There Is A Light At The End Of Tunnel But It's Yellow

Things have been...weird around here. Not in a bad way, more a summer break is here and what the hell am I supposed to do with these three kids, sort of way. I've been out of the house more than I've been in it and when I am at my computer, I'm wading through the countless Facebook generated emails I get and playing Farkle or FarmTown or Prime Suspects. I'm well on my way to becoming a gamer. Be afraid. And if I start mentioning Warcraft, one of you must come tranquilize me and bring me in for deprogramming. Thanks in advance for refraining from unnecessary roughness.

I've been thinking a lot about my life. Forty is approaching and I'm trying to become an actual author. You know one who has actual books, published and sold in those large bookstores. We're trying to figure out how to afford a minor relocation and some acreage. I'm looking to become a little more redneck. Again, be afraid. But this is bringing some deep navel-gazing. I'll be kind and spare you the pondering of my soul.

And last but not least, I'm potty-training the last rug-rat. Those of you without children might not understand the time and commitment that go into a venture like this, but it is akin to bringing up the Titanic. I spent a year (not exaggerating) in the preliminary plan stage, watching him for signs of readiness, making experimental forays, searching for underpants with dinosaurs on them and talking to mothers of boys. Because teaching a little boy to use the toilet is a far, far different proposition than the teaching of the opposite gender.

I'm going into this bare. Not literally naked, though that would cut down on the laundry. No, my nakedness is the figurative sort, in that I know nothing about training a boy and there are some complications I hadn't considered. Like aim. Yeah, you heard me. In the general scheme of my life, being peed on was not a event that I had envisioned. Maybe a little, here or there. A girl's gotta live her life, feel me? But I begin to suspect that my darling little son, the fruit of my loins, is being...shall we say, deliberately careless? It's so much nicer than accusing the little shit of purposefully peeing on the woman WHO GAVE HIM LIFE!

We've taken the sitting approach after finding that Red is awfully fond of "yanking his wanky," to paraphrase the great Gedde Watanabe (all hail The Donger). But the sitting approach, while reducing his opportunity to mangle his meat, is fraught with peril. The peril of airborne urine, which, my friends, is not a peril to be lightly taken. He's small, so one would assume there would be a correspondingly small amount of urine stored. Not so, as it turns out. I'm renaming my bathroom The Bellagio. I'm trying to remind him to push it down, but he is a little aggressive about that and his bladder takes offense. It stops the stream when he jams his Tinky-Winky so hard it disappears into body. I can't blame Mr. Bladder. I would strike as well. But it must feel good because he isn't shy about it, to say the least. Are you feeling the good times? I'm spending hours of my life, crouched beside a toilet saying things like, "push it gently, gently! Now pee. Pee! Yay, that's great KEEP PEEING! NOOO! Try to push a little more out, honey." I don't get paid enough for this.

Then there is the underwear issue. Red has definite opinions about what he wants to wear. Things he will wear: socks, shorts, t-shirts, underpants that has dinosaurs or Nemo on it.
Things he will not wear: everything else.
The underpants have been a recent development. I had to get tough. He cried, begged for diapers, and I was left thinking, oh yeah, now you want to keep a diaper on. I was cruel and guess what? He's down with the undies now. This was due in no small part, to my lovely mother finding dinosaur underwear. He's partial to the orange T-Rex, but those visit the washing machine with alarming frequency. The gray pterodactyl have to do in a pinch.

He's discovered the beauty of underpants in lieu of diapers. Undies provide easy access to his package. So now, in addition to teaching him how to potty in the toilet, I have to teach the boy that one should not walk around with ones hand in ones waistband all damn day long. He can reach the goods now and he likes it. A lot. Oye. It would be less frustrating if he didn't laugh when I scolded him. He finds it hilarious when I shriek, "RED! Stop grabbing your wee-wee!" Okay, I can see how that would be funny, but folks, I have nightmares about the calls I'll be getting when preschool starts up.

Now do you understand the lamentable lack of posting? I swear, I haven't been lounging by the pool, eating watermelon and reading romance novels. Well, yes, I have, but be honest. You wouldn't trade me places for all the watermelon and Judith McNaught in the world. Being peed on is gross.