with Madison each night, let alone have energy left to post any of the few fleeting thoughts I have running through my brain.
Suffice it to say, there has been a lot going on. Ewan is now 9 months old, Madison has completed kindergarten and looking forward to being a grade "one-r" in the Fall and Brayden has one game left in his inaugural season of soccer. My dad suffered and survived a heart attack, I fractured my orbital bone and discovered that at some point in her 10 years, my beloved pooch was SHOT and the bullet remains lodged near, but not effecting, her spine.
This past year has been trying, amazing, exhausting, inspiring and many other "ings" I'm just too tired to think of at the moment.
Now that I have a stand-in computer (so not my Macky, but functioning so I will be content...for now), I will be posting more regularly. Hold back your shouts of glee, I need a nap.
There have been many times when I have wanted to write and share what it's like to be a mother of 3. But really, my beloved MacBook went tets up (good Lord is that a whole other post and a half) and I can't make it through the next chapter of Harry Potter with Madison each night, let alone have energy left to post any of the few fleeting thoughts I have running through my brain.
Suffice it to say, there has been a lot going on. Ewan is now 9 months old, Madison has completed kindergarten and looking forward to being a grade "one-r" in the Fall and Brayden has one game left in his inaugural season of soccer. My dad suffered and survived a heart attack, I fractured my orbital bone and discovered that at some point in her 10 years, my beloved pooch was SHOT and the bullet remains lodged near, but not effecting, her spine.
This past year has been trying, amazing, exhausting, inspiring and many other "ings" I'm just too tired to think of at the moment.
Now that I have a stand-in computer (so not my Macky, but functioning so I will be content...for now), I will be posting more regularly. Hold back your shouts of glee, I need a nap.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Let's Try This Again
Ok, I'll admit it...when I sat down to write my last blog entry, I fell asleep. Hence the short post with a somewhat abrupt ending. I could have gone back to it once I woke from my restless slumber on the now 8 year old Ikea couch, but I decided that I should try to sneak upstairs, get in my flannels and try to get some real sleep (you know, all 23 minutes of it) before our newest addition decided he needed me....NOW MOTHER!
So let's try this again. The last weeks of my pregnancy went quickly and fairly smoothly. I finished work a few days before Madison's 5th birthday (which was celebrated with her, surrounded by a gaggle of girls and a couple of boys from school, doing gymnastics to their little hearts' content). I was SUPPOSED to have 2 weeks at home with my kids to enjoy some time with them before Wayne made his debut. True to family offspring fashion, little Wayne decided he needed to one up his sister and brother and make an early appearance.
My wish was that I made it past Madison's birthday so that she could have her birthday all to herself. Granted. Just barely. Baby brother (aka Ewan) was born in the wee hours of October 29th. Here's his story...
Thursday I had yet another check up with the doctor, who promptly informed me that he could have sworn I would have been at the hospital and home with my boy days earlier...wrong! That was at 38 weeks. He had informed me early in the pregnancy that I was not going to be "allowed" to get to 40 weeks due to my history of rapid fire deliveries. So, in order to avoid a repeat performance of my husband having to deliver my son and save us the expense of a new mattress (again), Dr. H. told me to head to the L&D ward on Saturday morning. He wasn't going to book me for an induction as there was a good chance I would get bumped down the list as I AM a machine after all. Basically, he told me to just head in there and tell them I was having contractions, tell them my previous delivery story and there was no chance they would let me go home after that. Sneaky, but truthful.
In the end, all of that was irrelevant as I had my 1st contraction just after 11pm Friday night. I sort of ignored it, but kept it in mind as I went up to take a nice long bath before heading to bed...except I never got there. At 1am I woke Andrew up and told him to call his parents. We needed to head to the hospital. "WHA?? Are you serious?". I can understand his confusion as he'd only just gone to bed about an hour earlier thinking everything was fine and we'd head to the hospital at our leisure in the morning. Kids always have a way of messing with your well laid plans.
