All The World's A Toilet

Since the dawn of history, man has always been there to answer the call…the call of nature, that is.  I imagine that when our forefather Adam first felt that need to relieve himself, he found a nice big tree or hedge of bushes to get behind and take care of business.  I’m not real sure that’s exactly how it went because the Holy Scriptures didn’t see fit to give a lot of insight in this area.  Eve, on the other hand, probably just held it and complained about the severe lack of indoor plumbing.  We’ll most likely never know unless we get a chance to talk to them in Heaven some day.

But my point is, sometimes you’re out in nature and nowhere near a toilet when the urge strikes you.  That is why God invented trees and bushes and such.  It’s a lesson that has to be taught to your children at some point, and potty training sometimes forces this particular skill to be explored.  After all, it’s better to have them pee in the grass than in their underwear.  This is how my oldest son first learned that all the world is a toilet.

My father and I were at an air show some years back and had Griffin with us.  He was in the midst of potty training, and he let me know that it was time.  The problem:  there was no bathroom in sight.  I found a stand of bushes next to the Interstate and took him to it.  He was a little confused at first, but after he got started, he became enamored with the idea of using the bathroom outside.  Still to this day, he tries to dream up situations where he can’t make it to the bathroom in time and has to go in the great outdoors.

So, there’s part of me that shouldn’t really be surprised about what happened last Saturday.  Tamara and I were in the front yard, working on the flower beds.  The boys were alternating between helping us and playing.  They had been gone a while when I finally gave up on the liriope I was yanking at and went into the garage.  The vehicles had been backed out on to the driveway and by mere chance, my gaze fell across the young ones, crouched down and examining something by the back wheel of our Acadia.  “What’s that boys,” I called.  Griffin looked up at me and said, “I had to go poop.”

My mouth started working, but there was no sound coming out.  After a moment of chewing on air, I was able to focus on one single sentence, “Get in the house.”  Yes, my five…nearly six year old boy had stood in the front yard, yanked his shorts down, and dropped an impressive load on our grass.  I was mortified.  It’s not like we live in the country.  Saturday was a pretty day with lots of neighbors outdoors.  Yep, lots of people.

Once I got him inside and made sure he had cleaned up, I lectured him good and proper on why the front yard was not appropriate place to cop a squat.  Then came the fun part…telling mama.  Her reaction was no less glorious than what I expected.  There’s a certain measure of satisfaction watching someone else display the same look of horror you had on your face only a few moments before.  Griffin took it all in stride until we made it clear that he would be cleaning up the mess.  That may have been the turning point for him. 

Consequently, it was during this clean up time that the logistics of the whole situation began to work themselves out in my head.  “How did you manage to do it without getting any poop on you,” I asked.  “I stood,” he replied.  A cursory inspection of his shirt and shorts proved out that he did NOT, in fact, manage to poop without getting any on him.  “Get back in the house and take your clothes off, you’ve got it all over you,” I told him.

In retrospect, the situation could have been a lot worse.  Not quite sure how at this moment, but I suppose there’s a way.  I do believe we’ve worked out an understanding, though, so I think we’ll avoid future repeats.  At the risk of a totally awful pun, I guess you could say the problem is behind us.

Spinalectomy

It’s a little less than two months until Griffin’s sixth birthday, so we still have quite a ways to go before he finishes high school, college, medical school, and then gets married.  Still, I have this growing sense of dread about when he and his wife have their first child, because I know it will be time for Tamara and me to get our spinalectomy done.  This is apparently a process that every new grandparent undergoes in which the spinal column is removed so that the individual loses all ability to say ‘No’ to their grandchildren.

I had back surgery last year, and it was an unpleasant experience.  But I’m pretty sure this isn’t the same type of surgery.  I don’t recall my parents ever going into the hospital for it, yet the mountain of evidence is undeniable.  No request from the grandchildren is too large for them.  For instance,

My Boys: Pa, will you take us on a ride across the frozen tundra? 

