It is labor day weekend and, once again, we are watching a hurricane bear down on Louisiana. Three years ago, when Katrina ripped apart New Orleans, Scott and I watched helplessly in the Norfolk Airport as she took aim at a place that I've never visited, but mourned anyway. Milo was a wee one then. We were returning to Iowa from my brother's wedding. As the story played out in the national news, I couldn't believe the destruction and devastation. I was saddened by the loss of history.
Face it, this country just isn't that old and we don't have the millenniums of recorded history like other places in the world have. Yes, we have fossils and such, but the largest part of this continent stood wild as civilization grew in Europe, Asia, and Africa. Funny how consider ourselves the most civilized lot on the planet, huh? In world history, we're sassy, brassy interlopers.
I have always felt like my personal politics are out-of-synch with a lot of my country. I remember on 9/11 wanting to rip down the "God Bless America" banners people had afixed to their minivans or the Old Glory funeral flags jammed in the windows of expensive, foreign sedans. Wasn't that the sentiment that caused the whole issue? That we believe we are blessed more than the cradle of civilization? I remember thinking, "Gee... I bet a little bit of humility might go a long way right about now..."
I am personally infuriated by the whole cowboy sense of foreign policy that we're living with right now. As if we need to show the rest of the world how the West was won... The rest of the world has been warring a heckuva long time longer than we have and even though we have the bigger guns, they're simply more experienced in the ways of fighting than we are. If it doesn't look like a video game, we don't know how to beat it.
I think this is why I am so confused about some of the political ads that have been crammed into network TV -- is it really a bad thing that Europe likes Obama? Really? I kind of think it might be nice to have European friends right now. Especially since we're not really making freinds in the Middle East and we're playing a high-stakes game of poker with Russia over Georgia.
I don't know what to do -- I don't want my kids growing up in fear of attack, but I really don't think that we're making friends by pissing in the swimming pool. Whoever is leading our country into the next decade isn't going to have an easy time of it -- that's a given. I just hope that they can weather the storms better than New Orleans has.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Quick Stop
So... yeah... been busy enough here at work that blogging has fallen by the wayside as I've been working through lunch. D'oh!
Anyway, I thought this next incident was blog-worthy, so here goes!
Milo has been potty training. It has been an excruciating process for the poor lad -- he showed some early interest at 17 months or so and even pooped on the toilet then, but seemed to have decided that once was enough and the evil toilet monster might just gobble him up if he were to sit upon it again. We began to notice him running and hiding to poop a little after his second birthday -- about the time that Violet came around. My pocketbook was eager to reduce our diaper expense by half, so we gently asked our young man if he was ready to try the potty again.
"Nooooo - oooooo - oooo - ooo - oo - o!"
It wasn't as if we were asking him to sacrifice life, limb or Star Wars guys...
As the months rolled by, he continued to respond with panic every time we mentioned the potty -- as if some evil were lurking inside, ready and waiting for little boy bums as a delicacy. In May, Scott and I made a decision that we were not even going to say the word, that we wouldn't make the suggestion when he announced, "I'm pooping!" as he would do with great regularity -- perhaps just to tease our hopes, then dash them as he scooted around the couch, out of reach, so that we couldn't drag him to the greedy toilet monster.
We vacationed to Minnesota, dragging two whole boxes of diapers -- baby-sized ones for Violet, boy-sized ones for Milo. While in Minnesota, we asked our boy what he was going to do for his third birthday. I expected a pretty normal answer -- "Eat cake and open presents!" but was surprised and tickled when he sang, "When I am threeeeee, I am going to go on the potteeeee and give my binkeeeeee to the babieeeeeees who need them!" I recounted this conversation numerous times, but did not truly expect that he would do either as the binky was his comfort object and the potty his mortal enemy.
However, my sweet little boy surprised me when, about a week after his birthday, I asked him if this was the day he was going to give his binky to the other babies. We were walking into Target, trying to avoid the black stickiness of spat out gum, and he said, "Yes. I'm going to bed without my binky tonight." At bedtime, however, he firmly disputed my claim to his intent, though we decided that this was a great opportunity to teach him that you must follow through with what you say you're going to do. So we tucked him in and listen to him cry for about an hour that he missed his binky. Sleep snuck up behind him, though, and captured the night without further incident. And we were now a binky free household...
