Wednesday, June 4, 2014
She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy
Alright, gentlemen, the game’s up. I’m on to you. After
years…years...of asking my husband to
show me how to drive the lawn tractor so I could sometimes help him with the dreadful yard work, he finally showed me this morning. My first clue that
something was amiss was when it took him exactly 93 seconds to tell me how
everything worked. The rest became abundantly clear to me as I rode around my
2+ acres of yard, jamming to tunes on my iPod, soaking up the sunshine, smelling
the sweet scent of newly mown grass, and oblivious to the rest of the world as
I made straight line and circle patterns all around my property.
Mowing the yard is FUN!
It’s relaxing. It’s soothing. And with just a smidgen of
imagination, you can pretend you’re driving a big Massey tractor, or a combine
(which are both infinitely cooler and even more
fun!!) and that you're tilling up the land. Yup, I get it. The tractor's sexy. And it just got a whole helluva lot sexier.
Mr. French Charming? You got some s’plaining to do.
But since now I know the gig and have been so rude as to
share it with the rest of the unsuspecting wives out there that are feeling
guilty for their men working so hard on those tractors, I’ll be gracious enough
to share one of our feminine secrets with you.
You know when we bitch and complain about how hard evenings
are…dealing with dinner and dishes, tomorrow’s lunches, helping the kids with
their various homework projects and sorting through the massive mountains of
paperwork sent from school, making sure the kids get bathed, refereeing their arguments,
and yelling at them to get them to go to bed (and stay there)…all while fencing
calls from your mother (father/brother/buddy)? Know how we complain about how
exhausted we are and couldn’t possibly do another load of laundry, empty the
dishwasher, or have sex?
The truth is, we actually LOVE our evenings when you’re out of the house doing man-stuff. We
really enjoy helping our kids reach their highest potential so they can succeed
in life, keeping open communication with the teachers that adore our input in
our children’s education and how they could better help our kids. What we’re really doing is playing with the kids…you
know, trying to get a firm grasp of the wonderful world of Minecraft, watching
Dora and Diego, learning about shapes and riddles…in Spanish…and giggling as we make Barbie and Ken change clothes and
kiss each other. Our lovely children really do skip off to the tub and then to bed,
singing happy clean-up songs without a word of protest because they’re such
well-behaved children (obviously due to your fabulous discipline, honey! Thanks
for doing that Loud-Man-Voice thing that really gets their attention…it totally helps when we need to them to do
something for us and you’re outside doing man-stuff). And how else would we
know that your dad put up 500 posters with your uncle for your cousin’s
campaign, that the hitch parts he ordered for our car are the wrong ones
so the installation appointment has been changed again, that it’s your turn to bring beer for after your ballgame,
that your monthly fishing and hunting meeting is tomorrow night in the mancave/shack,
and let you know your buddy is making wings for the hockey game you’re watching
at his house, if we didn’t get the opportunity to chat with your mom (father/brother/buddy)?
The truth is, we love the chance to talk to your mother (father/brother/buddy), plus we
need our own special relaxing, soothing time to do our lady-stuff.
So, to be fair, I want to make a proposition. Let’s trade
chores for a bit. I know how left out you feel, missing out on all of the prime
bonding time with the kids. I know how you feel like you really don’t know what’s
going on with the kids’ lives and school activities (I am so sorry I forgot to
tell you about that choir concert/bake sale we had to go to last Thursday night…I
know it was quite a shock when you’d planned on mowing the lawn before the rain
came.). I understand you have a real passion for cooking and that watching
Master Chef is so inspiring for you…if only you had the time to embrace your
love of creating delicious, healthy meals. I don’t want to be greedy or selfish
anymore. That’s been very unkind of me. I want you to have the opportunities I am
granted each night, and every weekend: time to enjoy your children, relax with
a good show, tinker around the kitchen with those spices you bought and the
fresh veggies from the enormous garden you put in (seriously, we could open a
veggie stand to sell all of those lovely organic foods you have worked so hard to
nurture and grow, but that our 5 appetites can’t possibly eat enough of!). So,
I would love to take over that horrible lawn mowing nonsense you’ve put up with
for years and years. You’ve given us so much of yourself and your time, taking care
of your family…providing a beautiful yard and sumptuous garden to feed us. I
want to let you enjoy some of the things us women have secretly coveted for
years. So, you sit down, put up your feet, and negotiate Netflix choices with
your children while I go mow the
lawn.
But before you get comfy, dear, can you grab me a beer…hell,
make it two, all those acres are gonna take awhile to get ‘er done…while I go
fire up the tractor?!
What do you mean, why am I wearing my bikini? I just don’t want
to get anymore clothes dirty with all of that grass…I wouldn't want to add to your
laundry pile. I want you rested and in a good mood so when I get done and come in, I can take
advantage of you. Heehee...wink, wink (slap on the ass).
You don’t have to thank me, luv. I just want to help. You’ve
earned an evening without yard chores. You and the kids have fun...
I got this.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
New Year = New Life
Happy New Year!
Goodbye, 2013.
Hello 2014! It’s
about freaking time.
Time to shake things up. Turn the world on its ear, give it
a spin, then flop it onto its back for a good belly rub. Grumpy ol’ thing has
been lying on the couch, licking wounds for too long, and it is past time to
pull some new tricks out of the sleeves.
If you’re looking for resolutions about exercise, recommitting
myself to my childhood religious upbringing, or giving up beer and belly
dancing, you’ve got the wrong gal. I’m not here today to vow to stop speaking
my mind, my truth, or about my feelings because it irritates someone else. No
promises here to try harder to go with the flow and fit into this crowd or that.
That shit goes against nature. My nature anyway. Besides, I’m starting to learn
to accept the perfect mess I’ve spent 43 years becoming. It’s cool.
So, you may be asking what I’m here yapping about then, when
you’re out there kissing your loved ones, and hugging the strangers next to
you. Or what I could be doing at this late hour while you’re sleeping snug in
your beds, oblivious to the parties the neighbors are having? I’ll tell ya. The
truth is 2013 has not been my favorite year of them all. Don’t worry. I’m not
going to dwell on last year’s news. It’s just been less than the most fun of
all in the world forever. And that kinda sucked. So that brings us to this
moment in time.
I’m prepping for a complete overhaul, folks. New year = new
beginnings, and all that stuff, right? So, tonight—just moments ago—I took the
first step in creating a new life for myself. New challenges, new people, new
experiences. Out with the old, in with the new. Cliché? Perhaps. But true. I’m
not messing around—anyone who knows me knows I don’t stick in a toe to test the
water. I jump in and then see if I can figure out how to swim.
For example, I took a secret (read “unapproved by the parental
unit”) vacation in my youth and ended up moving from Indiana to Florida 4
months later to go to college to become a zookeeper. I ended a marriage one
month, and tackled open heart surgery in practically the next breath. I covered
every possible angle of my lifelong dream to work with animals (zookeeping,
wildlife rehabilitation, veterinary technician, and pets of course), and then
walked away from it all 10 years later when I fell in love with a French Canadian 5 years my
junior. I “built” a family of friends living in Florida for many years, and
then packed everything I could into a U-Haul, quit my jobs, and with no
promises between us, I moved to upstate New York just so I could date the
Frenchman ‘properly’ and see if we had a shot at a “real relationship” instead
of the long distance “fantasy of a romance” we’d been playing at. I put my stuff
in a storage unit, and spent 6 weeks looking for a job and a place to live. I
talked my way into a preschool teaching job on charm, desperate desire, and my
experience cleaning animal poop, and ended up as a head teacher within a year.
And when my love proposed three years later, I immigrated into Canada and got
married to a man a lot of people had told me was too young to truly commit (we’ve
been working our way through his so-called “commitment issues” – 17 years and 3
kids later. Lol). And when I realized I had limited options (read “no”) for
jobs living in the nation’s capital, because a) there is no zoo, b) preschool
teachers are actually required to be certified, and c) I don’t speak, read, or
write French in a town built on bilingualism, I decided to skip the whole job
search stress thing and started my own business. I now own and operate a home
daycare.
Nope, I don’t mess around. And after a few rather shocking
jolts to my circumstance in that nasty year of 2013, I’m finally ready to try
something new.
So just a few moments ago, I registered to study to become…(drum
roll please)….a Doula.
Please don’t make that disappointed “Is that even a real
thing? Because I’ve certainly never heard of it” noise. It’s rude. Just ask me.