So, we called his folks who live 25 minutes away at about 1:20. Our neighbour had said they would brave the long walk across the lawn if we needed anyone to get to the house immediately to stay with the kids until the grandparents arrived...yeah...except it was Hallowe'en weekend and they were out at at party. Awesome. If they weren't such amazing people and wonderful neighbours, I might try to keep the guilt going on that one. ;)
We also could have called our dear friend and former cruise ship singing roomie Andrea, but by the time she would have arrived the in-laws would likely have been there anyway. So, we waited it out...and out...and...well, in their defense, they thought someone was going to be at the house for the kids while we left for the hospital should we have a middle of the night thing happen. I think Andrew was more worried than I was. Oddly, I was fine...in full on labour, but somehow totally fine. Talking through contractions (even though I fully remember that the stage I was at meant imminent delivery).
We broke all land speed records...of course should Andrew's employers be reading this or any local police...followed all posted limits to the tee and not going through a single red light (in truth, the only one we really hit was the ONLY light we have in our town...and of course it had to be red)...and got to the hospital in an amazing 20 minutes.
Moving on...we arrive at the hospital at 2:20am, get through the door we were told was going to be locked and begin to make our way through the lobby (I'm sure there is a fancier name for it that the hospital uses like atrium), when we are stopped by what I can only assume is a security guard.
"Hi folks. You going to work?". Yes Captain Obvious, my husband, our ridiculously oversized traveler's backpack, my enormous belleh and I are heading up to work...in the WOMEN'S HEALTH building, which is basically only used for LABOUR AND DELIVERY. My shift starts at 3a.m.
After very nicely stating (while still in full stride) we were heading up to L&D, he yells at us saying "Hey, get back here...you're not in labour!!". I'm sorry WHAT??? Did you seriously just tell me that I'm not in labour? I'm sorry to tell you Honey, but Hollywood has played up the whole woman crawling on floor clutching belly while performing primal scream therapy routine a little too much. Because I was walking upright and smiled, apparently my son WASN'T trying to rip his way out of my lady parts. Sorry, my mistake. Thank you so much for clearing that up for me.
In my usual full of class fashion that makes my Momma so very proud, I offered a "Screw You" and kept on walking...upright and smiling. We were followed up to L&D by some woman in another elevator, were checked in and had a triage room in a matter of seconds. At that point I believe I was at 4 or 5 cm. After a short stay there, we were given a delivery room (quite nice actually...huge, with a couch for Andrew to crash on and a view of the city). Doctor arrives on his bicycle shortly after, letting us know that for any other patient he would have told the nurses to just keep calling him with updates, but I'm special. Oh, I should also mention here that moments before he entered our room we heard another woman performing that primal scream ritual I just mentioned with a gusto. Man, somebody get that woman some drugs! Our nurse tried to ignore it, I laughed and the doc came in smiling saying that he was glad that wasn't me.
My water was broken and with a whoosh and a "whoa, can we get some more towels over here...man, that was a lot of water" from the doctor, all dignity was gone. He waited around a bit, I wasn't able to talk through contractions anymore at that point. Andrew asked if I wanted an epidural or a piece of wood to bite down on as I was close to shattering my left hand with my right with each uteral surge, I said not yet.
To cut this insanely long post short, I asked to be checked a short while later, the doc came back in the room, slapped on a glove, took a quick peek and said "GET ME ANOTHER GLOVE!!!". In 2 or so pushes, Ewan was born at 4:22a.m. weighing in at a miniscule 6lbs 11oz (almost 2 full pounds smaller than his brother and sister).
Everyone was happy and healthy and Mommy was pleasantly surprised that she A) didn't need a single stitch and B) the gluten free hospital food wasn't shyte like I thought it would be.
I'll save all of my other anecdotes for future posts, mostly because the kid has been wedged into his swing for 3 hours now and my left hand is cramping from holding in the decrepit power cord to my laptop.