My dad: Sure, Just let me go get the tractor warmed up!

Another example, 

Griffin: I want to sleep at your house.

Mammy: I’m sorry honey, you have school tomorrow.

Griffin (turning on the tears): But I just want to sleep at your house.

Mammy (to me): Let him spend the night.  I’ll take him to school tomorrow.

Maybe it’s not that they can’t say ‘No’, they just make it a personal challenge to never actually do it.  And I must admit that being at the grandparent’s house has a positive effect on them.  For some reason they will do things there that they won’t even attempt at home (like using the potty, eating grilled cheese sandwiches, etc.).

But if you think grandparents are peculiar in their ability to avoid the N-word, you haven’t seen anything yet.  I’m talking about Great-Grandparents here.  The other night, my grandmother watched the boys while we met with Griffin’s Kindergarten teacher.  When we made it back to her house, we saw the two kids playing outside in their long-sleeve shirts.  Upon going inside, we asked why they didn’t have their coats on.  Her answer was, “Well, they wanted to go outside, and they haven’t been out there very long.”  Then she proceeded to tell us, “They were hungry so I gave them a popsicle and some cookies.”  Why did she give them junk food?  Because that’s what they wanted.

I don’t know what process they go through that turns an adult from a responsible authoritarian into a weak-kneed grandparent, but it seems to be an almost universal rule of nature.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way…okay, maybe with a little less sweets right before bedtime, but other than that…

My Weim

We have a grey beast that lives in our home.  Piper is a Weimaraner and has been a part of our life for the better part of 11 years.  She’s getting pretty old now and not quite up to all the antics that a young pup puts their owners through.

One of my favorite stories about her comes from the time we lived in Maryland.  We had a townhouse that backed up to an 80-acre nature preserve.  We’d often take her for walks down to the Little Patuxent River where she’d swim and play in the water.  One of the easiest routes to this canine playground was down a repurposed railway.  The train tracks had been removed and a hiking path was put in their place.  On this occasion, we spent about half an hour throwing sticks in the river and watching her retrieve them before deciding it was time to make our way home.  We had climbed back up the steep bank and got on the old ‘rail-trail’ for our return, when a bird caught our young pup’s attention.  Quick as a flash she turned toward the river and shot off after it.  We yelled for her to stop, but in her youthful exuberance, she ignored our calls.  Coming to the end of the trail, her way onward was blocked by a small stand of bushes covered in honeysuckle.  Like a gazelle, she gracefully bounded over them…and into thin air.  You see, she had reached the riverbank, and more specifically the place that the railroad trestle used to be.  I ran back down the path that led to the river, expecting to jump in and swim out to where my dog’s broken body lay on the rocks below.  But when I got there, I saw a little grey head poking out of the water, and swimming around the bend, sneezing water out of her nose.

With a canine that’s this accident prone, it’s always important to have the number of a good Vet in your phone list.  In moving back to Arkansas, we struggled with finding a place that fit our needs.  Sure, the staff was knowledgeable, but it seemed you could never go and get something done without dropping more than $100, no matter how simple it was.  I started to get the same feeling that I did when taking our car to Jiffy Lube.  You go in for a simple procedure, like an oil change, but when you reach the other end, they’ve found all these problems that ‘need’ to be fixed.  One of the last straws came when we spent thousands of dollars on some mysterious problem that they never identified or fixed.

You can imagine our excitement when we heard about Cornerstone Veterinary Clinic going in.  We immediately made an appointment to have a lot of stuff done that we had been putting off (teeth cleaning, shots, nail clipping, etc.).  Among other things, I found that their location is extremely convenient; I was able to drop her off before work and pick her up afterwards without having to drive all the way across town.  