“What, Kelly, praytell, is a doula?”
Thank you for asking, kind people. Doulas are birth
assistants, or birth companions. They are not midwives who actually deliver
babies. A Birth Doula, or Labor Doula, provides emotional, physical, and mental
support to a mother and her partner during labor and the birth of their
child(ren). She assists the couple in education about the birthing process
(some are birth educators as well), the choices available, and the different
things that can or might occur through the process of birthing. She may help
write a birth plan. At the birth, she acts as a liaison between doctors,
nurses, and/or midwives, and makes sure the couple knows and understands what
is going on. This allows the mother to focus more on the birth, and the partner
to focus more on the mother. It is known as “mothering the mother.” The idea is
that having the extra support at the birth allows the experience to be positive,
magical, and wonderful for the mother and/or couple, reducing the stress and
increasing the joy. After the birth, the
doula will usually stay around for a couple of hours to assist with breast or
bottle feeding, make sure the mother’s needs are taken care of (that she’s
brought food, is able to rest and recover, and mostly that she is allowed to
bond with her baby). She will then visit a couple of times the first week or so
postpartum.
Postpartum doulas assist the needs of the new family
following the birth. They are there to make the transition to family life go a
little smoother. They visit the family in the home, and can answer questions
the family may have, provide a break (naptime!) for the parents, babysit older
children, run errands, prepare meals, take care of pets, or take the mother and
new baby to doctor check-ups. A lot of doulas act as both birth and postpartum
doulas.
Which is what I intend to do on this new leap of faith.
I have been fortunate. I had three healthy pregnancies,
three wonderful births and different experiences with each. I have the joy of
those memories that will last a lifetime. It has always saddened me deeply to
hear my friends or family members talk of their horrible birthing experiences.
They shudder about things gone wrong, unexpected turns in plans, or trouble
with the medical personnel they had to deal with. It’s heartbreaking to hear. But
more than anything, I can’t bear to hear someone beret themselves for perceived
failures about the choices they made, or the experiences they didn’t expect to
happen (like emergency c-sections, or difficulty breastfeeding). I would love
to help support people navigate those precious moments, and hopefully assist
them to create the kind of memories they love to remember and share.
So, this is my new adventure. I don’t know for sure if there
is enough demand for doulas in my area to make a good living of it. I don’t
have a great grasp of how the whole “on call” schedule thing will work in my
life. I don’t know any other doulas, or how willing they will be to partner up
with me to act as back-ups. I’m not sure how long it will take to start getting
“gigs” or how to set up a proper website, or what I’ll call my new business
once I get the training off to a good start. And I don’t know how soon after a
couple secures my services it would be appropriate to start cuddling the baby
belly and whispering to the unborn child that it is Totally Uncool to start
labor on a Beer Friday. I mean, will the mother freak out about that? There are
some really strange people out there. Do I really want to work with someone who
doesn’t understand the Sanctity of Beer Fridays?
As you can see, this will be quite the Leap for me. There
are a lot of details to still work the kinks out of. I’ll need to take singing
lessons, get over my repulsion of bad breath, and fight the urge to
continuously offer all the baby names I still love but my husband refused. (I
mean, seriously. What was so wrong with Sawyer? I mean, can’t you just see him?
Little blond, blue-eyed Huckleberry Finn character with a fishing pole?
Adorable, right?) The good news is that poop blow-outs will not faze me—if the
years as a monkey keeper hadn’t prepared me sufficiently, countless years of
diaper explosions and the one incident of a toddler girl finger painting the
pack-n-go crib, and splatter painting the bedroom walls with her own shit certainly
did the trick. Vomit? Check. No sweat. Blood curdling screams? No pregnant
woman has anything on my first daughter’s shrieks from the age of 2 hours until
well into her 5th year of life. (No worries, she’s perfect now.)
The opportunity to share in the miracle of birth and being
invited into the nest with the nestlings? Priceless. A gift. A blessing.
So, can you cross your fingers that I manage to make my way?
Send up a wish, if you will, that I’ll get some calls soon. And if you know
anyone in the Ottawa area looking for a doula, give them my name, will ya? I
will need to assist two mothers and/or their families as part of my training. I'm ready as I'll ever be.
Creating a new life can be scary,
I won’t lie. But there comes a time when there is really only one option left—to
push onward and get 'er done. You don’t know what gifts you’ve been given until
you get to the other side of the fear and pain.
Maybe understanding that, and practicing
it as my lifestyle, makes me uniquely qualified to help others bring a dream
come true of their own to new life.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Once Upon a Snow-Begotten Hump Day
How does one cure a "getting stuck in the snow in your driveway,
finally getting out, arriving at work really, really late, only to get stuck in
the parking lot” day? How do you survive a horrible-bank-meeting, kids fighting
because they're home from school and overexcited, power goes out, sump pump
alarm sounds, and water pump stops working kind of day? What if the city
snowplow shows up to plow the lane, but not until it’s a full 10 hours past the
time it's actually useful? How does one cope when this comes on top of two weeks of mounting frustration with bosses who are oblivious to the value of the
work you're doing, coworkers who are sabotaging your efforts, equipment failure
after equipment failure—and you need the equipment in order to Make Your Living
and answer the Money Gods? What happens when you’re searching all of the jobs available
in the surrounding area, but realize you qualify for exactly none, mostly
because you grew up in Small Town, Indiana, and never learned the french that is
necessary to land a job in the capital of Canada? What do you do when you are
Buried in Snow in NOVEMBER?
Worry not, friends, I have the answer to all of these
problems.
W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.
Those of you already on board Kelly's Facebook Train, are
well aware of the absolute SACREDNESS of BEER FRIDAYS in her world (and the
worlds of those on board). Beer Fridays are the end of the week treat, the
reward, if you will, for persevering against all odds. They are the Goal to
Reach at the end of a hard week's work. The light that shines through all other
lights, and any darkness that may descend. Beer Fridays are a ritual, a
tradition, and, by God and all that's Holy, an international
holiday-in-the-making. (We're working on it, folks. In between Fridays...and
beers...and the random hangover. Be patient please...It is our intention to
make it global. Please feel free to start your own grassroot local chapter of a
Beer Friday tradition. We only ask you give us credit for the Trademark ‘Beer
Friday’ title. It is dear to us, and organically born of two friends sneaking a
beer (ok two) one evening from the back of an old pick-up truck.
But sometimes...SOMETIMES...we can't make it through an
entire week. Monday sucks, Tuesday feels like it should be Friday already, and
by the time Wednesday rolls around, the world just seems to crumple into a
disaster of epic proportions. No one can reasonably expect a person—or
people—to hold themselves up for another two days until the
blessed relief that is Beer Friday. It is irrational. Perverse. Sick, I tell
you.
It’s not like said people gave up, mind you. We woke up, as
Canadians often do, and found the 30 centimeters of snow that were predicted by the local
weatherman the previous day. In NOVEMBER. The school buses were cancelled,
bringing on a litany of too-early-in-the-morning celebratory screams from the
school children. Without a moment’s pause for breath, they began their epic
battles for ownership of the Wii-U pad, and ipods and immediately entered the
domain of Minecraft and some world or character known as Pikman (not to be
confused with Pokemon or Pacman). The person that stayed up until 2am watching
Glee reruns on Netflix the previous night moaned to herself, took a couple of
extra vitamins, and braced herself for a day of negotiating electronic-device
timeshares, babydoll apparel, and coloring book contracts. She did it with a
smile.
It’s only 7:13 am.
The one who must go to school in spite of bus cancellations,
because he must babysit the children whose parents have no regard for
weather-infringing road hazards of staff, set himself into the seat of his
Corolla…the snowtires already tucked neatly into the backseat for the appointment
to put them on the vehicle—in three days. He pulls out of the garage...and gets
stuck. Phenomenally stuck. In his own driveway. He perseveres, grinding gears,
spinning tires, slipping and sliding this way and that, backwards in his long,
snow-begotten driveway. He makes progress—maybe 20 feet out of about 100.
A daughter rushes to the rescue with a shovel. Her coat
hanging open, no snow pants, the boots on, but untied. Toque eschew. She digs
ferociously—relentlessly—at the snow beneath the tires and undercarriage of the
car, flipping wet, heavy snow by the spoonful over her shoulder.
She is eight years old.
