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I am off to my Thinking Spot.
After the feeding frenzy that is shabbat around here (breakfast, kiddush, lunch, dessert, snack), the children, of course, wanted dinner.
Taxman made them French toast out of leftover challah.
I was researching Fun Things To Do With Small People in the City of Brotherly Love, where I taking them tomorrow for an overnight visit with my parents (all three of us–don’t get excited for me), when they descended on me to demand dessert. The fruit bats had already consumed apples, pears, bananas, and strawberries over the course of the day. And ruggelach at kiddush, so I would have preferred something a little light on sugar. But we were out of options. As I stumbled to the kitchen to dole out raisins and dried fruit, I groused, “I’ve spent all day feeding you! Why can’t you make your own dinner?”
“But Ema,” Miss M said, looking startled, “we’re not allowed to use knives!”
This afternoon I boiled water FOUR times to make myself tea.
I drank ZERO cups of tea.
But late at night we get things like this:
And then I drink my tea.
How do single parents, on a temp or perm basis, handle medicine distribution to the resistant?
Like, for example, giving eye drops to a freakishly strong 2.75 year old. Because sitting with him locked under my legs–plus his sister holding his hands–is still not good enough. I need two hands to hold his face. Which leaves zero hands to actually get the drops in.
Last night there was a lot of screaming, but we managed. This morning? Screaming and very little in the way of drops in the eyes.
Taxman’s in Israel. He left six days ago. He’s coming back in three days–two and a half, really, because his flight gets in so early on Friday he’ll be home at about the time we’re all rallying from bed. (Hopefully.)
The toughest part of the sojourn, from my perspective, was Shabbat morning. It was about 22 degrees; I was not going to shul or taking the kids to groups. I wanted, selfishly, to drink my tea and read my book. Because that is what I like about Shabbat (as the song goes). I read a little, played with the kids some, and ultimately removed some of their favorite toys because they could not share to save their rotten little lives.
A lot of people have been taking care of us. Friday night we had a nice dinner-slash-playdate with our upstairs neighbor, whose husband was on overnight call. Shabbat lunch we were invited to other friends in the building, who graciously allowed us to stay and wallow in all the never-before-seen toys until after 4pm. Sunday we trundled off to Taxman’s aunt, who spoils my children more than their own grandparents. Really, we were greeted with freshly baked cake. She shooed me upstairs to take a nap, fed them lunch, and packed us a bag with leftovers for dinner. (She spoils me too.)
But thankfully, in this age of technology and cheap international phone calls, Taxman and I have been in touch. We instant message and leave Facebook notes for each other every day, and we’ve spoken on the phone most days too. The time difference hasn’t been an issue, since I’m home a lot, and his CrackBerry works there.
People, however, keep asking if I’m ok. Which is nice. I get that. But they look or sound so stricken when the ask, as if they are waiting for me to fall apart. My dad called me today at 7:06 pm, as the kids were doing their wind-down into oblivion. It involves physical torture of each other, stepping on books, and general disaster-making. “Are you ok, with Taxman gone?”
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “AM, we don’t stand on books. Miss M, leave him alone. Really, Dad, I’m ok. The hard part of my day is 3:30 to 7, like it’s always been. Even if Taxman were here in the country, he wouldn’t be here in this house. So, no difference.”
Of course would be nice to have a hug or someone bring me a cup of tea after the daily grind. A little grown up conversation (downside: Taxman does not consider a baked potato to be a complete dinner). But overall, it’s really so much better than this. Just because people sleep. Mostly.
Yes, more talk about AM using the potty and pooping and stuff. But it gets really funny towards the end. At least I think so.
So AM is doing pretty great with the bathroom. Through no brilliance other than his own. Seriously, it all started because he started asking to go before or after a bath a few weeks ago, when he didn’t have clothes or diapers interfering with whatever signals his body was sending. More time without pants, more potty success. He has been dry all night for a while, so physically I knew he was good to go. But I have no tricks; apologies to everyone who has twins or 2 year olds or 2 year old twins. You’ll live. Miss M was much harder in terms of the flat-out psychology. This time I didn’t care nearly as much, and it fell into line.
