Use the Potty... I implore thee...

Doesn't this LOOK Fun?

Dear Carson,

I know someday I will miss how small you are right now. I will miss cleaning you. Helping you with the most intimate of human functions. Saving you from sitting in your own warm mess, and changing you so you're fresh like a spring daisy. I'll miss your chubby little toddler elbows. I'll wish I still had the power to solve your worst fears by simply letting you curl up in my lap.  I'll wish I could again feel your little arms cling to me when you're too tired to walk.

But today I just wish for one thing: that you'd experience the wonderful freedom of diaper-free living.

Ok, really I wish that I didn't have to scrub caked-on smashed poop off your ass one more time.

I wish I could, without cringing, hear you make the daily announcement that you need to go poop. You clumsily shut the playroom door behind you and creep to a corner, squatting to poop in your pants while you study a book.  I ask you "Do you want to try the potty this time?" and you answer, "No thank you." Like you were responding to an offer for more potatoes.  I try demanding you to do your business in the bathroom. You cry and carry on like I've just threatened a beating.

I've tried bargaining with you. "No more new toys until you poop on the potty." And after that doesn't work..."Starting today, you'll start LOSING toys you own until you decide to poop on the potty." Nothing phases you.  My announcements are met with sighs. Whimpers. And then indifference. Even at 3 1/2 (as if diaper rights expire at that magic age), you clearly aren't ready.

But you are like this with all things. Walking. You decided to, and you were nearly running within a day. Sleeping--you chose when to go all night, and you've rarely woken since (THANK YOU!!).  So maybe you'll decide one day to don a pair of underwear, and we'll be done. I'll wonder what all the fuss was about.

Until then, I'm impatiently waiting, my son. I'm trying not to do or say anything irreparable. I'm trying to remember you will not (hopefully) be wearing diapers in high school.  I'm trying to remember you are a perfect little boy and this is simply part of growing up.

And like all poops, this too shall pass.

I love you and hope I have not already forever ruined for you the wonderful experience of pooping.

Love, Mommy

Blame The Dark Ages

The U.S. Air Force Academy in the Dark Ages - 
photo courtesy USAFA Facebook page

Once upon a time I was a cadet at the Air Force Academy, (and to answer the two most common questions right now: yes, I did graduate, and yes I have flown a plane).  There were about two and a half months every winter that were so incredibly horrible that they called them the Dark Ages. You wake up and it's dark outside, and you shuffle your ass off to morning meal formation in the bitter cold and snowy dark, salute the flag as it's raised, go to school all day, and then around 4 p.m. emerge from the big academic building and, oh, surprise, it'd be dark again. Everyone laments the long days and weeks between Christmas and Spring, and it feels like your friends are all off at cool civilian colleges having a normal early adulthood life. Which they are, of course, and that makes it even worse. 

As an aside, in retrospect, I laugh at Oh the Drama I felt as a cadet. It's really a privilege to be attending that school, and if you are there and you are reading this, suck it up. 

It does not matter how many years I am in the post-release from military school, I still think of these months as the Dark Ages. And now with two kids in tow and the kind of gray overcast horribly cold days Wisconsin can produce, I whip up a pity party and become one of those cartoons from the Zoloft commercials.  You know the one where a little cloud perches over the cartoon’s head while he walks around slumped over? 

Last evening around dinner time I completely lost it.   Before I go into it, allow me to briefly rationalize this departure from sanity.  The past few weeks Amelia's sleep patterns have regressed to newborn stage.  I will spare you the details, and we are working on it, but in the meantime we’re dog-ass tired. After not more than two hours of continuous sleep all night, I awake to what I knew would be a tough Monday.  In my morning prayers I set forth my intent for the day, to be kind and loving despite physically and mentally feeling like crap.  I pledge to "act" my way into feeling better.  Still, I spend the day pushing my anger back down my throat like swallowing a cork.  Miraculously, I almost make it. Most of the day is good. 

But then it unravels...

At 5:00PM, after tiptoeing around the house with Amelia on my hip all afternoon, desperately trying to keep her from waking Carson, I try one last time to put her down for a nap.  She quickly escalates into that toe-curling kind of wailing cry. After 30 minutes, I pick her up and try to calm her, but she holds a grudge. She keeps at it now, only louder.  Now I know why, during the Vietnam war, one form of torture the Viet Cong used against American POWs were recordings of crying babies (seriously, this is true).  They would play recordings for hours on end while depriving the prisoners of sleep. Sounds way too familiar. 

So Amelia is sitting in her high chair just howling, doing her best Hanoi Hilton impression. And then Carson joins the chorus crying in sympathy for her. Or maybe to attempt to get me to do something about it. I don’t flipping know.  But it works.  

I start with my best "Serious Mom" voice, firmly telling them both to stop.  Then irrationally, I'm yelling at them to stop. Then I’m just heaving guttural screams of anguish and frustration.  In there somewhere was “STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE ARRRRGH!” So there we sit in our kitchen, the three of us, screaming and crying at the top of our lungs.  My tantrum lasts about 10 seconds, but it scares the shit out of Carson.  Out of the corner of my eye I see him sitting there, cowering, folding the Batman notebook we gave him at Amelia's birthday party across his nose and eyes. Just then I remember my intent of the day, to be kind and loving despite physically and mentally feeling like crap.  And I've totally blown it.  The day is almost over.  I'm at mile 26 of the marathon (and remember, there are 26.2 miles in a marathon) and can see the finish line--and I fall to my knees and quit.  Sort of.

Child abuse? No, perhaps not, but really? Seriously? NOT the shining moment of motherhood I hoped to portray when I resigned from a very well paying job to stay at home with the kids.  And so, again, this laboratory of parenthood proves that I’m not perfect. I’m human. I’m far from it. I'm not expecting perfection, but it still doesn't stop me from feeling awful when I do something I regret. 

I call a friend that night to confess, and through her laughter she reminds me that I gave those kids 13 hours of really really good mom moments throughout the day, and this was just 10 minutes of Momzilla.  It's hard to avoid letting those ten minutes define you, but it's what I do best, you know? Black and white thinking.  Either I'm good or I'm awful, either I'm mother of the year or I'm Mommy Dearest.  Take one percent of my life and let it define the other ninety-nine.  Sigh. At least I’ve awareness.

So let's hear it.  How are the Dark Ages treating you this winter? Do you have a not-so-great moments at work you're willing to share about? Do you send a snarky sarcastic emails? Do you yell at your employees? Do you swear under your breath at your boss?  Come on. I hope it is a guttural scream that ended with "STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT arragggh" like mine.  I think you do.  Maybe you hide it better.  I could have met Matt at he front door with a batch of cookies and his slippers, and never ever told him (or you) about my Momzilla moment, but I didn't.   So come clean.   You can even post it Anonymous, but that's too easy.  Come on. Blame the Dark Ages. I do.