It All Started Out So Innocently...

This morning began so nicely. Both kids slept in (that means until about 7:15, which still counts) and then we had a leisurely breakfast. We had nowhere to go and for the first time in awhile, things weren't rushed. I made tea, and got to enjoy it while the kids played peacefully. We went downstairs where I snuck in a shower, cleaned off the desk (a long overdue job), and threw in two loads of laundry. It was hardly 9:00 and already I felt so productive!

Around 9:30, I put Jacob down for his nap. Or tried to. By 10:00, I decided we would run our errands since napping apparently wasn't going to happen. I thought I was salvaging our morning. When our kids miss naps, it's never pretty. So off we went to take our Electrolux stick vacuum to a new vacuum store after 6 months of failed attempts to replace a simple $3.00 filter from another store that conveniently went out of business shortly after finally ordering the "right" part for us. Moments before leaving, Hannah tripped and hurt her foot (actually re-hurt it, but that's a whole other story). It was sore enough that we couldn't put a shoe on. Fine, we left with her wearing one shoe, one sock. My hopes were dashed at the vacuum store as I discovered that since we had been operating the vacuum without one of the two filters, the motor was now blocked and it would cost about as much to fix as to replace. And the guy was not too nice about it. I pointed out that the missing filter was the big particle filter and that we still had the fine filter so one would think that big particles wouldn't get through it. He countered that I must be wrong and that we were actually missing the fine filter. I have an indepth knowledge of our filter situation. I have spent half a year trying to replace this filter. I know exactly which filter it is, right down to the part number. Needless to say, I wasn't impressed. Besides, I had two kids with me. One who was knocking down all the display vacuums, and another who was limping along in a sock. I had better things to do than argue about a filter when in the end I was going to have to buy a whole new vacuum anyway.

We left, me carrying a useless vacuum, a squirming toddler that I was about to drop, an instruction manual and my wallet. I had to push the door open with my backside and try to herd my other limping child out without dropping anything on her head. We ran one more errand and then, to my dismay, both kids feel asleep in the car about 5 minutes from home. I could sense impending disaster.

And now it has struck. Full force. Instead of an hour and a half of quiet naps, I have had an hour and a half of Jacob screaming. He won't sleep. Even though he already missed his morning nap, he is of the impression that his 5 minutes in the car is enough for the day. Hannah, thankfully, opted to have her nap. Right now, she's the good child. Jacob, who is currently pretending to vacuum (is he mocking me?), is about to be given a second chance to prove the day is not all but lost...

Mind Your Pees and Poos!

Today I was peed and pooed out. First, Hannah tells me, after peeing in a pull-up that she "just had an accident". Oh, really? This, from the kid who has never peed on a potty in her life. But now that she sits on one, she thinks she's potty trained, so any pee in the diaper clearly qualifies as an accident. Don't ask where she even picked up that lingo. It must be from one of the many stories we've read about every other child on the planet who is already potty trained. Then, after I distinctly smell something suspicious coming from someone's diaper, I ask if she's pooed her pants. Her reply: "No, mom. I don't do that. I poo in the potty now." And with a tone that suggests I'm partially insane for even suggesting she might have gone in her diaper. Don't I know she uses the potty? If she knew how, she would have rolled her eyes and dismissed me with a toss of her head. Great. She thinks she done with the training and she hasn't even really started.

Next, Jacob. After his bath tonight, he pulled off his towel, walked over to the door and peed on the floor. I cleaned it up and went to pick him up to put a diaper on. As I was reaching for him, I realized he was, at that very moment, pooing on the floor! I very awkwardly carred him to the change table with poo dangling precariously from his bottom. I cleaned him up and asked Hannah, half-jokingly, if there was any poo on the floor. Oh, yes. In her words, "Yup. He did an ice-cream cone poo." Just for the record, she also likes to describe certain poos as "snowmen poo", which they actually do sort of resemble.

Regardless of size, shape, or colour, I have had enough of pee and poo for one day. Whether in a diaper or not, none of it is happening where it should be!

I've Created a Monster!

I have to start this entry in confession mode. The beginning of the tale does not paint me in a good light. And I am not proud of what I did. Furthermore, as it was happening, I was painfully aware that my motives were all wrong. Yet, in the end... well, let's just say I subscribe (at least for today) to the theory that the ends justify the means.

