Random Thoughts: Really Random

Bun had this again — or something like it, anyway. Her throat was covered in sores.

This type of virus is an enterovirus. Know what that means? Means it lives on poop.

Now I know that Bun puts a lot of stuff in her mouth, but I didn’t think much of it was covered in poop.

I suspect the joint baths will have to come to an end. See, Bun drinks any type and form of liquid she can get to her mouth, including bath water.

And Monkey, as a fairly new potty user and as a 3-year-old, isn’t the best at wiping the hind parts. I try to help her out, but — as per the age — she is pretty insistent at “doing it by myself”.

So, yeah, my evenings just got even more difficult! But it will be worth it if Bun never, ever gets another virus with throat ulcers.

*******************

Bun said Monkey’s name, finally. I just about melted from the adorableness.

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Remember my brilliant solution to getting Monkey to sleep in her own bed?

It worked for less than two weeks, peeps. She’s back in my bed.

I need a Plan… D or E. I forget what I’m on.

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And because of how sick she was, Bun had the binky all the time for about five days. So now I’m re-weaning her off of daytime use. It sucks. If that girl sees a binky, she is miserable. Sigh.

Onward and upward I suppose. Although I’m not sure what that means in this context!

My Busy Weekend

I dropped the daily blogging ball on Sunday. I hadn’t made Sunday’s post a priority, so it’s not surprising to me that it didn’t happen. We stayed over at Bella and Tadone’s house Saturday night on Nanny duty (my in-laws are out of town, and we’re all taking turns hanging out with Nanny). Earthmother and her husband and their two children were there too. It was a good time, in general, although I was severely disappointed in Spider-Man 3. Whew, yawn, what a slow movie. The “blooper reel” is very funny though.

Then Sunday I was supposed to get up and go to 8 a.m. mass. Instead of hitting snooze, I must have turned my alarm off, and didn’t get up until 7:30, with the kids. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of activity: shopping, making brunch and visiting with friends (at our place), and three near-emergency room visits. Then DearDR and I sniped at each other, and our friend and stylist came over to cut our hair.

I have to admit, I didn’t even think to myself, “I should try to get a post up today.” All the stuff that was happening required full attention.

Our three almost-visits to the emergency room:

Number One: Bun, trying to climb onto the table at Costco, slipped and fell on her head. It scared the crap out of Dan and me, but as she didn’t lose consciousness and I managed to get ice on the bump right away, we decided against going to the hospital. After she calmed down, she was fine: no seizures or twitching; she smiled and was cheerful, and helped me eat a vanilla frozen yogurt berry sundae. More than anything, it was embarrassing — drawing mostly sympathetic glances and a couple well-meaning inquiries.

Interestingly enough, I then came across this post over at Mary P’s. I didn’t feel guilty about Bun’s fall — kids tumble from time to time, and you just hope they don’t hurt themselves too badly. DearDR blamed me for Bun falling (I was getting the high chair ready for her to sit in, and was not right by her side). I think we were equally culpable because he was sitting next to her, eating pizza and feeding pizza to Monkey. Neither one of us were in position to catch her, and neither one of us stopped her from climbing. That was probably the seed of the spat we had later that day (that and some sexual frustration).

Near-visit two was much less dramatic: DearDR was wiping the stove off, and almost burned the palm of his hand when the wet cloth he was using stopped moving over a hot (very hot) burner.

Then at dinner, I sliced my finger with a very sharp knife while cutting up Bun’s pizza (yes, DearDR and Monkey had pizza twice in one day). It wasn’t a big cut, but in the first five minutes or so afterwards, I thought it was deep enough that it was going to require a stitch or two. Actually, I probably could have gone and gotten those stitches, but I didn’t want to. With enough pressure, it stopped bleeding enough to get two bandages on it, and we went from there. (To literally add insult to injury — or injury to injury, really — I slammed the same finger in the door of Bun’s room last night.)

It wasn’t until yesterday that I thought, “Ooops. Forgot my ABC post. Oh well.” I’m not that upset about it (the way I would have been upset back in November if I hadn’t “succeeded” at the original NaBloPoMo). I let myself off the hook.

I seem to be able to do that more easily more often these days. Hmm. I’ll have to think about that.

And thanks to my (2) commenters from yesterday. I was looking at my stats, and my traffic is pretty good. Just no one says anything often, so I wondered. I’m not the best a posting comments elsewhere, so I have nothing to complain about.

Off The Hook

I was sitting at work today, and I realized something.