We graduated from naked time (which is fine for indoors, not so fine for outdoors in 26 degree weather) to diapers + potty runs to pull-ups (some sort of psychological hurdle was overcome for this) + potty runs. Pull-ups have been super, but I don’t really want to devote more money to them. I’ve had a pack of 44 in my house for ages, and now we’re down to maybe a dozen.
The sticking point is poop. His isn’t toddler normal, it’s more breastfed babyish. (Whether this is because of the nursing, because of some intolerance or allergy–lactose, maybe?–has not been determined because it doesn’t upset his stomach at all. I’ve been talking about it with his pediatrician since he was 15 months, but the idea of eliminating dairy or wheat from his diet, or the kids’ diet, or everyone’s diet, makes me want to curl up and die.) Which makes it hard to catch because when it comes it’s fast and loose. We’re doing it maybe half the time. So, really, good on the pull-ups.
Today I was feeling brave, so I put him in a pair of those crazy ugly toddler training pants, which are basically cloth diapers cut in the shape of underpants. Three hours later, we got in the car for a 35-minute drive. (I know! I made him pee before.)
All was well.
Before our return trip, I led him to the bathroom. He allowed me to stand him in front of the toilet, balanced on a stool, but he told me in no uncertain terms, “I don’t need to make.” So he didn’t. He has not been reading Moxie’s rules for life, clearly. (Have I taught that little data point nothing?!)
Our journey took us through a five-mile stretch of road with a ton of gas stations and strip malls. Then we passed the hotel where Taxman and I got married. Approximately four seconds after that, as I was in an irreversible turn onto I-80, I hear a voice from the back. “Ema, I need to make!”
Crap.
“Pishy or poopy?” I inquire. (Yes, I know. Stupid terms. Miss M picked them up from someone, and now two years later here we are. I own it. But, frankly, I think asking a two year old if he has to urinate, while “correct” and all that, makes you sound like a pompous ass.)
“Pishy!”
Hypothetically, I had a little time. He’s got remarkably good control. Better than, say, mine. But at the same time, I don’t know my way around South Hackensack and wasn’t compelled to wander. I did think we were too far from Teaneck, which I know very well. So I immediately got off the highway. No gas stations, no restaurants, just an industrial park. So I pulled into a parking lot, found a bank of dirty snow, thanked my lucky stars it was 50 degrees, and let AM be all the boy he could be.
As I tucked him back in his carseat, I could not stop thinking about the Awesomeness that is potty training a boy. I was practically crowing to myself and writing Facebook status updates in my head.
I steered back onto 80, heading towards the GWB.
“Ema,” came the little voice again. “I need to make!”
“AM, you just did!” From time to time he has sort of phantom feelings, I think, a minute or two after he’s done in the bathroom. At home he just trots over, tries again, and then shakes his head and walks away. He couldn’t do that, clearly, in a car traveling at 60 mph. “You just made a pishy.”
“I have to make a poopy!”
And then, to borrow a phrase from katydidnot, my head exploded. His pants had just been around his ankles. I could have changed him into a pull-up in the car. But no, I was too busy doing my end-zone dance. Because I am a dumbass. (Sometimes.)
Again with the frantic calculating. “Can you hold it a little bit?”
“I want to make in the potty at home,” he told me.
The bridge traffic was under five minutes, supposedly, but we were easily 15 minutes from home. This was not a chance I wanted to take. Visions of poop soaking the car seat, the smell, all of it, danced in my head.
I stumbled into a hotel in Teaneck, right off 95, with both kids. Found a bathroom. Nothing.
“I want to make at home,” he explained. Right. Or in that pull-up I slapped onto his tush.
(By this point the adrenaline had made me need to pee; conveniently enough, there I was! In a bathroom! Hooray!)
I think, maybe, another pack of pull-ups just might be worth it. Sanity can be bought at Target for a mere $18. I’m in!