The Other Guy shows up and offers supervision, laughter, and
the occasional suggestion for wheel angles to the Stuck Guy. He waves his arms around
in the air, usefully pointing out the copious amounts of snow we all know is
keeping Stuck Guy stuck in the driveway. Ultimately helpless in this moment, he
gets back into his car with his Warm Wife who has been waiting patiently in the car, and steamrolls his way down the unplowed
laneway, showing Stuck Guy why he should have purchased a vehicle with
four-wheel-drive instead of the sensible family minvan.
In his defense, Stuck Guy did not cry. At least not visibly.
He said calm things into his cell phone, pulled his
snowblower out of the garage, and blew snow all over himself and the
eight-year-old Little Digger while clearing out the area around the car. He
proceeded to blow tracks the length of the laneway…a full quarter mile…just so
he could go to work. To babysit kids at school whose parents bring them to
school rain or shine, blizzard or tornado, sleet or hell. Oops, hail. He gets it, though his wife is not so understanding as she watches her love leave in horrible conditions. Most adults don’t get snow days. Not even in Canada. Especially not in
Canada. Snowshoe or die, folks. Canada is not for those weak in weather. Though
this laneway is a city road, the city snowplow operators ignore it regularly.
The Other Guy rides off into the falling snowflakes with his Warm Wife. They go to the bank. Shit gets ugly. Someone cries. Dreams are lost and
found. There are talks born of desperation, discussions of failures,
possibilities, and faults. Numbers are thrown around like confetti, questions
fired like an inquisition, and emotions squashed as if a plague. There is no
room for sentimentality in this cut-throat business. Just another day in the
livelihood of a small Canadian family-owned-and-operated farm. They wipe tears, take a deep breath, and consider their options. Then they discuss separating the family during the holidays and for several months beyond in order to
make enough money to save the farm that’s been in the family for five
generations.
The Warm Wife of The Other Guy settles into the century home that
is in desperate need of renovation, and immediately returns to promoting her
family business online, and working her full time government job from home because she had to take a personal day for the bank meeting. She tries to get it all done before she has to pick up her kids from daycare. She knows they need her to pay attention to them, to
help them with homework, and to listen to them about their days, their
concerns, their hopes, joys, and experiences. She is a good listener, a good
mom, and loves to spend time with her family.
The Other Guy, unable to crop his livelihood because of snow and farm
equipment that is broken still and again, uses his machinery for good. He
drives his new bobcat tractor several kilometers down the road, stopping
at driveways in the countryside to plow out his neighbors. He moves from one to
the other, not stopping or asking for pay. He’s just being neighborly—because he can.
He returns home to plow his own driveway only after helping out his neighbors. He
thinks nothing of this.
Meanwhile, Stuck Guy is on a roll. He manages to make the
treacherous drive all the way into town and gets to the school for duty. But he
gets stuck in the school parking lot. This is not a joke, nor is it taken as
such. Still, he does not complain. Instead, he reports for duty, apologizes for
being late, and takes on his responsibilities for the day—caring for special
needs kids, as well as assisting teachers throughout the school with tedious
tasks. He does this with great cheer and pride. The school kids love him, the
special needs kids adore him, and the teachers can’t live without him. However,
he is not valued for his role by his superiors. His role is not rewarded by the
school system, the school board, or the province. In
fact, his pay—an hourly rate, not salary as teachers get—will be
docked for being late, in spite of the weather. He does not care. He will
continue to do what he does, and give more than 100%, because he believes in
serving those who need him. He approaches his job as he approaches his family
and his friends—he is devout. This is his lifestyle. There is right, and there
is wrong, and he always chooses right, no matter what.
Back on the homefront, children are playing, as children do
on snowdays home from school. There are five. Three of my own, and my other
two. These started as daycare kids, but have become so much more. I realized
that when talking to my sister who lives far away in Indiana. I talked about
each child – their accomplishments and challenges, funny stories, and our
collective thoughts, hopes, and concerns. I seamlessly went from the children I
birthed to the children I've loved into my life without a moment’s thought or
hesitation. They are like siblings, they are all mine, no matter the
technicalities.
The power went out. This happens a lot in the country. And
we had a nice fire going in the woodstove downstairs, so warmth was not a
problem. But the Sump Pump had a real problem with it. It began to beep.
Repeatedly. Relentlessly.
I opened the door, pushed some buttons with flashing lights.
It stopped beeping. For a moment. And then began to beep faster.
I grabbed my phone and texted The Stuck Guy as well as The
Other Guy. I am not comfortable with machines talking back to me. They are so
difficult to discipline. Like toddlers. Or puppies. But less cute.
Suggestions were made from both sources. Push the buttons. One
button. Then the other. Push them both together. I pushed the buttons at will to
no avail.
I bent into the closet on my knees, cleaning cobwebs out of
the shadows with the red locks of my hair, and leaned over the pit laden with
pipes and floating balls. I dipped my hands into the slimy, ice cold water and
lifted first one ball, then the other, and finally cupped both balls in my
hands, gingerly holding them above water level.
While such a gentle gesture may be appreciated in certain
circles, this angered the Sump Pump Lord.
He began to screech and whistle at me, beeping maniacally.
Lights flashed—green, orange, red, and yellow lights spelling out words in too
rapid a succession for me to decipher. The screaming filled my ears, the
vibrations of rage tore through my soul. I just knew I had committed some
irrevocable crime against machinery.
But I was a trained zookeeper. I knew that no matter what
happened, no matter how dire the situation, no matter how much it struggles and
fights…once you have caught up your animal and have a good grip on it, you must
Never under Any circumstance Let Go Of That Animal. It will only put you in
grave danger. Because now, it is PISSED OFF.
There was no doubt in my mind in that moment that the Sump Pump
Lord was Pissed Off. I could not let go of its balls. With tears slipping down
my cheeks, and the buzz of screaming ricocheting my brain against the sides of
my skull, I leaned deeper into the pit of slimy water and gently transferred
the left ball against the inside of my right forearm, freeing my left hand.
When I was sure both balls were secure above water level, I used my left hand
to again text The Stuck Guy, and to explain that I was, well, stuck.
He texted suggestions to me, all of which I’d already tried
repeatedly, and all of which had failed. I begged him to tell me where the
hatchet was, desperate to put the suffering Sump Pump Lord out of his misery. I couldn't stand to watch and listen to him in such torment. That’s when The
Stuck Guy left me.
I’ll never know if it was because a child needed his
attention at school, or his boss caught him helping someone other than Her
Royal Self. Maybe the school had a surprise fire drill, or his car suddenly and
mysteriously disengaged itself from the snow ruts of the parking lot as he
watched through a classroom window. I like to think the phone simply lost its
charge and died…as we all claim happens but never really does because who would
actually let their cell phone DIE?! No one. It’s unfathomable.
Nonetheless, I was stuck at home cradling a pair of balls
over a vat of smelly water in a dark closet of my basement. The Sump Pump Lord
screamed obscenities at me in a language I couldn’t understand, and frankly,
didn’t want to. I could only assume he was in agony and begging for his
motherboard, mercy, or both.
It was time to let go. I dropped his balls.
They landed with a gentle splash in the stagnant water, and
the screaming continued. My nerves were shot, my emotions raw, and I had no
plausible options. So, I reared up to the full height of myself on my knees,
leaned over the Sump Pump Lord, and pushed both buttons simultaneously as hard
as I could. I leaned the full weight of myself into my fingers, ignoring the
cobwebs stretching across my nose, up to my earlobe, and I didn’t let go.
It wailed one last bloodcurdling oath, and fell silent.
The quiet filled my head much the same as the screaming
had…a steady pulse, a rhythmic hum of its own. The lights were gone too. My
chin dropped out of respect and I honored the moment of silence with reverence
and a little regret. I knew it had been for the best, the Sump Pump Lord was no
longer suffering. I had done what I had to do.
And then it beeped. One soft, gentle beep. I glanced up. The
glow of a green light beckoned my gaze. Steady and sure of itself, it spoke to
me. I finally understood. “System Ready,” the light said. “System Ready.”
And it was.
I gently closed the door, offering the Sump Pump Lord
privacy for his rehabilitation, and went upstairs. I scrubbed my hands up to my
elbows as my mother, the nurse, had taught me. I took a deep breath, and pulled
out my cell phone. It was time to pull more than a pair of floating balls out
of a pit of despair.