I was pretty happy.

Since starting this job, I have discovered I am less anxious, less stressed, more relaxed. I feel more like myself than I have since I had Bun.

I like going to work. I like getting up and out the door in the morning, in the quiet, before anyone else is stirring.

Is it crazy that I am happier getting up at 6 a.m. and going to a full-time job, than I was staying at home with my children? If it is, I don’t really want to know.

My house is actually in better order now. I feel more on top of things, not less. True, I am much more tired in the evenings (can’t keep my eyes open past 10 p.m.), but aside from that, physically I am feeling better than I have in some time. I’m sure the hallway walks (about four or five women take a 15 minute walking break around 3 p.m.) and the early a.m. “workouts” are helping.

When I was with my children all day, I felt so much pressure. I had so many decisions to make: what to do, how to keep them occupied, what to feed them, when to change them, how to get them in for rests, what to do for dinner, bath, bed. And then, how was I supposed to do the other stuff: laundry, cleaning, blogging (ha!), reading?

I was driving myself crazy.

Now, I am going to add this next paragraph, even though, if you know me at all, it’s not necessary. Yes, I miss my girls. Yes, I love my children. To be honest, I’m not crazy about Day Care Lady (too much TV, not enough other activities — she’s no MaryP!), but at this point she is in our price range. I plan to look for other, more structured care when we can afford it. And in any case, Monkey will probably start pre-school in the fall.

Yes, Bun is having some adjustment issues. She is very clingy until after dinner. It worries me a little, but it’s not been 10 days yet. If she’s still clingy and whiny in three months, I’ll reassess the situation. Monkey had some potty issues, but they are resolved.

I am not going to beat myself up for being relieved to once more be working. I’m not going to give myself a guilt trip for being happy going to work. I’m not going to label myself a bad mommy, even in jest.

Plus, the money rocks.

I’m letting myself off the hook. And if anyone tries a guilt trip on me? They are goin’ down. Because they don’t know me; they don’t know what’s best for my children. I do.

On a related note: DearDR has stepped it up. I expected a little balking, a little whining, I admit it. But he has taken on child-care duties with nary a peep. (Oh, well, I did have to start setting out daily outfits for the girls.) And he has gone above and beyond. He lobbied for family-time on Sunday (we went up to the mall). He changed the brakes on his car. Today, he didn’t have anyone scheduled until 2 p.m. — so he went grocery shopping, people. I didn’t even ask him; he offered last night.

Is it any wonder he’s getting laid (at home — come on, we’re Catholic) more often?

I’m Not Saying Anything, I’m Just Saying

At the last full-time job I had, there was a woman who knew how to dress. She was about eight years younger than I, and she just was stylin’. She didn’t wear “trendy” clothes yet she was fashionable; although her clothes seemed of good quality, they didn’t seem expensive.

One day, I complimented her on her style, especially on the way she wore color. She told me about this book she had read. I decided to read it too.

It would take a lot of time to implement every trick in this book, I think. But, I have kept a lot of little tips in mind since I read it. One of the biggest things was this: Black doesn’t go with everything. Black goes with black, or white.

On Monday, when I finally set out to buy some work clothes, I vowed to shop for colors. I wasn’t going to go for loud colors, or young colors, and I was not going to buy something if it had black in it.

Blouse 1

As I alluded to in my last post, I was pretty appalled by my selection. First off, for the first time in quite some time, I am NOT pregnant. So why would I buy clothes that would make me look pregnant? (Also, what’s up with those sleeves?) The tunic top, while I am sure it is flattering for many figures, doesn’t do a damn thing for mine. It’d be like hanging a sail on a toothpick.

Blouse 2

Secondly, a big combo this spring is going to be yellow and gray. Yellow doesn’t do a thing for me. Except make me look yellow.

Blouse 3

Also in stores right now? A lot of prints.

Blouse 4

Very, very bold prints. With black.

On the plus side:

1. The prices at the department store I did shop were incredibly good. Like the prices I usually pay at Target for clothes. And, while I do love me some Target, these clothes are probably higher quality.

2. As I mentioned, I did find cute shoes, marked down from $45, to $26.99. Thank goodness they are flats, because after two days in my high-heeled boots, my dogs are barking. All the way up to my ass, frankly.

It’s more than I haven’t worn high heeled boots for two days in a row. Many a day has gone by with no shoes worn in this house. Those days are over.