Good night, fair readers, until we meet again. Hopefully not in a short few hours.
My wish was that I made it past Madison's birthday so that she could have her birthday all to herself. Granted. Just barely. Baby brother (aka Ewan) was born in the wee hours of October 29th. Here's his story...
Thursday I had yet another check up with the doctor, who promptly informed me that he could have sworn I would have been at the hospital and home with my boy days earlier...wrong! That was at 38 weeks. He had informed me early in the pregnancy that I was not going to be "allowed" to get to 40 weeks due to my history of rapid fire deliveries. So, in order to avoid a repeat performance of my husband having to deliver my son and save us the expense of a new mattress (again), Dr. H. told me to head to the L&D ward on Saturday morning. He wasn't going to book me for an induction as there was a good chance I would get bumped down the list as I AM a machine after all. Basically, he told me to just head in there and tell them I was having contractions, tell them my previous delivery story and there was no chance they would let me go home after that. Sneaky, but truthful.
In the end, all of that was irrelevant as I had my 1st contraction just after 11pm Friday night. I sort of ignored it, but kept it in mind as I went up to take a nice long bath before heading to bed...except I never got there. At 1am I woke Andrew up and told him to call his parents. We needed to head to the hospital. "WHA?? Are you serious?". I can understand his confusion as he'd only just gone to bed about an hour earlier thinking everything was fine and we'd head to the hospital at our leisure in the morning. Kids always have a way of messing with your well laid plans.
So, we called his folks who live 25 minutes away at about 1:20. Our neighbour had said they would brave the long walk across the lawn if we needed anyone to get to the house immediately to stay with the kids until the grandparents arrived...yeah...except it was Hallowe'en weekend and they were out at at party. Awesome. If they weren't such amazing people and wonderful neighbours, I might try to keep the guilt going on that one. ;)
We also could have called our dear friend and former cruise ship singing roomie Andrea, but by the time she would have arrived the in-laws would likely have been there anyway. So, we waited it out...and out...and...well, in their defense, they thought someone was going to be at the house for the kids while we left for the hospital should we have a middle of the night thing happen. I think Andrew was more worried than I was. Oddly, I was fine...in full on labour, but somehow totally fine. Talking through contractions (even though I fully remember that the stage I was at meant imminent delivery).
We broke all land speed records...of course should Andrew's employers be reading this or any local police...followed all posted limits to the tee and not going through a single red light (in truth, the only one we really hit was the ONLY light we have in our town...and of course it had to be red)...and got to the hospital in an amazing 20 minutes.
Moving on...we arrive at the hospital at 2:20am, get through the door we were told was going to be locked and begin to make our way through the lobby (I'm sure there is a fancier name for it that the hospital uses like atrium), when we are stopped by what I can only assume is a security guard.
"Hi folks. You going to work?". Yes Captain Obvious, my husband, our ridiculously oversized traveler's backpack, my enormous belleh and I are heading up to work...in the WOMEN'S HEALTH building, which is basically only used for LABOUR AND DELIVERY. My shift starts at 3a.m.
After very nicely stating (while still in full stride) we were heading up to L&D, he yells at us saying "Hey, get back here...you're not in labour!!". I'm sorry WHAT??? Did you seriously just tell me that I'm not in labour? I'm sorry to tell you Honey, but Hollywood has played up the whole woman crawling on floor clutching belly while performing primal scream therapy routine a little too much. Because I was walking upright and smiled, apparently my son WASN'T trying to rip his way out of my lady parts. Sorry, my mistake. Thank you so much for clearing that up for me.