I punched in some messages, and began to cook.
By 4:30, some mellow music was playing via Songsa on my
ipod, a vat of chili was simmering on the stove, and a loaf of Harvest Beer
Bread was baking in the oven (from my Sunset Gourmet side business,; warning,
shameless self-promotion plug here: see http://www.mysunsetgourmet.ca/3097/).
Candles were lit on the dining room table. The rest of the broken-by-Wednesday
spirits began to drift into the house.
W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.
We gathered, my hubby, friends, and I around the long,
simple dining room table. We shared the details of our rotten days, listening
and talking in turn. We ate like gluttons. We partook of wine and local brewery
beers, and a shameful amount of 5-minute microwave fudge (another Sunset
Gourmet treat. Mmm…Just saying, check it out. LOL). One of us started nodding
off at the table. It’s not the first time this has happened among us. I think
we’ve each had a turn. It’s become an endearing habit between us. When the
reality of our Hump Day Blues were worked out between conversation and
relaxation, we turned to topics to lift ourselves and each other back up off
the floor. We admired our children—their individual traits and talents—and how
our parenting ideas were so similar. We discussed possible futures for the lot
of us, and daydreamed a little about the Great What If. And then, the icing on
the shitcake of the day—we laughed. Because, together, we Always do.
And that’s the point of it all, isn’t it? There are songs
written about it. Lean on Me. You’re Not Alone. You’ve Got a Friend. Etc. When
life’s kicking you, you need to gather round and talk it out with people who
give a shit. Don’t save time with loved ones, your family and friends, just for
celebrations. Those are great, but the truly great stuff comes of the time
spent lifting someone up, and/or supporting each other. And after you talk about the downs, make sure
you include some Ups. Smile. Toast. Laugh. Really laugh. And then remember…sometimes
you can’t…you shouldn’t…wait until the next holiday. Sometimes you can’t even
wait until Beer Friday.
Every once in awhile you’re going to need a W(h)ine
Wednesday. And that’s okay.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Shenanigan
Hi, my name is Kelly and I’m a Shenanigan-aholic. I’ve been shenanigan-free
for 12 hours. To be honest, I’m not comfortable in this new persona. It doesn’t
seem to suit me. I’ve been a lifelong shenaniganist. Oh, like any other
shenanigan addict, I’ve had my time on the wagon—days, months, even years at
one point early in motherhood. But I always find my way back to my addiction.
Before hitting bottom this morning, I’d been on the wagon
for 17 days. That last shenanigan was with friends of my husband Seb and I in northern Ontario. The
Birnies had invited us to spend the
weekend at their lakeside cottage. Everything was going well. Stories were
shared and the wine flowed, but I managed to avoid any true shenanigans. At
least until the second morning. The guys decided to go into the ice cold lake
for a swim on a cold, cloudy day. I watched them work their way into the water
inch by inch, hollering about the cold and hugging themselves but sporting huge
grins and pride. Darren was first—it was his “thing” to swim in the cold lake
since he was from northern Ontario. Sebastien followed him slowly. I put my
feet in and felt the blood in my ankles turn to ice. The guys told me to join
them. I stepped back out of the water, shaking my head, and explained there was
no way in hell I was putting on a bikini in 8 degree weather to swim in ice
water. But as they continued to congratulate themselves and each other, I could
feel the shenanigan coming on. It started knocking for release from the inside
of my skull—the sound of it like a pounding drum, drowning out Annik as she
came to my aide in the Sisterhood of Support for Sane People. Shenanigan-free
people. I loved her in that moment, in spite of my need. Perhaps even more so because of it. I fought it for a moment,
grasping at The Sisterhood like a lifeline, but when Darren said he was
impressed with Seb because not too many people would go into a lake that he
himself found too damned cold, I turned on my heel and raced to the house.
Darren said, “What’s this? She’s going to get her suit, she’s coming in,” and I
shook my head, still fighting the powerful urge, when Seb said there was no way
I would ever get into that lake.
So I schooled them.
I put on my bikini in record time, pounded across that deck,
and before they even realized I was really going in, I hit the shoreline, and then
was in the water. Though it had taken each of them several minutes to get out
to chin-deep water, it took me mere seconds to reach them.
Heady with the high of the shenanigan (I’m not gonna lie to
you, the whoops and cheers are still ringing in my ears and fluffing my ego),
no matter how much I tried to come down, I continued the evening with a lot of
banana liqueur, red wine, and unsavory comments and suggestions. It was, at
least, a high-quality shenanigan, and worth every insult and giggle.
But the next morning, I made sure my friendships and
marriage were still intact, and breathing a sigh of relief to find they were, I
promised myself there would be no more shenanigans for me. I would behave. I
would be a stand-up citizen. No more shenanigan hangovers.
We addicts know how that goes, don’t we? I managed to
remain straight for 17 more days. Even through my birthday celebrations, I
remained uncharacteristically tame. I told myself life could be enjoyed without shenanigans. There could be good ol’ wholesome
fun among friends and family, and I vowed to embrace such a lifestyle.
I like to blame others for my falls. Heh, heh. Don’t we all?
I’ve blamed my friends, my family, and my job. I’ve even blamed my pets. Yes, I
know. I’m not proud of it. Lately I’ve been blaming society. You know what I
mean? There is a constant pressure to perform, to earn and succeed in every
aspect of life. Careers. Marriage. Sex. Health. Looks. Parenting. Being a
housewife as well as running a home business. I threw myself into conquering it
all—getting it all right once and for all. I found myself running to meetings
to learn about new legislation that will affect my daycare business. I began to
feel like a bad parent for missing meetings with my kids’ teachers and choir
concerts. I even attended church and dreaded family functions a few times in
order to please other people. These were the things I needed to do in order to
avoid shenanigans. This is what mothers, wives, home business owners are supposed to be doing. This is what keeps
them respectable, humble, and straight. But these expectations from society
that make up our culture just build and build. Sure, one can stay off the
shenanigans when you’re focused on doing everything right. It even feels good
sometimes—sort of comforting. But after
awhile, it’s like being in a pressure cooker, and I find myself looking for the
little knob that will release some steam. That’s when I turn to my addiction.
That’s when the urge for shenanigans is at its strongest.
You can’t blame society. I understand that now. My
shenaniganism is my doing. My responsibility. I am the only one accountable for
my choices.
My low point came just hours ago, early this morning. It had
been a rough day yesterday, followed by a late night. The kids—all 8 of them (3
of my own and 5 daycare)—were driving me crazy and I couldn’t think or eat or
calm down. They were screaming at each other, running through my house, and
jumping on the furniture. The baby fell—the cop’s daughter—for the third time
that day while trying to keep up with the hyper big kids. No one seemed to be
getting along. We had a birthday party for one of the boys. I knew that the
chocolate cupcakes would just make it all worse, but cupcakes are an essential
part of birthdays, and the consequence of feeding several children that much
sugar is a foregone conclusion—added chaos. Other mothers can handle this.
Other parents and daycare providers do these things with grace and a smile.
They snap pictures, organize games, and hand out loot bags. When do they find time to shop for and put together loot bags?
But even more so—why would they do
that to other parents? Why give them cheap toys that we all despise and throw
in the trash the first chance we get? But that is what Good Parents do, so it
was on my agenda of personal challenges. I will eventually produce loot bags to
hand out at my kids’ birthdays, but not today. Today, cupcakes and balloons were
all I could handle. But it was also a full moon, week #874 of dreary, rainy
weather, and the last week of school.
My patience was lost, and I was shaking with the need for a full-on shenanigan.
I took some deep breaths, and controlled myself. I handed the kids over to
their parents with a quiver in my voice, but other than the bruised cheek on
the cop’s baby, they were safe. Shortly after, the power went off, and
my own kids kicked up the tension about sixteen levels. Still, I held it
together and let my husband handle it. I remained shenanigan-free. And then he
left to play baseball and drink beer.
My husband is one of Those People. You know the ones…the
kind that can control their fun and mischief, and not let it go as far as a
full-throttle shenanigan. I know. I don’t understand how he does it either. I
mean, I even catch myself sometimes thinking that can’t be any fun at all, and
what’s the point? If you can’t have the whole shenanigan, why even taste it? I
guess that’s what makes me an addict. Seb can be a lot of fun, trust me. When
I’m thinking clearly—when I’m not in the throes of my addiction—I really do admire
him. But I’ve never been able to just taste the fun—or trouble—without going
all-in.