3. Bra that fits. This truly cannot be overstated.

I hadn’t shopped for a bra in years. I had to be measured — I had no idea what size I was (I’m a 32/33 A. Well, almost an A.) (Quit laughing.)

While I find it ridiculous that I have to wear a bra at all, it’s a bare fact:

If I don’t wear a bra, my unusually long nipples can take out an eye. DearDR once quipped, “If you breastfeed, our children are going to drink out straws for the rest of their lives.”

But I have found perhaps the most comfortable bra I have ever worn, ever. I am going back for more.

And, just to make it exciting, I even bought some matching panties.

I’m living on the edge people.

That Karma, She is a B*&%h

Yesterday’s schedule:

8:15 a.m.: Call from Bella, interrupting, um, special time with DearDR to inform me that green goo is coming out of Bun’s nose, and I need to call the doctor.

9:00 a.m.: Head next door to pick up the children and assess Bun for myself. Bun looks utterly exhausted, yet is in good spirits. Goo from nose is indeed a funny color, kind of yellowish. Bella informs me Bun has not slept for more than two hours at a stretch all weekend, which is weird because she sleeps through the night at home. Bun is not running a fever, but I call the doctor anyway. They have an opening at 12:45 p.m. I take it, thinking I can just cancel it later.

10:30 a.m.: Head across the yard with the kids. Bun is fussing a bit; Monkey seems fine, even happy, to be going home. We show Monkey her newly decorated room, and she oohs and aahs in appreciation.

11 a.m.: Try to put a very fussy and obviously tired Bun in for a bit of a nap.

11:05 a.m.: Try again.

11:15 a.m.: Give up on Bun, and make the girls some lunch instead. Neither one of them seems very interested in eating. In face of fussiness, Bun gets the binky. Goo from nose is now clear, and I think about canceling doctor’s appointment. When I tell this to Bella, she insists I take Bun.

12:30 p.m.: Head to doctor’s office. Bun, naturally, falls asleep on the ten-minute drive.

12:45 p.m.: Sign in at doctor’s office. Am informed that my insurance company is refusing to pay my bills because I have failed to fill out a questionnaire regarding other coverage. Get insurance company on phone, clear up misunderstanding about coverage; pay my copay. (I pay out the arse for COBRA benefits, which is the only reason I have decided to actually take Bun to the doctor. Can’t wait until I start my new job and new benefits kick in.)

1:05 p.m.: Doctor informs me that Bun does indeed have an ear infection. He seems just as surprised as I am; Bun has been smiling at him since he came in (hell, if I were younger and single, I’d be smiling at him too!), and playing peek-a-boo from between my legs.

1:13 p.m.: Get back in car to take Bun home for nap. Bella will come sit with her while Monkey and I run to the store to fill prescription.

1:44 p.m.: Get in car to go fill prescription.

3:15 p.m.: Finally get home with prescription. Bun has been up for 20 minutes. Give Bun medication.

4:15 p.m.: Monkey starts fussing at left ear. Informs me, “My ear hurts.” I wonder if this is a plea for attention and/or medicine (you know, medicine should taste like crap, the way it did when I was a kid; my children think medicine is a treat).

4:20 p.m.: Monkey covers her whole ear with her hand, and cries out, “Mommy, my ear really really hurts.” Starts wailing.

4:21 p.m.: I get doctor’s office on phone. I give Monkey some ibuprophen. Doctor’s office sez, “Come on down.” Monkey falls asleep on the ten-minute drive, thereby confirming that she does indeed feel like crap.

4:55 p.m.: Monkey informs everyone in waiting room that her ear hurts. From the looks of the waiting room, it seems she is not the only one.

5:05 p.m.: Doctor (different one from earlier) informs me that Monkey, too, has an ear infection.

5:30 p.m.: Get kids home and eating some dinner. They don’t have much of an appetite. Shocking.

6:30 p.m.: Get kids upstairs for baths. They haven’t had one since Friday. The in-laws can entertain and feed my children, but due to very bad backs, they are unable to bathe them.

7:06 p.m.: Everyone is bathed and dressed in jammies. We do clean up of front room and I vacuum.

7:30 p.m.: Bella comes over bearing Ratatouille, a kissy-lip cookie, and wine (for herself, I assume).

7:35 p.m.: Tuck very unconscious Bun into bed.

7:45 p.m.: Head to store to fill Monkey’s prescription.

8:30 p.m.: Head home with prescription.