In my usual full of class fashion that makes my Momma so very proud, I offered a "Screw You" and kept on walking...upright and smiling. We were followed up to L&D by some woman in another elevator, were checked in and had a triage room in a matter of seconds. At that point I believe I was at 4 or 5 cm. After a short stay there, we were given a delivery room (quite nice actually...huge, with a couch for Andrew to crash on and a view of the city). Doctor arrives on his bicycle shortly after, letting us know that for any other patient he would have told the nurses to just keep calling him with updates, but I'm special. Oh, I should also mention here that moments before he entered our room we heard another woman performing that primal scream ritual I just mentioned with a gusto. Man, somebody get that woman some drugs! Our nurse tried to ignore it, I laughed and the doc came in smiling saying that he was glad that wasn't me.
My water was broken and with a whoosh and a "whoa, can we get some more towels over here...man, that was a lot of water" from the doctor, all dignity was gone. He waited around a bit, I wasn't able to talk through contractions anymore at that point. Andrew asked if I wanted an epidural or a piece of wood to bite down on as I was close to shattering my left hand with my right with each uteral surge, I said not yet.
To cut this insanely long post short, I asked to be checked a short while later, the doc came back in the room, slapped on a glove, took a quick peek and said "GET ME ANOTHER GLOVE!!!". In 2 or so pushes, Ewan was born at 4:22a.m. weighing in at a miniscule 6lbs 11oz (almost 2 full pounds smaller than his brother and sister).
Everyone was happy and healthy and Mommy was pleasantly surprised that she A) didn't need a single stitch and B) the gluten free hospital food wasn't shyte like I thought it would be.
I'll save all of my other anecdotes for future posts, mostly because the kid has been wedged into his swing for 3 hours now and my left hand is cramping from holding in the decrepit power cord to my laptop.
Good night, fair readers, until we meet again. Hopefully not in a short few hours.
Friday, December 23, 2011
It's Been A While
Wow, it really has been a while. But I'm using the old "I've got a good excuse" excuse. Since we last were together, I have turned 35, celebrated Turkey day (in OCTOBER, the way it should be haha), watched my amazing daughter turn 5, dressed the kids up for Hallowe'en, remembered with great admiration the incredible sacrifices made by so many, received a late night phone call letting me know our 2 car family is now down to 1, watched an entire stage of JK/SK kids wiggle their little butts, pop up like icicles...and oh ya, somewhere in there I became a mother of THREE!
Saturday, September 17, 2011
It's All About Percentages
Chances of being RH negative? 15%.
Chances of having Celiac Disease? 1 in 133.
Chances of having a son needing hypospadias repair? Varies from 1 in 150 to 1 in 300.
Chances of a fetus developing Choroid Plexus Cysts? 1 to 2%.
It's all about percentages. And I have all of the above. Being RH negative is quite literally a pain in the ass, but easily dealt with with 2 shots per pregnancy. No side effects, no worries. Just making sure your body doesn't reject your new little bundle for having a "positive" baby daddy.
Having Celiacs can also be a literal pain in the ass...or gut, or stomach, etc. An annoying and very sneaky disease, but easily managed with a gluten free diet for the rest of your life. I don't complain about having it. So I can't eat an entire basket of warm bread served while I wait for my meal at the Keg. So what? I don't have to endure chemo or dialysis. This won't kill me...just put me at higher risk for things that could later on.
Hypospadias repair was by far the worst I've had to endure with my son. Again, not a life threatening condition and at the end of it all, I got to take my son home healthy and...well after months of recovery, happy. I don't ever want to have to watch nurses wheel my son through oversized hospital doors in a metal crib while he rests on all fours, crying and reaching for me ever again.
Little Wayne Gretzky? He's no exception. He's decided to develop a cyst on his little brain that I'll find out next week if it's disappeared as it should have by now. Again, nothing to really worry about...it's basically an air bubble that appears, then goes away on it's own before 30 weeks gestation...normally. And even if it doesn't, it doesn't really mean much of anything. Generally people have no side effects from being born with one. However, as you might have noticed, if there's a relatively small percentage of the population to have something, apparently I'm on it like pig on sh!t.