Emboldened by this success, he awoke one morning with an almost dry diaper. And, without warning or assistance, he marched into the bathroom, removed the diaper, lifted the lid and seat and tinkled in the potty. All by himself and without any suggestion, prodding, or help, for that matter. He flushed and washed his hands and came back out to join us in the other room. We were speechless as he matter-of-factly took his space on the couch -- as if he hadn't just cleared that developmental hurdle. Naturally, there was much cheering and calling of grandparents and hugging and kissing and such. Apparently, all he needed was to think that potty training was his idea, then he was off to the races.
It has been nearly two months and, due to lack of accidents (as in NONE), I feel safe saying he's potty-trained. He's been able to wait long enough to dash to a public restroom or drive the last five miles home. He's even torn himself from play to use the toilet without prompting. He seems to be a pro at this!
Until last night. We were out at Scott's parents and headed out the door to go to Joensy's for supper. Scott asked Milo if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. I asked Milo if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. He's used the toilet at grandma's house before, so, even though it's a dated blue throne, he's not afraid of it. He was confident that he did not need to use the bathroom.
Until we are about to turn onto the interstate. From the backseat we hear, "Uh-oh. I'm tinkling!" My head snaps around so fast that my hair swirls to catch up. "You're tinkling right now??"
"No. I have to go tinkle."
Scott sighs, "Milo! I asked you if you needed to go potty three minutes ago. You said 'no' so now you're going to have to wait until we get to the restaurant."
Milo groans, "I caaaan't!" Thirty seconds later, he starts whimpering and squirming in his car seat. Then he starts crying.
Scott and I exchange looks. We've never been in this position before. Milo begins calling, "I have to tinkle! I have to tinkle!" What do we do? We're five minutes from the restaurant, but I don't know if he can make it. We don't have another pair of shorts with us. Plus, I don't want him peeing in my car.
Scott hits the hazard light on the dash and slows the car as he pulls onto the shoulder of the highway. He glances over his shoulder into traffic and hops out, opening the passenger door behind him. He unbuckles our son, then directs him to climb into my seat so I can help him tinkle in the ditch. He's not wearing shoes and I notice a streak of mud on the side of his leg.
I help him unsnap his jeans shorts and pull down his underwear. I grasp him around the waist and set him into the ditchweeds, noticing how sinewy he feels -- that his baby-softness has about evaporated into the muscle-y hardness of a boy. I remind him to not hit my shoes or his clothes and he unleashes a hot stream that instead hits the frame of my car door, then is redirected towards a large yellow flower. Target practice.
The ditch is full of life, spiders and crickets scramble away from us, Liliputian next to Milo's feet. It smells of wild mint and deep grass. Cars scream by behind us, their view of my naked child blocked by the bulk of my husband.
When he's finished, I duck him back into the car, but he is more interested in seeing the spiders, so he protests as Scott packages him back into the safety of his car seat.
As we climb back into the car, an ambulance pulls up behind us, lights flashing. The driver bounds out of the vehicle and approaches our car, his query, "Is everyone OK? We saw you doubled over and wanted to make sure that you weren't hurt or sick."
"No," Scott admits, sheepishly, "We're potty training." The driver smiles knowingly, nods, and heads back to his rig. It was really nice of him to check on our welfare.
But we weren't hurt. Not really. Not if you don't count growing pains.
Anyway, I thought this next incident was blog-worthy, so here goes!
Milo has been potty training. It has been an excruciating process for the poor lad -- he showed some early interest at 17 months or so and even pooped on the toilet then, but seemed to have decided that once was enough and the evil toilet monster might just gobble him up if he were to sit upon it again. We began to notice him running and hiding to poop a little after his second birthday -- about the time that Violet came around. My pocketbook was eager to reduce our diaper expense by half, so we gently asked our young man if he was ready to try the potty again.
"Nooooo - oooooo - oooo - ooo - oo - o!"
It wasn't as if we were asking him to sacrifice life, limb or Star Wars guys...