Well, he went to play in his baseball game and then to drink
some beer with the guys. Trying to stifle my jealousy that he was able to let off some steam,
I sat at home, lonely once the kids were
in bed, scanning Netflix to distract me from the need for another fix. I waited
for him, hoping his gossip and stories of the evening would be enough to feed
me, or at least stop my trembling need for a hit of fun. But it got
late, and later. And later. He finally came in at 12:45am on a work night. Normally this would make him rant about how tired he would be at work
the next day, but this time he was happy, relaxed, and decidedly carefree.
It was too much.
I couldn’t take it. I’d been fighting my
dire need for a shenanigan of my own all day—hell, for 17 full days—and seeing
him sated and satisfied by his own fun was too much for me. I looked around,
searching desperately for something to give me a little release. Just a tiny
hit was all I needed. But it was too late for a good movie. I’d already written a new blog post—ready for
posting today—and there were no more words to play with. It was too late to
start drinking beer, and Seb was in too good a mood to sport me a decent fight.
I’m ashamed to admit, I tried. Quivering with need, I grumped and pouted. I
prodded him about our plans for the weekend, thinking I could delay the need until
it passed. He wouldn’t bite. There was no fun to be had, no tomfoolery to
instigate, no trouble to start, and nothing obnoxious to do. While of course I
prefer the shenanigans bought with good times and fun, I was desperate, and
would have settled for the cheap high of the more inexcusable variety. But there
was simply no stash to pull off a decent shenanigan anywhere. All I could do
was go to sleep, so I did.
I hit rock bottom on the other side of that long day and
night—this morning. My kids are the ones who found me initially, and then
others became involved. The kids saw me taping thank you notes on
end-of-the-year presents for their teachers, drawing smiley faces on my
handwritten cards. Some of the gifts were for teachers I’d never met, and one
was even for a teacher I had despised all year because she didn’t want to help
my daughter with her reading struggles. But I loaded those gifts into plastic bags
for my daughters to carry, yelled for them to get in the van and we shot up the
drive. I could see the bus at the end of our lane, as well as the neighbor who
had put his son on the bus. But about halfway in my race down the laneway, with
dirt billowing and gravel flying behind my spinning tires, the bus pulled away.
I had missed it. It was the first time all year. In a year of meeting 6 buses a
day, it was the first miss—with just 3 school days left.
I hit the brakes at the end of the lane, jumped out of the
van, and slapped my hands against the sides of my head. The kids opened the side door and hopped out, and the
neighbor climbed out of his car, pointing out the obvious—that the bus had left
without my kids. He looked at me, grinned and said, “It wasn’t my kid that missed it this time.”
“FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!!”
I kicked at the dirt road, yelled at the kids to get back into
the van, and then turned to the astonished neighbor—who also happens to be one
of my best friends. The friend who had brought me coffee and cold beer on other
days I’d found myself in need of a shenanigan-fix. Wayne, my fellow Gemini, a friend who totally gets
me.
I could feel it
coming on, and was helpless against the force of it. Even I knew my eyes must look too wild—like my screws had finally come
loose for good. “I don’t know what the hell to do! I don’t know when Seb has to
be at work, so I don’t know if he can even take the kids. Maybe it’s too early,
and he won’t be able to drop them off. Stupid teacher gifts. Fuck!”
Wayne looked at the bags of gifts my girls held as they cowered
in the safety of the van. “Teacher gifts? Teacher
gifts?” he asked. “But why?”
“I always give
teacher gifts at the end of the school year!!!” I screeched. “And now we missed
the fucking bus because I was getting the stupid teacher gifts ready and the kids’ sunscreen on and their lunches out and their backpacks packed and make sure they ate breakfast and the daycare parents were arriving
and nothing was going right. Fuck!
And now I have to take the kids to school, but first I have to meet Keidrick’s
bus in half an hour and then Gibson’s fucking bus doesn’t come until 8:25 and
the girls are supposed to be at school by 8:00. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit!!!
Well, Seb is just going to have to take them. I don’t know what else to do. They
can just sit outside the school and wait for a teacher to show up if it’s too
early. Goddamnitalltohell!!!”
Wayne’s eyes opened wide and he backed slowly away from me
towards his car. He never took his eyes off my face as he reached for the door
handle. He was supposed to also be dropping off his daughter at my house for
daycare, so I got into the van, slammed the door and started backing down the
laneway so he could follow me.
He jumped into his car, threw it into gear and shot forward
out of the drive and skidded down the street without a backward glance.
I haven’t heard from him since.
His wife Alison dropped the daughter a little later,
slipping into the house quietly and kissing her child goodbye. She was halfway
out the door when I came down the stairs to greet her. Her hand tightened on
the doorknob and her eyes kept darting to the window of the door,
doubtlessly hoping for backup to suddenly appear in the driveway. She left as
quickly as her husband had departed, but with less squealing of tires on
pavement.
And that was my rock bottom. It was an ugly, shameful
shenanigan, and it wasn’t worth it. It frightened my children, put my husband
on the defensive, and could have cost me treasured friendships. There’s a chance
I’ll see The Seays again. They’ve experienced my shenanigans before. Wayne is a
bit of a shenanigan addict himself—truth be told, we tend to egg each other on,
but we understand that about each other. It’s good to have friends who
understand you.
But now I’m making a vow
to get my life on track—to get it right this time. I’m going to control my
temper, plan and organize the lives of my family better, and stick to a
schedule. I’m going to make those loot bags for the kids’ birthdays this year,
damn it, and find a way to handle sugar-highs and full moon behavior of all the
children in my care. I’ll stop staying up until all hours of the night writing
ridiculously silly blog posts, wake up earlier to meet buses, and take ballroom
dancing instead of pole. I’ll stop cursing, engaging in belching contests, and
giggling at crude conversations. I’m going to write a literary novel nobody
will want to read and take the Canadian oath, and I’m going to do all of it
with the grace and elegance of the Duchess of Cambridge. I know that I cannot
continue to chase the next shenanigan-high and expect to live a respectable,
responsible life. There is no real reward at the end of a summer full of
drinking and tomfoolery with friends, laughing raucously, and dancing wildly at
any given moment. The only way to get straight and stay shenanigan-free is to
embrace a controlled lifestyle and create a whole new me. Just because the
addiction is part of who I am doesn’t mean I have to give into it and indulge
in hilarity and spirit whenever the desire hits me. So here’s my new creed:
I, Kelly Shannonhouse Lalonde, pledge to commit to a life of
respect, responsibility, and reasonable fun. I want to earn the trust of my
loved ones, the 6-weeks-straight beer coaster-of-honor, and the…
Wait. Did someone say BEER coaster?!
Oh hell. Screw it. I’m out.
Is it Friday yet? Are you serious? It’s only Tuesday? WTF?
Where the hell did my music go? Child, you better give that ipod back to me if
you know what’s good for you!
Wayne? Where are you, buddy? Help a friend out, will ya? Seb
took the beer out of the fridge again to make room for stupid vegetables and to discourage
middle-of-the-week shenanigans. The man has his priorities all wrong. Bring a cold 2-4, ok? I’ll share…promise. We know it’s more fun with company. We’ll get The
Birnies to stay for a beer or three too when they come to pick up the baby. Yeah, that’s it…crank up the tunes,
and we can sing along with Mr. Shelton. “If you’ve got a problem with that...you
can kiss my country ass…” Oh yeah, now that's what I’m talking about. Sing it
Blake!!
Now that’s more
like it!
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Kelly's Potty Training Boot Camp (Part 2) - The Recipe
KELLY'S POTTY TRAINING BOOT CAMP RECIPE
Here’s Kelly’s recipe for Potty Training success. You will need:
1 week (mostly in-home)
1 potty seat
1 toilet
1 lg. sippy cup
Water or fruit juice
1 baggie of your choice of M&Ms,
Skittles, or Jellybeans, OR one special toy
1 ready toddler of your choice, stirred,
not shaken*
1 glut Patience, to taste
[*Note: Readiness is determined by
consistency. If you often find the toddler of your choice retreating to a
certain corner to complete their business, if they tell you their wrapping is soiled,
and/or the wrapping has been stripped from the bum without your assistance, you
may have overdone the diapers, and need to remove the toddler from its wrap. If
your diapered child pops up in the bathroom while others are completing their
business, or place their dollies and stuffies on the potty, this also indicates
your diaper days are nearly done. Proceed to the following steps.]