8:40 p.m.: Give Monkey medicine. Say goodnight to Bella, and promise not to bother her for two days (at least). Read Monkey one book, help her brush her teeth, and sing to lullabies to her.

9 p.m.: Clean kitchen. I am not feeling so hot myself.

9:30 p.m.: Make myself hot toddy, hoping that will soothe my throat. Wonder if I need antibiotics, where I am going to go to get prescription. I don’t really have a doctor in the area.

10:30 p.m.: Call DearDR to inform him I am going to bed. He tells me his throat hurts, too. I briefly consider never leaving girls next door for two days again, then I get a grip. If it’s offered, I know I will take it. Thank God that I haven’t yet started new job, and can stay home with sick children the next day. Probably being sick myself, too.

10:31 p.m.: Pass out.

Today, we are all sick, with varying degrees of pain, achiness and energy. But seeing as we all slept until 9 a.m., I think with plenty of rest, fluids, and antibiotics for the girls, we will all recover. DearDR did go to work. Thank goodness, because I can’t see taking care of him today, too.

Ciao.

Don’t You Forget

Things I had forgotten:

    The dark, intense beauty of Radiohead
    The bombastic genius of Pearl Jam
    The pure genius of Beck

    Playing music really loud is good for your soul.

    Being with my husband without worrying about a child waking up (or walking in).

    Life without a baby monitor buzzing in the background.

    Walking around my house without having to step over baby gates.

    Sleeping in — not because the kids slept in, just because no one else was waking me up in the morning.

    Working uninterrupted to get the house clean, instead of cramming in an hour or two a day trying to get on top of the chaos.

DearDR and I have another day child free. Of course, we miss them. But frankly I, at least, needed the break. We are getting a lot done; we are having some fun as well.

Although fishing diapers, clothes and poopy underpants out of a heating duct kind of sucked.

…Baby, One More Time?

No, I’m not pregnant. Not even “trying”.

It’s just that the other night, out of the blue (okay, not totally apropos of nothing; we were watching Lost Season 3 on DVD, and Juliette had just told Jack she was a fertility doctor) DearDR said, “Do you want to try for another baby?”

To which I was quick to respond, “Not right now.” I’m such a wit. Or twit. Your pick.

But it’s had me thinking for a couple of days now.

In truth, I always thought I would have three children. Technically speaking I did have three children, of course, but I thought I would be raising three children.

I don’t know why three. My mother had three children (really three, not three with an asterisk like me). I mean, I have never made plans according to what my mother did (as she can well tell you), so I doubt that’s it. (Although, as the third aside in this paragraph alone, I will admit I am turning into her. That’s to pre-empt DearDR from pointing it out later, if he ever reads this.)

Another truth is: I really want another boy. I mentioned this in my Crazy Eights post. And I know DearDR brought it up because he, too, wants another boy. It’s a guy thing. Especially an Italian guy thing. Although it turns out, we are firmly in the majority in preferring a boy over a girl (in a future pregnancy; I wouldn’t trade my girls for anything…). For completely different reasons than those listed in that article. (I know in part DearDR wants a boy to carry on the family name. He’s the last shot.)

I don’t want a boy for him, though, I want a boy for me. Because (rumor has it) mothers and sons have a completely different relationship than mothers and daughters. More akin to the father-daughter dynamic.

As a first-hand witness to my mother’s relationship with my brother, and comparing said relationship to my relationship with my mother, yeah, I get that. He was special to her — not more loved by her — it’s just that there was truly something different about their dynamic. It was more peaceful, maybe… more hopeful. It’s hard to describe. Suffice to say that I remember being on the outside and looking in at my mother’s relationship with my brother, and thinking, “I want that at some point in my life.” (Not the relationship with my mother; a relationship with a son.)

To clarify: I did not have a bad relationship with my mother (with either of my parents). As a teen, I butted heads with my father — we were each as stubborn as the other. In my early 20s, after Mom saw my tattoo, she did threaten (in writing, in a letter about three days later) to never speak to me again, because of, and I quote, “the things you have done to and with your body”. Which, to sum up in my mother’s eyes, included piercing my lip, losing my virginity, smoking, and getting a tattoo (not necessarily in that order). I’m not sure she knew about the birth control pills.

Anyhoo, I have gotten way off track here.

