Potty Talk: Would Poop by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

When to start the marathon of potty training? Ask any woman over 50 and she'll swear her sweety britches had it mastered by 14 months. Ladies, you are LYING! Or entering the fog of dementia. In which case I should pray for you.


I'm really tired of the advice already and haven't even read much of it. Some people (you know, in the chat rooms on the internet) even do this elimination training whereby baby doesn't wear diaper (??). Mom "senses" when Precious is about to bm and holds him above the toilet. I'm guessing co-sleeping needs to happen so mom can "sense" those leaky little pipes at 2 am. Apparently said kid is "mostly" trained by one year but then it takes until two to be fully accident free. These are the same people whose mutant offspring are on Your Baby Can Read.

The complication continues with entire aisles at Baby MegaPlex devoted to the Holy Potty Grail. Some are insets that perch inside the big person toilet. Others are transformers--whipping from stool to seat within a certain time limit. And, yes, some even sing when tinkled in. Kid MUST be immediately freaked out when the pee starts a rollin'!


But that trash is boring and it's not even worth a few more words on the subject. As long as rich people have rich little babies, product developers and their marketing leeches will always go for the jugular. We have something far more important to decide:


What will we call the excrement????? This will decide what my children call it for their entire childhood. Stories will emerge from these words. It better be good.


The most comprehensive potty dictionary I can develop in ten minutes:


If it's brown, flush it down...

• Poop: Concise. Easy to say. Very public friendly. But it's just no fun and it reminds me of dogs. I hate dogs.
• Poopie: Cute, petite brown floaties. Very playdate-ish. We're liking the poopie. Although not cute coming from my son--he's already a bit on the dandy side.
• Caca: Multicultural, somewhat discreet. Too bad Olivia loves her Kashi cacas. Off the list!
• Doo doo: This says, "I'm a 5th grade boy." Or, "I'm from Arkansas."
• S--t: By far the most appropriate. Very German in inflection. Too bad our society slapped an inappropriate label on it.
• Crap: The WORST verb in human language. As a noun it's not so bad. But I'll keep this one for a fender bender exclamation.
• Fecal Matter: Need a rubber glove and stethoscope for the rights to say that one.
• Turd: Caddyshack Baby Ruth.
• Shite: Love, love, love this one. Why do British folk sound so fancy and talk so good?

If it's yellow, let it mellow...

• Pee pee: That stupid potty book that sold like a bazillion copies somehow uses this to describe a body part on a GIRL. Crazy dumb. No thanks.
• Wee wee: Willy Winky runs through the town! Upstairs, downstairs...
• Piss: Redneck Bubba in a port-a-potty.
• Tinkle: Ooo! Yes! The Tinkle Fairy whisks around the bathroom...I see a wand in the near future.
• Tee tee: Nice. This one feels neutral. Unoffensive, simple. A subtle slam at golf. My kind of word.
• Urine: "We're going to have to put a catheter in, ma'am."
• Number 1: Lame.

Say them all out loud.

Hmm...

I think we'll go with...

I've got a lovely bunch of coconut...chocolates

Life is like a __________.

You know you said "box of chocolates" in a weird southern accent! Don't lie! My favorites are the cherry filled kind. Or the ones with oozing dark chocolate that you have to slurp. The carmel filled kind are mid-tier. But I hate the coconut ones and always put them back half eaten--not worthy of a trip to the garbage can. That trash is disgusting.

I desperately want to believe God doesn't dole out coconut chocolates when he's disappointed with me. Yes, I know I know I know! He doesn't work on tit-for-tat, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours basis. But when those coconut chocolates start rolling in by the truckload, that evil voice starts spouting, "Well, remember that time you did that thing you shouldn't have? What goes around comes around, honey!"

Let's just say we're in the Valley of Mounds with Almonds right now. Every day we are showered with our manna of chocolate covered coconut flakes and it just stinks. Since going back home we moved in with family, originally by choice but now out of necessity (more on how that happened later). Coordinating life with two adults and two itty bitty babies is confusing and challenging enough without adding doting grandrents and an unhealthy lump of guilt into the daily routine.

It could always be worse. We could have a life-threatening disease. Or be stranded in eel infested waters near the Cliffs of Insanity. But that kitchy silence filler never really comforted anyone. Tell somebody with Stage III cancer that they should be glad it isn't Stage IV. Oh I feel much better! Thank you!