As Miss Birnie is the most recent of my
successes, I used her as my toddler of choice for this recipe, so will use the
term she/her. Obviously, this also applies to all he/his options as well.
Immediately remove absorbent wrap from bum
of the toddler. Set aside wrap for bedtime use only. Fill the large sippy cup
with your choice of water or fruit juice (I like water, but fruit juice is good
for a thicker potty filler. You can also choose to alternate the two to get
both fillings for your potty.). Begin to saturate your toddler with liquids,
refilling the sippy as often as necessary. You do not want your toddler to dry out, or your recipe will not turn out
properly.
Introduce your toddler to her potty. Make
sure that they remain in the vicinity of each other at all times this early in
the process. It is important that they are properly bonded to each other.
Explain to your toddler that the potty is her new best friend, and that her
friend loves pee and poo more than anything in the world. Her job is to keep
her friend happy, by feeding it all the pee and poo she can.
Go about her play. Assist her in her
endeavors. Watch her for signs that her filling is getting ready to overflow.
If she stops taking on liquids, and sets the sippy aside, joyfully,
enthusiastically return the sippy to her hands, and encourage her to ingest
more. Praise her when she does (I find that first cheering her with a
coffee/beer mug-against-sippy cup tap, followed by chanting, “Chug! Chug!
Chug!” is a very effective way to
infuse your toddler with liquids. Some of you may have used this method in the
pre-baby days with some good music and friends, a funnel, er, um, or so I’ve
heard…Anyway, I digress…).
At some point in the morning, your toddler
will start refusing the liquid refills. This is an excellent indicator that her
filling is about done. Check your toddler often. At this point, you will want to
place her on the potty, and sit with her. Tell her, “Put the pee-pee (or
poo-poo) in the potty. The potty wants the pee (or poo). Feed your friend the
potty, it’s thirsty and hungry.” Leave
the toddler on the potty for a few moments. If nothing happens, the filling is
not ready, so release the toddler to play. About every 5 minutes, return the
toddler to the potty and repeat previous encouragement. Eventually, your
toddler’s filling should overflow into the bowl.
[*Note: The first couple of times this happens, the
toddler may become very upset and scream or cry. THIS IS NORMAL behavior! Do
not worry. Simply reassure the toddler that this is EXACTLY what she is
supposed to do and that it is a GOOD THING, a MOST EXCELLENT THING to do! Then
move immediately onto the following step.]
REWARD your toddler IMMEDIATELY!
Congratulate her. Celebrate her success. Give her 1 candy treat for a pee-pee,
2 for a poo-poo. Absolutely no more sugar treats than that at any time. While
working the bladder so intensely, the excess sugar can and will become detrimental
to the outcome of the product. You want a toddler that connects the treat to
the release of fluids into the potty in her mind, and does not mistake the
treat for any other thing. (I also like to sing songs, clap, and dance for
EVERY, SINGLE potty success. If there are other people in the house, this is a
great time to do a celebratory parade through the house, singing the praises of
the toddler-who-went-potty-and-just-became-a-big-girl (or boy). You can NEVER
make too big a deal out of this. It NEVER grows old for them, and many respond
more to the praise than the treat. This is THE BIGGEST DEAL OF THEIR LIVES SO
FAR. Don’t forget that.
[*Note: Some people prefer to give the
toddler a special toy to play with as the reward instead of a candy treat. This
is also effective. The way to use this method is to have a special
Potty-Success-Only toy in a place the child can see, but not reach it. Once
they have successfully released the fluids into the potty, set a timer for
10-15 minutes, and allow the child to play with that toy without having to
share it with any friends or siblings. When time is up, return the toy to the
special spot until the next success. No other child is allowed to touch that
toy at any time, so that the toddler understands this is ONLY for HER
successes.]
As soon as the treat and parade
celebration are complete, refill the sippy and begin infusing your toddler with
liquids again. You will complete the above steps repeatedly for the next
several days. Only wrap your toddler for sleeps, for going out of the home, and for long distance travel. (I suggest pull-ups for out-of-home excursions only, so that you can place toddler on available
toilets more easily. You want to make sure that toddler understands that using
a potty is for ALL times and places, not just at home.)
[Hints: As soon as your toddler has had a
day with some successes, you’ll want to start placing her on a Big People Toilet once in awhile.
This is VERY important because she must become comfortable releasing the fluids
and solids into a larger bowl, as most public and private restrooms do not
offer potty seats. Allowing your toddler to flush the big toilets after they've
made their contribution is another effective reward.
The big toilet may be frightening at first for
your toddler, so be reassuring and NEVER leave a frightened toddler alone on a
big toilet. There are available “toppers” for toddlers that can be placed on big
toilets, but again, I prefer not to use them, as they are not available in restrooms
in the world-at-large. Though there are some people who will carry such a
device with them, I am not of that temperament. I prefer to get the toddler
comfortable with real-life options as soon as possible.]
Another important note to make is that
after a few successes, the toddler will catch on to what is happening, and may
resist. This is the point where your toddler will actively refuse to sit on the
potty. This is the time of the watery eyes and pouty lips. YOU MUST RESIST
CAVING IN TO SUCH DRAMAS AT ALL COSTS. Understand that your toddler has simply
become bored with the process, and finds diapers more convenient for her busy agenda.
Though you may agree with her, this is where you will need to start peppering
your toddler from the glut of Patience. You MUST remain consistent, and become even
more devout in your toddler-to-potty administrations. Place the child
(regardless of watery or pouty consistency) upon the potty every half-hour and
encourage them to fill it. If you must, park the potty in front of a
television, the lunch table, or give the toddler books to look at. Often the
distraction is enough to release the necessary filling into the potty. It is okay to ask your toddler to stay on the potty for several minutes at a time, once they understand you want them to feed the potty pee or poo. Their boredom with this will not last long and they will learn to release the ingredients quickly after a couple of long sits.
The flip side to the toddler resisting the
potty, is that they may quickly learn to turn it into a game for their
advantage. Once they learn they will receive a candy per pee, they will learn
to squirt the liquids in increasingly smaller amounts, more often. For the
first week, and even for a couple of weeks after, you WILL COOPERATE with your
very clever toddler! You will continue to praise and reward your toddler, both
for her self-control and cleverness, but also because if the game ends too
quickly, they may chose not to play anymore because it is no
longer fun or interesting. Trust me, a couple of weeks down the road, you may
run out of potty treats and your toddler may not notice, or will give you leave
to purchase more at your earliest convenience. The treats will disappear
naturally and with less fanfare than you may expect, so continue to reward your
toddler as long as necessary.
That, my friends and devout readers, is my
recipe for Potty Training Success. I find that usually by the end of the first
week, you can place your child in those coveted undies, and continue with the
same steps of the recipe with similar success, simply decreasing the infusion
of liquids and extending the periods of mandatory potty-sits as you see the
toddler has caught on to the process. The first couple of times your child
wears undies (and again, I recommend you start this at home, not out in
public), she may mistake it for an absorbent wrap and allow the filling to
overflow into it. This may be devastating to your toddler, which is actually a
positive sign (Believe me, devastation is preferable to the toddler who doesn’t
seem to mind a thoroughly soaked wrap, for those are much more
difficult to bring to readiness and present to the world at large.). Gently
remove your toddler from the saturated wrap and remind her that the pee and poo
go IN THE POTTY now that she’s a Big Girl. It’s not a big deal, she simply
forgot to feed her best friend its favorite thing, and assure her you know she’ll
remember next time.
To be honest, every experience with Potty
Training will be slightly different. While I firmly believe most toddlers can
and will be trained during the day hours within a week or two (nights can take
months, or years longer, I've found, depending on how deep your toddler/child
sleeps…I find most kids give up their own pull-ups for nights without much
interference or suggestion from you), I will admit there is an occasional
glitch in the system. For instance, I realized that I had a boy at
one point that I believed had been fully trained for about a year and a half.