To attempt to return to the subject and in the spirit of High Fidelity (the movie with John Cusack, not the book by Nick Hornby; I haven’t read it yet, and I just caught some of the movie today), here are the Top Five Reasons to Immediately Have My Tubes Tied:

5. I have very stressful pregnancies. Der.
4. Every child I have seems to put my writing career further out of my reach.
3. As if it’s not bad enough, I’m sure another child would be financial suicide.
2. I’m pretty sure my perinatologists’ reactions would be, “You again? What are you, out of your mind?”
1. I’m almost sure my midwives would kill me.

(I would never, ever have my tubes tied, for the record. DearDR’s not getting snipped, either.)

Plus, what if I have another girl? I mean, I wouldn’t care, as long as she was healthy and happy and all that, but poor DearDR. I don’t think he would be able to handle the hormones, especially once they hit puberty and I hit menopause.

Top Five Reasons to Try One More Time:

5. It’s a baby!
4. It would totally mess with my in-laws.
3. It’s actually possible it will be a boy. I thought it was more likely that older moms had girls, but not according to this article. She adds, “(Actually, there is about a 51% chance that everyone will have a boy! Older mothers are also more likely to have boys according to some recent studies.)” I wish she had linked to those studies!
2. I just don’t feel like we’re done. Even after Bun was born, I didn’t have the feeling, “That’s it; we’re done.” More like, “Oh, good. She’s here; she made it. Maybe when I get over this, I’ll think about having another one. It’d be nice to have a healthy, living baby boy.”
1. We would have an excuse to have lots and lots of sex.

Listen, people, not having sex as a method of birth control is fool proof, but frankly, it sucks. And technically, NFP isn’t NO sex, but it’s so… rigid about when to avoid sex if you don’t want to be pregnant that it feels that way sometimes. Especially when we’re horny at the same time (DearDR, it probably goes without saying, is horny almost all the time) and/or I want to feel close to my husband.

Also… well, let’s just say, I was no virgin when I got hitched. But, baby, I saved the best for last.

A Word of Warning

This post is dedicated to my friend LK who is beginning to toilet train her 2 and 1/2 year old, A.

Dear LK,

You sound like you have a plan for potty training, which is much more than I had when I began with Monkey. A week-long intensive sounds difficult, and I am not sorry that I did not do it that way. But I didn’t really do it ANY way, so, more power to you.

The other day, Monkey had the first poop-in-the-pants accident that she has had since we’ve gone sans diapers about three weeks ago. It was disgusting. Although I was disappointed, I was not angry with Monkey. I was, if anything, quite surprised, because until that day, she was doing very well pooping on the potty.

Anyway, I just threw the underpants away.

Imagine my surprise when Monkey pooped her pants again a few hours later!

This time, I discovered that you can clean the underpants quite effectively by swishing them around in the toilet bowl. Also, since I had bought flushable wipes a few days before, I made that clean-up much easier on myself. Monkey got a thorough bath a little earlier than usual.

Maybe she was testing the boundaries of potty training. Maybe she just forgot. It could have been a bid for attention: Both times she pooped her pants, she was in one room playing and I was in the other feeding Bun.

Who knows? It stunk; we all survived; three days later, and she has been accident-free, even from peeing.

So, good luck, LK. Good luck, A. It will happen, although, as always with children, not necessarily the way you planned it (again, good on you for planning!). Take it easy.

For tips from a pro, check out the comment from MaryP over here. I will be thinking of you!

ciao,
rpm

Beating My Head Against a Brick Wall

NaBloPoMo Member

Today was “Office Cleaning” Day.


(DearDr’s Desk)

Bella and Tadone have the kids next door. DearDR stayed home most of the day to help (he was supposed to stay home all day, but he has patients at 4 and 6 p.m. that got moved from earlier in the week — that can be explained another day. I have 28 more to go, after all.)

We procrastinated. We cleaned the kitchen, changed the sheets on the beds, had sex in the shower. We did not want to go into the office. Especially to clean.


(My Desk)

But eventually (around 11:30 a.m. to be precise) DearDR and I found ourselves in the office. And we began.

Our esrtwhile office, supposed to be my work-at-home office, has been, since we moved into this house two and a half years ago, treated more like a storage space than an office. When other rooms get cleaned, everything goes into the office. When we decorate for holidays, the everyday stuff sits in the office. And the paper is truly daunting. I have created files; we received a nifty bill organizer a couple of years ago to help.

Instead, I store bills and mail to be sorted through in this:

This is a perpetual problem, and I hope someday that it will be solved permanently. In the meantime, I gotta move all this stuff in time for Monkey’s birthday party in a week. And dust. I have to dust. I used to dust, but this house and all the stuff and shelves in this house have defeated me.