As the months rolled by, he continued to respond with panic every time we mentioned the potty -- as if some evil were lurking inside, ready and waiting for little boy bums as a delicacy. In May, Scott and I made a decision that we were not even going to say the word, that we wouldn't make the suggestion when he announced, "I'm pooping!" as he would do with great regularity -- perhaps just to tease our hopes, then dash them as he scooted around the couch, out of reach, so that we couldn't drag him to the greedy toilet monster.
We vacationed to Minnesota, dragging two whole boxes of diapers -- baby-sized ones for Violet, boy-sized ones for Milo. While in Minnesota, we asked our boy what he was going to do for his third birthday. I expected a pretty normal answer -- "Eat cake and open presents!" but was surprised and tickled when he sang, "When I am threeeeee, I am going to go on the potteeeee and give my binkeeeeee to the babieeeeeees who need them!" I recounted this conversation numerous times, but did not truly expect that he would do either as the binky was his comfort object and the potty his mortal enemy.
However, my sweet little boy surprised me when, about a week after his birthday, I asked him if this was the day he was going to give his binky to the other babies. We were walking into Target, trying to avoid the black stickiness of spat out gum, and he said, "Yes. I'm going to bed without my binky tonight." At bedtime, however, he firmly disputed my claim to his intent, though we decided that this was a great opportunity to teach him that you must follow through with what you say you're going to do. So we tucked him in and listen to him cry for about an hour that he missed his binky. Sleep snuck up behind him, though, and captured the night without further incident. And we were now a binky free household...
Emboldened by this success, he awoke one morning with an almost dry diaper. And, without warning or assistance, he marched into the bathroom, removed the diaper, lifted the lid and seat and tinkled in the potty. All by himself and without any suggestion, prodding, or help, for that matter. He flushed and washed his hands and came back out to join us in the other room. We were speechless as he matter-of-factly took his space on the couch -- as if he hadn't just cleared that developmental hurdle. Naturally, there was much cheering and calling of grandparents and hugging and kissing and such. Apparently, all he needed was to think that potty training was his idea, then he was off to the races.
It has been nearly two months and, due to lack of accidents (as in NONE), I feel safe saying he's potty-trained. He's been able to wait long enough to dash to a public restroom or drive the last five miles home. He's even torn himself from play to use the toilet without prompting. He seems to be a pro at this!
Until last night. We were out at Scott's parents and headed out the door to go to Joensy's for supper. Scott asked Milo if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. I asked Milo if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. He's used the toilet at grandma's house before, so, even though it's a dated blue throne, he's not afraid of it. He was confident that he did not need to use the bathroom.
Until we are about to turn onto the interstate. From the backseat we hear, "Uh-oh. I'm tinkling!" My head snaps around so fast that my hair swirls to catch up. "You're tinkling right now??"
"No. I have to go tinkle."
Scott sighs, "Milo! I asked you if you needed to go potty three minutes ago. You said 'no' so now you're going to have to wait until we get to the restaurant."
Milo groans, "I caaaan't!" Thirty seconds later, he starts whimpering and squirming in his car seat. Then he starts crying.
Scott and I exchange looks. We've never been in this position before. Milo begins calling, "I have to tinkle! I have to tinkle!" What do we do? We're five minutes from the restaurant, but I don't know if he can make it. We don't have another pair of shorts with us. Plus, I don't want him peeing in my car.
Scott hits the hazard light on the dash and slows the car as he pulls onto the shoulder of the highway. He glances over his shoulder into traffic and hops out, opening the passenger door behind him. He unbuckles our son, then directs him to climb into my seat so I can help him tinkle in the ditch. He's not wearing shoes and I notice a streak of mud on the side of his leg.
I help him unsnap his jeans shorts and pull down his underwear. I grasp him around the waist and set him into the ditchweeds, noticing how sinewy he feels -- that his baby-softness has about evaporated into the muscle-y hardness of a boy. I remind him to not hit my shoes or his clothes and he unleashes a hot stream that instead hits the frame of my car door, then is redirected towards a large yellow flower. Target practice.