Since suffering is relative, it's very believable that Hot Tamale's time out sentence is as traumatic for her as infertility is to a young couple. So my big battle right now is accepting that God wants more for me than a comfortable, house-wife with picket fence existence. It's pretty lame when I write it down since "it could always be MUCH worse." But I wrestle with so many parts of being an extended guest in someone else's house. Trying to keep it clean. Hiding my milk-making boobs. Finding storage for the kid crap. Maintaining a healthy relationship with Hubs. Truly loving people who are very different from me.

He has work to do through me living with my in-laws. That's clear. And he'll keep me here until that work is done. I get it! He cares far more for my soul than to leave it untested. If I can't be faithful with this tiny trial, what about when the levies really break? Just for the record: God, if you'd rather send me suffering to a beach hut in Costa Rica, I'll leave it all (the bouncy seat and everything) right now. We're talking Friday, May 21 1:45pm! Until then, I'll let you teach me how to love chocolate coconuts...

How to have a family outing

I timed it today. 4.5 minutes to get the kids unbuckled, strapped on, and carried/wrapped/punted into the store. And that was pushing it. Is it too much to ask to run through the fabric store without an army of crap and at least one tantrum?? Going anywhere with kids is tantamount to a sprint triathlon. In Texas. In the summer. When people drown in their own sweat walking from the front door to the car. At this moment in my mommy journey I only reserve trips out of the house for speedy, 5-minute grocery runs or other mom houses--basically anything where I can swing an easy exit with minimal collateral damage.

Claire on Modern Family said it beautifully after heading out with the fam to Hawaii--"Honey, I'm on vacation with my children. This isn't romantic. It's a business trip." Yup. That fits like a pair of good jeans. No longer am I running errands. I'm a field trip coordinator. There is a specific list of schtuff every mommy goes through before heading out the door with children. Here's mine:

• Diaper Bag--Don't you dare trust that what you stuffed in there last time is still there. That trash grows legs. Here's what should have been in my bag this morning: wipes, diapers (at least 3 per bottom), more wipes, spare clothes, snacks, other snacks in case those snacks are no good, baby spoon, at least two small toys that can clip to an infant seat, spare mommy shirt for inevitable projectile vomit, formula dispenser, bottle, hooter hider, bottled water, sippy cup of water, bib, sunblock, disposable placemat from Chick-fil-a, hairband, cell phone, wallet. What was actually in my bag? Four dirty baby spoons, the dog collar, a yogurt encrusted finger puppet, and five dead cheerios. Get that lifeline in order while the kids are napping in the morning. Check.
• Kid Transport--Double? Single? Umbrella? Infant carrier? I opted for the shopping cart for toddler and Baby B'jorn for Little Dude, but reluctantly. I hate the Baby B'jorn. Not only does it have a I'm-a-gay-dad-in-Manhattan name, but I read somewhere that they used as a torture device in the sixteen century. At any rate it's vastly quicker than a wrap so short term shopping with it is moderately bearable.
• Food--What a lovely day? Let's have a picnic! Really? Think through this. Blanket to sit on, food chopped/prepared/bagged and loaded in a cooler. Don't forget to put the cooler in the car. That's a good 20 minutes. Now we need the stroller. Let's load that up. 5 minutes. A couple more toys for entertainment.

Pulling up to JoAnn's, there are no cart return stations. Normally I'd park next to one of those so I can still be near the kids and be a responsible cart user. Nope! Not today! We're going to leave it on a grassy island. I leave the car running (since I can cook an egg on the sidewalk in this infernal climate) and unbuckled the Dude. Strap on aforementioned Bee-yorn and thread his little legs down through the bottom. Shut door and walk to other side. Take out Dudette from her car seat--the lot is busy and she is 19 months old so, no, she won't be walking. That means carrying her as well. Shut door. Open passenger side door and grab diaper bag. Shut door. Return to driver's side and turn off vehicle--don't forget to put keys in the diaper bag. Check. Cross busy lot loaded with kid and bag. 4.5 minutes. Whew!

Won't even go there with the picnic...

Fat, Not Pregnant: 8 Things Most People Won't Tell You About Having Babies

Of the many pieces of advice thrust upon me during those long months before baby arrived, by far the best came from my friend Joy. "It will take you a while to lose the weight." No big shocker there. But then seeing my misunderstanding, she qualified that with, "No, you'll look a good five months pregnant for several weeks." Now there's a new thought. Because some extra rolls clinging to my abs is one thing, but now even the shape of my body will be different? What about that "deliverance" from pregnancy? How long does this after baby stick around? Maybe that won't happen to me.

