So Far, A Shitty Week. Literally.

Suddenly, the Maddening Issues of the Day are all poo-related.

First: SweetBabyGirl had a poopy pull-up on Monday--we're making progress (in fits and starts) on potty training (or, as the book calls it, Toilet Learning. Whatever.) but the poopy thing is coming along slowly. So I pick her up and head to the changing table and she shoves her hand down the back of the pull-up and comes up with a hand smeared with shit. Lots of arm-waving and "EW!" ensue from the child so I carry her ASAP to the bathroom and get her hand washed. Back to the changing table and, en route, she does it again. So, back to the sink but amid all the arm-waving she smeared shit across my NOSE. My nose.

I think I deserve huge mom points for washing her hand first before I washed my nose, but, seriously, EW. And I was gagging, muttering "Holy, crap, child, that's my NOSE, that's what I SMELL WITH" and so forth while the child got kind of solemn and thoughtful.

I guess I'll find out soon whether she decided whether it's worth doing again.

Second: Yesterday was rough, with the child in a cheerful, busy and oppositional mood. Emptied the (by now, packed full) diaper pail with the intent of carrying it to the trash on our way to the park (where, as it happens, I didn't tire out the child because we left early when she insisted on throwing rocks after the Don't Throw Rocks Lecture) but got distracted amid all the confusion. Well, the child eventually fell asleep, after another errand (and where she threw a mini-tantrum, refusing to go the car and then going boneless when I insisted).

And so, I carry a blessedly sleeping child into the house only to find the bag ripped open, the floor of her room strewn with diapers, with the poopy ones having received special attention that I won't even describe here because I'll gag just from the writing of it. The dogs, of course, are doing their best to look innocent and apologetic at the same time (which isn't too hard for basset hounds). Sleeping Beauty goes on the bed, the dogs go outside with a few hissed commands and curses and and I complete hasty and quiet roundup of the disgusting stuff. When I'm washing my hands and brooding about how there are few things more disgusting than having shit under one's fingernails (ie. the nose smear) and thinking, so this is my chance to take a nap? Can I manage to get to sleep?

Hell yeah.

So now, it's Thursday morning and my precious, sweet girl is now in the throes of the terrible twos. Last night, she kicked Daddy on the changing table and we said, no stories before bedtime if you kick people. She didn't kick again, but when we got out the story books she said nope and got right into bed. Does this mean that she's willing to do without stories if she gets to kick people at will? If so, then what's my leverage in the future?

Feelin' Ranty

Some days, I just have a whole array of things to kvetch about:

1. Why does a Mother's Day Out progam have to have a Spring Break? So the kiddies can have a break from all the pressure of coloring and learning to share three days a week? What about the mothers? Won't anybody think of the mothers? When do WE get a spring break?

2. Why does it have to be the same week that we're preparing to move, even though we've been preparing to move for two weeks now, during which time my kitchen has been packed up and 90% of my clothes are packed?

3. Speaking of clothes, why do women's clothes manufacturers hate all women who aren't made of coat hangers? We all know about the stupid sizing issues, fit problems, the impossibility of finding pants that fit and, dear Lord, do they always have to add a tag scratchy enough to raise a rash? Men don't put up with this shit, why should we?

4. What is my husband thinking when he invites people over for dinner tonight and then tells them not to call to RSVP during naptime, which is 1:30 to 3:30?

5. How is it possible that we've owned dogs for more than a decade, cats for another decade before that and have been parents for over a year and the man still freaks out if he gets shit on his hands? We're not talking about mere disgust here, he gets all panicky and snappish and expects me to rush around with wipes or something in order to do something about this obvious emergency!

It's tempting to commence an immersion program to help him deal with this issue: henceforth, all poopy situations will be handled by him. If he's at work, he'll be summoned home immediately or the poopy will be preserved until he can be present to deal with it.

6. a. If I had a Great Dane, I'd train it not to shove its nose into people's butts and give a big, noisy sniff.
b. If my hypothetical Great Dane did that anyway, I wouldn't say, well, he's the right height for that, to the person looking startled afterward. Something more like, whoops, sorry, heh heh heh, instead.

I'm just saying.

Lessons Learned From A Stomach Bug, Part II

I wish I was writing here to note that, upon mature reflection, I have more wisdom gleaned from the Let's Everybody Barf episode, but no. Instead, I got another stomach bug, this time while visiting my mom in Houston. Lessons learned? Well...

1. If I have to be vomiting, Mom's house is a good place for it. She absolutely adores Babygirl and had a great time looking after her while I was indisposed. Also, her vast medicine cabinet has a remedy for everything, including nausea, assuming one has a good sense of timing about when to take it (and, a side note: throwing up an anti-emetic is every bit as nasty as it sounds like it is. Really.)

2. If a toddler is feeling out of sorts and doesn't want to go back to sleep at, say, midnight, few things sort out one's priorities than having one's mother vomit spectacularly. Sure, Grandma can keep an eye on you for a while, but when mom finally says, ok, I got the worst of it cleaned up, let's all go to bed, that's a great idea.

That lesson is particularly useless, by the way.

3. And most of all: providing comfort for your own child when she feels bad (as I did last week) puts one in a new spirit for appreciating the comfort from one's own mom.