The ditch is full of life, spiders and crickets scramble away from us, Liliputian next to Milo's feet. It smells of wild mint and deep grass. Cars scream by behind us, their view of my naked child blocked by the bulk of my husband.
When he's finished, I duck him back into the car, but he is more interested in seeing the spiders, so he protests as Scott packages him back into the safety of his car seat.
As we climb back into the car, an ambulance pulls up behind us, lights flashing. The driver bounds out of the vehicle and approaches our car, his query, "Is everyone OK? We saw you doubled over and wanted to make sure that you weren't hurt or sick."
"No," Scott admits, sheepishly, "We're potty training." The driver smiles knowingly, nods, and heads back to his rig. It was really nice of him to check on our welfare.
But we weren't hurt. Not really. Not if you don't count growing pains.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Oops!
So I got so dang busy yesterday at lunch defending myself online to post a blog. That's pretty bad...
What is is about the internet that brings out the crazy in people? I was (admittedly) a little snippy in a response, but with all the intensity of a fly and the reaction I got was a tank -- not a flyswatter. Whatever...
Violet is walking now. Milo has a cold, boo hiss.. Poor kid coughs himself silly every time he gets a runny nose... His little voice is hoarse and it's kinda cute, but I hope he feels better soon. And Violet is walking now. Like 8 feet across the room when no one's looking. Did I tell you the Violet is walking now???
I did get on the elliptical yesterday and can feel it in my legs. Not today, though, as I went to the sitter's to watch the kids while she took her son to preschool for the first time. Good gravy... I managed to get two to sleep, but not Milo. Oh, no... he kept asking me "Are they asleep yet? Can I get up yet??" Made me bonkers... The sitter put Violet down and the 14 month old boy. He screamed from the time she left until I went up and got him, then he settled down in my lap, so I took him up again and MORE SCREAMING... this time he woke Violet. Sitter came home and Milo, Violet and the 14 month old boy and I were all in the kitchen, trying to be quiet while the others slept. Guess I'm not cut out for daycare... It seemed pretty obvious that the 14 month old has been rocked or snuggled to sleep -- he was calm resting on me, but the instant I made for the steps, he lost it. Zoiks!!
Violet nursed a bit, but she looked pretty sleepy... hopefully the sitter got her back to sleep. She'd had a stinky little poop when she woke upstairs -- I think that's what got her fully awake when the other toddler was screaming -- I think without the stinky poo, she might have slept.
What does this mean? I really, really like my own kiddos... and don't need to watch other people's kids for too long, LOL!
What is is about the internet that brings out the crazy in people? I was (admittedly) a little snippy in a response, but with all the intensity of a fly and the reaction I got was a tank -- not a flyswatter. Whatever...
Violet is walking now. Milo has a cold, boo hiss.. Poor kid coughs himself silly every time he gets a runny nose... His little voice is hoarse and it's kinda cute, but I hope he feels better soon. And Violet is walking now. Like 8 feet across the room when no one's looking. Did I tell you the Violet is walking now???
I did get on the elliptical yesterday and can feel it in my legs. Not today, though, as I went to the sitter's to watch the kids while she took her son to preschool for the first time. Good gravy... I managed to get two to sleep, but not Milo. Oh, no... he kept asking me "Are they asleep yet? Can I get up yet??" Made me bonkers... The sitter put Violet down and the 14 month old boy. He screamed from the time she left until I went up and got him, then he settled down in my lap, so I took him up again and MORE SCREAMING... this time he woke Violet. Sitter came home and Milo, Violet and the 14 month old boy and I were all in the kitchen, trying to be quiet while the others slept. Guess I'm not cut out for daycare... It seemed pretty obvious that the 14 month old has been rocked or snuggled to sleep -- he was calm resting on me, but the instant I made for the steps, he lost it. Zoiks!!
Violet nursed a bit, but she looked pretty sleepy... hopefully the sitter got her back to sleep. She'd had a stinky little poop when she woke upstairs -- I think that's what got her fully awake when the other toddler was screaming -- I think without the stinky poo, she might have slept.
What does this mean? I really, really like my own kiddos... and don't need to watch other people's kids for too long, LOL!
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