I visited a friend and watched as her much smaller toddler happily climbed on her potty and did her best to "tinkle". I felt a fresh wave of frustration with my utter inability to potty train my 3 year-old. Forget the training part, I couldn't even get her near the potty. The mere mention of underwear was enough to send her into paroxysms of panic and hysteria. So when I got home and Hannah once again noticed her foaming soap in the cupboard (awaiting the glorious day she decided to use a potty in any way shape or form), I again reminded her that all she had to do was sit on the potty. She didn't even have to pull her pants down. Heck, I was willing to capitulate if she even looked at the potty! She, of course, coyly refused. I sat her 1 year-old brother on the potty to show her how easy it was. She still refused. And because I was convinced she was refusing just to spite me, I insisted she at least try it, like her brother. She started to cry. And here's where it starts to get ugly, so brace yourself...

I sat down, blocking the door, and told her we weren't leaving the bathroom until she sat on the potty. Jacob sat on it again. I sat on it. We smiled. Wasn't this fun? She kept crying and refusing in a manner that was growing increasingly irritating to me. What was this? A toilet phobia? I finally lifted her up and carried her to the potty, while she clung to me in terror. As I attempted to lower her onto the seat, she practically ripped my shirt she was holding it so tight. Her legs were wrapped around mine and you would have thought I was lowering her into a pit of vipers by the way she was acting. I had no sympathy. I was envisioning buying shares of Depends since apparently my daughter was physically incapable of being in any kind of proximity to a toilet. I forced her down and pinned her to the seat. No easy feat. And, obviously, not a pretty sight. Please see my disclaimer in the first paragraph.

I let go of her and she sprung from the toilet like it had burned her. I pretended nothing unusual had happened. "Good," I said, "Now, you get to use your soap." I lifted her whimpering and defeated soul onto the counter and pumped some foaming purple soap into her hands. She was intrigued. No, she was converted. Immediately after rinsing it off, she said she wanted to do it again. "Do what?" I asked. "Use the potty," she replied. What!!??!!????

And she spent the rest of the night sitting on the potty, sometimes getting off to wash her hands, but then happily climbing right back on. And she even took her pants off. She was so proud of herself. She got everything organized in the bathroom to her liking (some books, a diaper on stand-by, etc.). She came out for dinner, but then announced that she "had to go the bathroom" again. She probably spent a total of 3 hours on the toilet. Never peed once, but still...

It's now her favourite place. She even asked me to "get out of here now" so she could have some privacy. We've gone from one extreme to the other. So yes, I practically tortured my child - but, in doing so, I forced her to face her fear... or something like that. All I know is that she wore a pull-up willingly and actually resisted a diaper at bedtime. And she sat on the potty. Forever. But that's so much better than never!

Clunk, Clunk, Clunk...

Jacob has been perfecting his stair climbing - a welcome skill as he is very heavy to cart up and down long flights. Recently, we removed the baby gate at the bottom of the stairs to the bedrooms - another welcome change as climbing over it was becoming tiresome (and there were times when I swear I pulled a muscle in a strange place trying to hoist myself over it while simultaneously twisting to avoid the collection of toys that had been thrown over it). You can probably see where this is going...

So tonight, I went upstairs to get the bath ready and Jacob was following me. He has gone up and down those stairs many, many times without incident. I continued ahead and was in his room when I heard an awful "clunk". In the millisecond between that first clunk and the successive series of clunks, I already knew in my heart what was happening.

Clunk, clunk, clunk (oh, how many steps was he going to fall?), and finally a thunk. And then wails. My heart racing, I looked down that long flight of stairs to see my poor baby sprawled at the bottom. To make matters worse, he knew I was to blame because he didn't even want me to hold him. He just wanted his daddy. The innocent party. The non-negligent parent.

In the end, he was fine. And it turns out the only thing bruised was my heart.

Who Can Say Where the Mind Goes?

Forgive me for being confused. One night, Hannah ate all of her broccoli and most of mine. She couldn't get enough. Great. Tonight, I made her favourite standby: chicken fingers and sweet potato fries. I served it. I also made broccoli, but it wasn't quite ready at the same time. Moments after delivering the first part of her meal, I added some delicious broccoli smothered in CheezWhiz (just the way she likes it). Suddenly, she pushed her plate away and started to cry. "I don't want broccoli! Why did you put broccoli there? I don't want any dinner any more!"

Seriously?

"Fine," I told her. "Don't eat the broccoli."

But no, the whole meal was ruined. Because I had the audacity to think she might actually like some broccoli. Because I was trying to cater to the crazy whims of a 3-year-old. How foolish of me.