He went to the bathroom every time I suggested it (I had incorporated it into
our daily routine), and never had accidents on my watch. What I didn't realize
until he was 4 ½ was that he’d had regular accidents with his parents once he
was out of my care at night, because they were not on a schedule that included “Go
to the bathroom” as part of their routine (i.e. before leaving the house, going
to bed, when returning from a car trip, etc.). I had so thoroughly incorporated
bathroom usage into our routine, I didn't realize I’d simply trained him to go
on command, rather than pay attention to the needs of his body. That was early
in my training days, and I have rectified that by not insisting on potty-sits
after those first few weeks, and less suggestion to try at the same times each day. I also had the toddler
(Oh, Miss Birnie, you are so full of surprises, you little imp!!) who refused
to be infused with liquids after that first day. She is, at 21 months, smarter
than me (and I say that with immense pride, and just a bit of shame!). She very
quickly figured out the cause and effect of my methods, and simply refused to
make herself so uncomfortable. When I began to drink more water (“lead by
example!”), and chant more heartily (“Don’t stop now! Chug! Chug!”), she’d
simply look me in the eye, tip her sippy, and take the tiniest sip of water to
get me off her case, and go about her play. She would set her sippy aside as
soon as I made (yet another) run to the bathroom to relieve my own bladder. The
good news is, I've become very well hydrated and my skin has taken on a very
nice, healthy glow. The bad news is, I've needed to tweak my recipe for success,
but at least I always appreciate a good challenge!
I think the important things to remember
with any Potty Training recipe is that you need to Know Your Toddler, be
Present and Tuned In, and not to be afraid to get creative with your recipe. It’s
a lot of work, but always worth the effort. And the other important note is
that as much as you want your toddler trained, She is the one who decides. This
can become a great power struggle, or this can be a great Empowering
opportunity.
I mean, you can (TRY to!) fill your toddler
with liquids, and you can lead her to a potty, butt…
J
P.S. As I
said in Part 1 of Potty Training Boot Camp, I’d be happy to answer
questions/give feedback on my boot camp methods and/or potty training via this
blog, or Twitter @Kellsyjean. I look forward to hearing from you!
Monday, June 24, 2013
Kelly's Potty Training Boot Camp (Part 1)
It was a cold, wet Monday, dreary and
miserable as spring days in Canada often are. Just before 7am the cars start
pulling into my driveway—a parade of parents dropping off their kids at my home
daycare in their rush to conquer morning traffic, tackle their own personal and
professional challenges, and fight the battles the crappy weather brings into
their lives and livelihoods.
“Good morning, my lovely Seays.” I say to
the first family to arrive. These good people have become some of our best
friends. I patted the 9-year-old boy on the head as he zooms by, intent to get
in 10 minutes of battle on the Wii before I shuffle him and my daughters off to
the school bus. I squeezed the 4-year-old Miss Seay who has wrapped herself
around my waist in the day’s first bear hug. My girl. Even if she wasn’t
technically mine, she was practically a twin to my youngest daughter, and they
both look like mini-versions of my older one. I adore this sweet child who has
been with me for three years now. Her mother and I grunt at each other in the
mutual understanding that we are not morning people and respect that about one
another, neither of us expecting conversation before coffee, tea, and well,
noon to hit.
The next car. The 5-year-old boy runs into
the house first, slamming the door behind him so his 3-year-old brother has to
struggle to open it himself. The mommy-person gets the shoes and jackets off,
organizes the backpack, and reminds the school child to remember his hat. She
performs the 3-year-old’s necessary ritual of verbal reassurances before
closing the door behind her, doubtlessly thankful for completing one more
morning chore. Kids delivered. Check. Now off to work.
And the final family arrives. The mommy
and the adorable toddler girl cross the patio hand-in-hand, matching grins and
sparkling eyes, the daddy just a step behind. More of my special peeps. I have
grown tremendously fond of this family as well as My Seays. These are The
Birnies.
“Good morning, good people of mine! How is
everyone this fine gray morning?” We chat for a few moments about our weekends,
the mommy presents the bag of goodies I’ll need for the week, and all the
bigger kids come down to fuss and fight over hugging the toddler. She’s not
spoiled at all. Being Queen of Kelly’s House at 21 months of age is all part of
the charm, rights, and passages of my home daycare. Every child gets a chance
to command the minions. This child has a particular talent for it—a mere grin
will bring several older children offering a choice of toys, a smile will start
a scramble for hugs and cuddles, and a full-out giggle induces infectious
hilarity among all the children in the house. This is heady power for a
toddler, and it grows into a sense of personal power as the relationships
develop over the weeks, months, and years. I always foster that confidence to
the best of my ability. Therefore, it was time for this little queen to take on
a new personal challenge. I wished her parents a good day and kneeled in front
of little Miss Birnie.
“Please drop your drawers and surrender
your diaper at this time. These items will be placed in safekeeping for the
remainder of the day. May I offer you a Grande Sippy of our finest tap water?
There are free refills, so drink freely, but responsibly. We insist on a buddy
system, so if you’ll follow me, I’ll introduce you to your new best friend—this
special little chair. Please get acquainted with your chair and how it works.
You will be a team for the remainder of this week, and into the foreseeable
future. I wish you the very best of luck. Welcome to…KELLY’S POTTY TRAINING
BOOT CAMP. Go forth in confidence and determination, and use that inherent
stubbornness to your advantage. May your aim be true, my furniture remain dry,
and your bum bond quickly with the seat. And remember what Kelly always tells you—you can do anything you
set your mind to.”
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Boot Camp for
Potty Training. If you’re gonna do it, go all in, or not at all, I always say.
Whether it’s because I’m a Gemini and patience is the very last item on the
list of my virtues, or because I’m simply restless and too easily bored in
general, I tend to be more of a
jump-in-and-go-for-it-regardless-the-consequence kind of gal, than the
take-your-time-with-a-well-documented-method type. That includes the biggest
professional challenge of any childcare provider (or parent!)—potty training.
You parents just shivered, didn’t you? I
know it. Been there myself many times. Potty training is the stuff of horror
stories around the grocery cart in the diaper—vs .—pull-up aisle, and wide-eyed
gasps in bathroom-barren local playgrounds in the snowless months. It’s okay,
nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all been that parent or caregiver who packs the
picnic lunch, fills the water bottles, sunscreens the kids, throws the blanket
in the trunk, buckles the kids into the car seats, and drives joyfully the
twenty-odd minutes to the park singing happy songs in rounds with the kids
about sunshine and row boats, only to get out of the car, and have a toddler
proudly proclaim they have to go potty as they cross their legs tightly and
bounce up and down, hands clenched in front of their privates . I shudder
myself as I remember that sweeping search across the park full of swings,
slides, and fireman poles and come to rest briefly—desperately—on the sandbox
before returning to the bouncing toddler whose eyes are now decidedly yellow.
Then there’s the quick headcount of the 136 (or four…whatever!) kids you just
unbuckled from car seats and released to the wilds of the playground, and the
humiliating moment you think it might be okay to leave the 9-year-old in charge
as you just run down the road with the toddler to the bathroom at the nearest
Tim Horton’s. You’re not going to get any judgment from me, and I promise to
look away as you sneak the little boy to the other side of the skinny tree to
let him do his business. I’ll even glare in your behalf at the woman who looks
on in outrage and disbelief. But the little girls still wringing their hands
and trying not to cry while they bravely hold the pee-pee in are not so easy,
are they? Yup. We’ve all been there at least once, and most of us more than
that. (A little hint…don’t throw your potty to the curb as soon as potty
training is complete. Store it in the trunk of the family vehicle until your
youngest has a driver’s license and can drive herself to the local Tim’s in a
urine-related emergency. I’ve even been known to crouch in the back of the van
balancing over that seat in the middle of a breathtakingly close soccer match
that my 7-year-old is starring in. Mock me if you will, but I won’t be the one
making my child skip the popsickle-eating celebration after the game to rush to
the nearest bathroom and relieve my bladder in the comfort of a filthy stall.
I’ll be bouncing her on my shoulders and chanting free root beer for all at my house.)
Now, there are traditional methods of
potty training. The very first thing these gurus will tell you is that, “Potty
training takes time and patience.” I know people who follow these methods, and
have found success on the other side. My fellow daycare providers—God bless
them and give them a special place among the angels when their time comes—and
some parents I’ve met along the way. These are soldiers of the highest caliber,
bravely—resolutely—endlessly trudging through trenches of shit-laden underpants
and urine-soaked socks fighting on the front lines of The War on Wet Pants,
following the proper chain-of-command creed issued by the Pampers Society of North
America: “Diapers to Pull-ups, then Pull-ups to Underwear. We’ll help you grow
up, and make more money than you want to share.” But I’m cheap. And impatient,
but I think we’ve covered that.