Again, I'm really not complaining about things. I have it easy. My kids are happy and healthy and so are my husband and I. We know how incredibly lucky we are every day. And, the possibility of this little cyst remaining in my developing little man's brain allowed me to see him when I've never seen either of my other 2. All squished in, folded up and hiding his face from the camera.
Chances of having Celiac Disease? 1 in 133.
Chances of having a son needing hypospadias repair? Varies from 1 in 150 to 1 in 300.
Chances of a fetus developing Choroid Plexus Cysts? 1 to 2%.
It's all about percentages. And I have all of the above. Being RH negative is quite literally a pain in the ass, but easily dealt with with 2 shots per pregnancy. No side effects, no worries. Just making sure your body doesn't reject your new little bundle for having a "positive" baby daddy.
Having Celiacs can also be a literal pain in the ass...or gut, or stomach, etc. An annoying and very sneaky disease, but easily managed with a gluten free diet for the rest of your life. I don't complain about having it. So I can't eat an entire basket of warm bread served while I wait for my meal at the Keg. So what? I don't have to endure chemo or dialysis. This won't kill me...just put me at higher risk for things that could later on.
Hypospadias repair was by far the worst I've had to endure with my son. Again, not a life threatening condition and at the end of it all, I got to take my son home healthy and...well after months of recovery, happy. I don't ever want to have to watch nurses wheel my son through oversized hospital doors in a metal crib while he rests on all fours, crying and reaching for me ever again.
Little Wayne Gretzky? He's no exception. He's decided to develop a cyst on his little brain that I'll find out next week if it's disappeared as it should have by now. Again, nothing to really worry about...it's basically an air bubble that appears, then goes away on it's own before 30 weeks gestation...normally. And even if it doesn't, it doesn't really mean much of anything. Generally people have no side effects from being born with one. However, as you might have noticed, if there's a relatively small percentage of the population to have something, apparently I'm on it like pig on sh!t.
Again, I'm really not complaining about things. I have it easy. My kids are happy and healthy and so are my husband and I. We know how incredibly lucky we are every day. And, the possibility of this little cyst remaining in my developing little man's brain allowed me to see him when I've never seen either of my other 2. All squished in, folded up and hiding his face from the camera.
So, here I sit. 32 weeks in with anywhere between 7 and 9 left to go. 100% excited to meet Wayne Gretzky and watch his big brother and sister fawn over him, love him, wake him up from the only nap he's taken all day and trying to mail him to a far off place to get back to their version of normal again.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
I Gotta Go Peeeeee
So my 2.5 year old son has been potty trained for quite some time now. The occasional accident seeps in here and there, but for the most part, this kid has been a Pull-Up free, Spiderman/Buzz Lightyear/Lightening McQueen big boy underwear phenomenon.
He made it almost too easy. He wanted to use the potty just like his big sister...actually, he was far better at it than she was. Even over night was going tremendously well. Never wet his bed, wearing big boy underwear for 2 months all night with no issues...until a few nights ago. Total regression (IN MY DAMN BED) on that one. Oh well, sheets can be cleaned, mattresses decontaminated and Pull-Ups reapplied while sleeping. He asks each night now why he needs to wear them, but thankfully doesn't seem to be worried about it.
His game? EVERY time we set foot in the grocery store, he says he's got to go peeeeee. We kneel down to his level and have a heart to heart..."Do you really have to pee, or do you just want to go upstairs?". He swears he really needs to go. We, of course know better...but, when you're potty training a kid, you've got to listen when they say they need to go right?
So, thankfully today it was BEFORE I loaded up the cart and stood in line waiting to pay for the groceries (which is the usual case). Up we went, big sister in tow. She used the potty with great success. He however, sat there goofing around and whining that it wouldn't come out. I try to reason with him. Tell him that it's now or never, I'm NOT coming back up those stairs. I suggest trying the potty next door as it's a bit lower to the ground. Fine...next door we go. Nope, same devlish grin on his face. He says he just can't go and will wait until we get home. Ugh.