(Where We Actually File Things)


(And Underneath Where We Actually File Things)


(Stairs Leading to Basement)

And these pictures? These were taken after three and a half hours of cleaning. Instead of continuing, I have decided to write and post pictures. I’m decompressing. I have about another hour and a half kid-free, so I will go back to it. Unless Bella calls me first. And I hope she’s feeding me and the girls dinner because I haven’t even thought about that.

The Body is a Wonderland. Sometimes a Really Gross One.

When my sister-in-law Earthmother offered to babysit my girls in exchange for a couple of articles on her site, I happily agreed to the trade. This past weekend, she babysat (with her two kiddies along for good measure). As we were leaving, she asked, “So, do you put Monkey on the pot every half-hour or so?”

I thought, “Every half hour? I’m supposed to get her on the potty every half hour? Holy crap, no wonder this potty training thing isn’t taking.”

I didn’t interject this into the last-minute instructions; I simply stuttered something about maybe putting her on the potty now as she had just gotten up from her “nap”, and maybe again after dinner and before bedtime. And then we left, and I have been thinking about Earthmom’s comment since.

And I’m still not putting the Monkey on the potty every half an hour. The potty training is not going well, and it’s probably my fault. Not only am I a reluctant — some days even an unwilling — SAHM, but it is now revealed I am a lazy one as well. Additionally, I find the whole potty training thing frankly disgusting.

I have always had trouble changing diapers of other people’s children (I don’t know how daycare providers do it). I can take the worse that Monkey and Bun dish out with equanimity, but other butts I don’t want to wipe. It makes me gag; always did, which is why I avoided babysitting as a teenager. There were easier ways to make money (like working at the zoo the summer the polar bears were in heat. But that’s a different story…).

Without a doubt, having children puts you right in the realm of the physical, from pregnancy on through… high school probably. I marvel over the bodies of my two girls. Monkey is so straight and strong, especially her legs; and she has a beautiful face, from her deep blue eyes with dark dark lashes (her daddy’s eyes) to her pretty mouth (mine). Monkey was never a fat baby, like my Bun; Bun jiggles when she crawls; she has baby boobies and a Buddha belly. Her thighs are big but strong — she is strong, as the several-times-daily wrestling matches as I attempt to change her diapers prove. I take sensual pleasure in my girls, touching their heads, kissing hands and feet and bellies, holding them.

As close as one gets during erotic love and sexual acts, having a baby is more physically intimate. Caring for a baby is more physically intimate: the breastfeeding, the bathing, the wiping of butts and genitals. The things you do for your children you don’t do for anyone else (I suppose at some point you may have to be pretty close to your parents as they grow older.)

And of course, they are almost nothing but physical beings. Even Monkey with her quick observations and impressive-for-a-not-even-3-year-old vocabulary could not be called a creature of the mind. Bun embodies what I mean right now — everything must be touched, squeezed, shaken, beaten against something else, and tasted. Everything, from the food I give her to whatever the hell she finds under the toilet.

But I have never really had trouble changing their diapers (I certainly don’t get off on it). Yeah, it’s smelly; sometimes you get it on the floor or — worse — your hand. It gets on their clothes, especially those early breastfed-baby mustard poops. It’s just the thing you have to do until, they’re, you know, potty trained.

The other day, however, as I watched poop literally come out of my child’s anus to plop into the potty, I thought, “Hmm, I never thought about being here.” Potty training is the most utterly disgusting thing I have ever had to do in my entire life (so far). I sit there waiting for my child to poop — and I have a pretty intimate view. And then I have to get her wiped up. I’m glad she moved from her training potty to the big potty because now we can just flush the waste away (Monkey cheering, “Bye, pee! Bye, poop! Bye, paper!” when appropriate) instead of having to wipe out the bowl of the training potty. Is it any wonder I am inconsistant?

On top of that, I now hate changing Monkey’s diapers. I want her to be potty trained. I want it to be done except for the inevitable accidents. Now, it’s more like her actually pooping on the potty is the accident.

I need some help here (obviously). Do I have to spend a week at home putting Monkey on the toilet every half an hour? What do I do with my very active, very curious 9-month-old during the potty-sitting sessions? Should I just ditch the diapers and see if Monkey can’t stand the goop? Think of the mess if she just doesn’t care!

Resources and advice are welcome. If you feel the need to criticize… well, be gentle okay? I clearly don’t have a clue.