Hence, Potty Training Boot
Camp. It sounds military-tough, and I’m not gonna lie to you, it is. One week.
One focus. And the only way out of it is to pee to get off the pot. This is not
for the faint of heart, or those weakened by watery toddler eyes and trembling
pouty lips. Nor, as I’ve recently experienced, is it for those easily confused
by the difference between toddler drama and toddler trauma. (Oh, Miss Birnie,
you certainly kicked it up a notch!) You must commit, and make no mistake, it is a huge, time-and-energy-draining
commitment.
Here’s how it went with Miss
Birnie:
We spent the morning playing as usual. There
were only two main differences. She was of the Bare Bum Status, and I was
pressuring her to drink water on a minute-to-minute basis. All was jolly, as
per usual. We were having fun. Cheering. Sipping.
And then she set her cup
down, refusing to accept it when I offered it back to her. This was a good
sign. Her bladder was full, and she knew it.
“Miss Birnie, do you need to
use the potty?”
She glanced at me. “No!”
I waited a couple of
minutes, watching her closely. She couldn’t stand still to complete the block tower
she was making, so she moved on to the kitchen set and began taking out plastic
food and placing it on a tray. Step to the sink. Step back to the bucket. Step
to the sink. Step to the bucket.
“Why don’t you come and sit on
the potty for a few minutes? Let’s try to pee-pee in the potty.” I picked her
up and placed her on the potty, and then sat down on the floor in front of her.
The other two kids joined us in a circle of support. “Pee-pee, Miss Birnie,
pee-pee!” we chanted.
Miss Birnie began to cry. Oh
no.
“It’s ok, sweetie. Just put
the pee in the potty. The potty wants the
pee, remember? It’s the potty’s favorite thing!
Give it to your friend the potty.”
She began to cry harder and
pointed to the play kitchen.
Ok, we’re going to have to
have an accident first. Sometimes, that’s the best way to jump-start success.
There were two possible outcomes for this method. One, the trainee becomes
horribly upset by the sudden expulsion of pee that soaks her legs and the floor
around her, and becomes more open to suggestion the next time she finds herself
with a full bladder. Or two, the sudden gush of pee landing on the floor is
solution enough for her and the relief so great, she will happily plod out of the
new floor river, and go about her play undaunted. (Yes, I just shivered. Been
there. Done that. No thank you.)
I crossed my fingers and
lifted her from the toilet. “Ok, honey. Go play. Let Kelly know if you need to
pee-pee.”
I handed her the sippy,
encouraged her to take another long drink, and sat back to watch. It didn’t
take long.
The screams started while I
was attending the 3-year-old boy’s sock issues—tucking his pants leg back into
his sock while he cried hysterically and swiped tears from his cheeks. Miss
Birnie’s shrieks blared over his cries. She was standing in a yellow lake of
her own making.
I rushed over, swept her out
of the raging river and placed her on the potty. “Oh, honey, you just had an
accident. It’s ok. Put the rest of the pee into the potty, and Kelly will clean
up the accident. It’s ok. You’re learning.” But it was too late. All the pee
had hit the floor. No worries, I had expected that.
I cleaned up the mess, gave
her the sippy back, and sat back to continue the watch. It usually only takes
10 minutes or less for the second wave to hit once they’ve had a couple sippy
cups full of water.
Miss Birnie, now fresh and
clean, went back to the play kitchen, offering plastic eggplant and hot dog
buns to Miss Seay and the little mister. And then she grabbed a tray full of
plastic donuts and teacups and began to run.
The first round I didn’t pay
much attention. She ran around the circumference of the playroom at a moderate
speed, easily balancing her tray of goodies. The little mister immediately took
up the chase. They do love to chase.
By round three, donuts were
flying off the tray willy-nilly as she picked up speed. Little mister couldn’t
catch her, so Miss Seay joined the merry chase.
“Ok, you sillyheads, stop
running now before somebody gets hurt,” I said. “Somebody is going to trip on a
toy and fall.”
Miss Birnie shot-put the tray into a pile of
teddy bears as she passed by, and took on a look of concentration I’d only seen
on the faces of Olympic athletes ready to go for the medal. Uh-oh.
“Miss Birnie, do you need to
pee?”
She tucked her chin toward
her chest, and kicked into full gear—the last laps for the gold—and screamed,
“Noooooo!” as she zoomed past.
I couldn’t help myself, I started to laugh.
Little mister and Miss Seay, oblivious to the problem, continued their chase of
her, giggling hysterically by their game. Only Miss Birnie remained serious.
She was utterly and completely focused. Without the cumbersome tray, her elbows
tucked to her side, and her fists were pumping with each stride.
“You know you can’t outrun a
full bladder, don’t you, sweetie? The bladder goes with you,” I said as she ran
past me, bare feet slapping on the floor. “Why don’t you come over here and sit
on the potty. You’re going to feel so much better. I promise!”
She was having none of it.
Eyes boring a path into the laminate floor beneath her, she continued her trek
around the playroom at breakneck speed. Nothing was going to catch her—not a
3-year-old boy, not her favorite 4-year-old girl, not Kelly, and certainly NOT
some stupid, annoying, yucky feeling in her belly-parts.
I’ve never seen a 1-year-old
run that fast.
I finally snagged her
mid-lap. She started to kick, struggling to get loose of me, but I set her onto
the potty. As soon as her bum connected with the seat, the gush started, and she
screamed as if in agony. She tried to jump up off the potty, spraying pee in
every direction—all over herself, me, the floor, and Miss Seay, who had come
close to watch this first success. We couldn’t avoid the geyser but it ended
quickly, and there was some in the
potty.
“Look! You made pee-pee in
the potty,” I squealed. “You did it, honey! You put pee-pee in the potty!!”
Dripping with piss and pride, we all began to dance and cheer, clapping our
hands, and trying not to slip in the yellow river surrounding the potty. We
congratulated the newest addition to The Big Kids Club.
She stopped screaming, and
looked into the potty, pointing at the yellow pool inside. “Pee-pee?”
“Yes, baby. You did it!
You’re Such a Big Girl!! Good job!”
Oh, if I had the camera when
I saw that face. The recognition. The acknowledgment of a deed well-done. Her
eyes lit up, the eyebrows shooting up to her wispy bangs. And then the smile.
Ah, that smile! Her entire face glowed with the force of that grin. She started
clapping and chanting, “Pee-pee! Pee-pee!” We joined her, dancing around her
and her tiny bare bum. And then Miss Seay remembered.
“Her treat! Can I give her
the potty treat, Kelly? Can I?”
“Yes, ma’am you can,” I
said, getting the Skittle out of the cup, and handing it to her.
Miss Seay, with as much
ceremony and joy as she remembers receiving in her own potty-training
successes, handed the Skittle to Miss Birnie. “Good job!” she said, and petted her
little friend on the head. “You did a good job. And only you gets a treat,
cause you goed pee-pee on the potty. I’m a big kid now, so I don’t get one. Now
you’re getting to be a big kid too. Good job!”
I turn away to wipe a tear, or three. She
remembers. It’s been more than 2 years since she went through these ceremonies,
and now she has the opportunity to deliver the grand prize and does it with
such pride in her little friend. It’s priceless—every single aspect of it all.
The support of the troops, the self-pride, and the joy I feel in these moments.
It’s easy to focus on how
difficult and frustrating potty training can be. I do it myself, I’m not going
to lie to you. Potty training is extremely challenging. It’s inconvenient. It’s
time and energy consuming. And it’s downright messy. But try to remember. This
is your child’s first real chance to tackle self-mastery, to learn that no
matter what, their body is THEIRS ALONE to control. They learn that they are IN
CHARGE of themselves, and this should be made a GLORIOUS EXPERIENCE for them!
So, encourage them with celebration and praise all you can. Help them to learn
as gently as possible (and forgive yourself when you lose it, because we all
do). And remember that this is NOT about keeping pants dry and saving money on
diapers.
This is ALL about your child
learning that they have power in their world, are capable of developing self-mastery, and have a say
in what is happening with their bodies.
These are The Moments,
people. Use them to the best of your ability.
And I wish you the best of
luck.
P.S. I'll be happy to answer questions and/or offer feedback on my boot camp methods/potty training in general via this blog or Twitter @Kellsyjean. I look forward to hearing from you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)