Fine, a-shopping we will go. Cart full, groceries paid for and packed up in the dreaded 5 cent plastic bags as I hadn't really planned on going shopping on the way home. Head back outside, find the car just where we left it, struggle to get 2 children out of the shopping cart (quite comical to watch a 7 month pregnant belleh deal with that I'm sure)...then wedge the 5 over sized scandalous plastic bags filled with gluten free pizza crusts, various fruits and cotton candy ice cream, into random spots between, behind and inside of the collapsed Joovy Caboose in the trunk.
Leave the parking lot..."Mommyyyyyy, I have to peeeeeee" comes from directly behind the driver's seat and with a quick glance in the mirror, I can see 2 little legs wiggling. Ugh number 2. I can see that he really does have to go, but really? What's a mother to do? Pull over to the non-existent shoulder on the road and let him pee on the grass? Nope. I visualize my drive home and what's on the road ahead.
Never thought I'd say this, but today, Taco Bell and KFC were my friends. Phew crisis averted...ice cream softened, but I'd take that over having to disassemble a car seat for a good old Friday night wash n' dry any day.
By the time we get home and I get everything and everyone unloaded, I hear those cursed words again. Seriously dude??? I have a 15" human practicing ancient martial arts on my bladder 24/7 and YOU have to pee? Again? Sure did. Like a trucker.
He made it almost too easy. He wanted to use the potty just like his big sister...actually, he was far better at it than she was. Even over night was going tremendously well. Never wet his bed, wearing big boy underwear for 2 months all night with no issues...until a few nights ago. Total regression (IN MY DAMN BED) on that one. Oh well, sheets can be cleaned, mattresses decontaminated and Pull-Ups reapplied while sleeping. He asks each night now why he needs to wear them, but thankfully doesn't seem to be worried about it.
His game? EVERY time we set foot in the grocery store, he says he's got to go peeeeee. We kneel down to his level and have a heart to heart..."Do you really have to pee, or do you just want to go upstairs?". He swears he really needs to go. We, of course know better...but, when you're potty training a kid, you've got to listen when they say they need to go right?
So, thankfully today it was BEFORE I loaded up the cart and stood in line waiting to pay for the groceries (which is the usual case). Up we went, big sister in tow. She used the potty with great success. He however, sat there goofing around and whining that it wouldn't come out. I try to reason with him. Tell him that it's now or never, I'm NOT coming back up those stairs. I suggest trying the potty next door as it's a bit lower to the ground. Fine...next door we go. Nope, same devlish grin on his face. He says he just can't go and will wait until we get home. Ugh.
Fine, a-shopping we will go. Cart full, groceries paid for and packed up in the dreaded 5 cent plastic bags as I hadn't really planned on going shopping on the way home. Head back outside, find the car just where we left it, struggle to get 2 children out of the shopping cart (quite comical to watch a 7 month pregnant belleh deal with that I'm sure)...then wedge the 5 over sized scandalous plastic bags filled with gluten free pizza crusts, various fruits and cotton candy ice cream, into random spots between, behind and inside of the collapsed Joovy Caboose in the trunk.
Leave the parking lot..."Mommyyyyyy, I have to peeeeeee" comes from directly behind the driver's seat and with a quick glance in the mirror, I can see 2 little legs wiggling. Ugh number 2. I can see that he really does have to go, but really? What's a mother to do? Pull over to the non-existent shoulder on the road and let him pee on the grass? Nope. I visualize my drive home and what's on the road ahead.
Never thought I'd say this, but today, Taco Bell and KFC were my friends. Phew crisis averted...ice cream softened, but I'd take that over having to disassemble a car seat for a good old Friday night wash n' dry any day.
By the time we get home and I get everything and everyone unloaded, I hear those cursed words again. Seriously dude??? I have a 15" human practicing ancient martial arts on my bladder 24/7 and YOU have to pee? Again? Sure did. Like a trucker.
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