So when I find myself an hour after Olivia squeezed through the birth canal, buck-naked in the bathroom with the nurse helping me change gowns and clean left over inner thigh goo, my first thought looking into the mirror was get-this-fat-suit-off-me. Forget second trimester, we're talking a full seven months pregnant form. Fluid, schmulid. I'm huge.

It takes a good two weeks for the moon-pie face aura to dissipate, another four for the uterus to snuggle back in your pelvis, and what's left is yours to keep. Contrary to my assumption, pregnancy fat is just as (if not more) authentic than Twinkie fat. There's no fat fairy twirling about granting speedy weight loss to new moms and casting anti-aerobic spells on paunchy middle-agers. Fat is fat and working it off takes an equal amount of commitment.

So five days after our second child graced us (a mere 14 months later) I wasn't surprised when the chick behind me in a burrito joint gleefully asked when I was due. Had she not been seven months pregnant herself, more than words would have been exchanged, but I tried to think about Jesus and keep my wrath in check. What followed was a graphic description of the birthing process--including the I'm-sitting-on-barbed-wired-fence-and-can't-get-off feeling that lingers for weeks--as well as my friend Joy's advice that she'd look equally disgusting for quite some time post-baby. After all, we ladies were promised a heinous delivery process, thanks to Eve and that apple, so I chalked my education lesson up to Biblical revelation. The poor girl turned a ghastly yellow, murmured something about charro beans, and slipped out sans burrito.

Comb through every pink What to Expect book at Barnes and Noble--no one will probably told you these things about your impending birth and aftermath. Bear in mind that, just like every other mom who isn't sharing your experience right now, you too will forget any of it happened.

1. People who tell you they loved being pregnant were probably institutionalized. Or should have been.

Their hair felt thick. Skin glowed. Trumpets roared. Madonna and Child. How fun it was to feel the baby kick! They got to eat anything for nine months! Feel free to call these people at 3 a.m. when Junior is kicking the crap out of your kidneys. Or when walking up a flight of stairs sends daggers through your sciatic nerve. Invite them to vomit with you thirteen weeks straight. And don't even get me started on stretch marks. Yes, that baby is precious. Getting there is not. God says so.

2. You can't shave for at least two months.

At the end of your term, forget trying to shave. There's not a razor long enough to reach those ankles and you won't care anyway. Just give it up completely at the end and get your husband to shave for you before you head to the hospital.

3. At some point, your entire wardrobe will not fit.

Buying maternity garb is a much more fun pursuit these days than in the bygone tent-fashion era, but never buy for "down the road". Buy for this month and make sure it's a big on the loose side. Always avoid pants with the thinner elastic band in the third trimester. They cut off circulation and roll down like a canoli.

4. When other moms ask you about your pregnancy, they usually use as an excuse to talk about their experience.

They're listening for any break in the conversation so they can describe their third degree episiotomy. Or how much they miss being pregnant. It comes with the territory--I do the same thing.

5. It really hurts when the doc breaks your water before the epidural.

The first go around I was already juiced up and it just felt like peeing myself in a deep sleep. NOT SO with Little Dude. That trash hurts!! Ask about it ahead of time--maybe the first doc shouldn't have done it, but I sure appreciated the soft opening to labor.

6. The pain inflicted by the baby exiting your body lasts for weeks.

Weeks and weeks of bleeding and you're supposed to put on a Madonna and Child face for the parade of intruders, er visitors, who all want a piece of you. Pain pills will be your best friend so don't be afraid to pop 'em. And the more kids you have, the more excruciating it is for your uterus to spasm shrink as you breastfeed the first few weeks. Really painful cramps! Ouch!

7. The epidural makes your legs feel like rubber chicken thighs.

Giant, Godzilla-sized drumsticks. Next time I'll ask if the doc can just unscrew them for a while until pushing starts. Get your husband to give you a shave if you start labor at home or the morning before a scheduled induction. You'll feel way better.

8. Get ready to enjoy your maternity clothes for several months.

After having Irish twins I'm just getting back into non-elastic waistband clothing. Relearning how to button and zip.

Fast forward three months after number two. I've managed to corral two tiny kids into the local children's museum and, somehow, find ourselves in the dreaded paint corner. I connect with another harried gal who's sporting a pregnancy top with a belly to match along with her year-and-a-half old daughter. After chitchat about new words our girls are spouting, I eyeball her bump. Perfectly round, slim legs and arms. Lucky chick. And then I hear myself asking, so when is the next one due? Due? No, she's forty-three and it's just taking a long time for the weight to come off. Two flushed faces, some stammering, and a speedy exit later, I realize I've become burrito girl.