The entire staff was pleasant and friendly.  Dr. Coston was extremely personable and did a good job with our old dog.  He had taken before-and-after pictures to show me the extent of what they performed on her.  The best surprise is when it came time to pay.  I had expected to clear $400 on this one visit (we had a whole lot done), but it wasn’t even close to that.  We took our vet bill home and compared it, procedure-for-procedure, to another vet bill we had from a previous facility.  There was a stark difference in pricing.

Finally, we’ve found the vet we’ve been looking for!  If you live in the South Sebastian County area of Arkansas and are looking for a vet, take your beast to Cornerstone Veterinary Clinic.  I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.

An End

Author's Note:  As a result of a recent health screening, it's been brought to my attention that some life changes are in order.  This is a copy of a letter I sent to Dr. Pepper, in an attempt to make a clean break from a long-standing habit.  Hope you enjoy.

Dear Dr. Pepper,

I’m writing you this letter because I think its best we not meet in person anymore.  I've been doing a lot of thinking about where my life is headed and who will take this journey with me.  I want you to know that I’ve not reached this decision lightly.  I've talked to a lot of people who have helped me understand that it’s time for you and me to see others.

It tears me up inside to think of the years we’ve spent together and how it feels like I’m throwing that all away.  At 20 fluid ounces a workday, for the last five years, we’ve had more than 195 gallons of quality time together.  And that’s not even taking into account the ten years previous where we had a more casual relationship.

I need you to understand that it’s nothing wrong that you’ve done.  This is my fault.  Maybe if I had a little more self-control, we could still be close friends, but as it is, I need space and time to just settle on who I can become.

I know that without you, I’ll be less of a person.  I’m hoping by at least 10 pounds.  I’ll not easily forget the sharp, bubbly flavor of the time we spent just chillin’ at my desk.  Because of you, the number 23 will always hold a special place in my heart.  Not only is it a beautiful prime number, but it reminds me of the mysterious 23 flavors that you contain.

Please remember that I’m not doing this out of malice.  I’ll still proudly wear my Dr. Pepper hat when I work out at the gym, and throw my Dr. Pepper football with the boys.  I’m not ashamed of you in any way, and I hope you can find it in your heart one day to forgive me for ending our relationship so suddenly.

I wish you the best,

Michael

The Difference Game

Communication is a skill that takes a lifetime to develop.  It’s very easy to completely forget the difficulties that arise when you first start to learn it.  For children, there are communication concepts that are almost impossible to explain with words.  Two areas that have caused great difficulty in our house is understanding what “sassiness” is, and grasping the difference between joking with someone as opposed to lying to them.

On many occasions I’ve seen my kids say something with a sneer or a roll of the eyes, then immediately get busted for sassiness.  You can watch the sneer quickly morph into an expression of confusion, and it makes you think ‘they just don’t get what sassiness is’.

Griffin has also been branching out into the areas of sarcasm and joking, but in his efforts to talk more like a grown-up, he’s zoomed right passed that line of “joshing” and straight into flat out lying.  At times, I can see the confusion on his face when he gets reprimanded for what he thinks is done in good fun.

Like I said, to use only words to explain the differences is a monumentally difficult task.  I have found that it is much more effective to demonstrate the differences by playing a little game with them.  I call it the Game of Differences.

In Gage’s case, when he has said something particularly sassy to one of us and gotten in trouble for it, I take him aside and show him how he was sassy by imitating what he did.  Next, I show him a better way that he could have said it.  Then, finally, we start the game.  I make a statement, but do it two different ways:

1)      “Gage, please hand me the soap.”

2)      “HAND ME THE SOAP NOW!”

Then I ask him which was the nice way to say it and which was the sassy way to say it.  He always picks up on this one easy enough.  Then, I try a different statement with eye-rolling or sighing.  Next, maybe I’ll just change the inflection on certain words, but by this point, he’s having so much fun that he doesn’t want to stop playing the game, and he’s getting really good at picking up on the cues that get him busted for sassiness.

The same is true for Griffin and his joking/lying dilemma.  I first noticed we had a problem when I told him something so outlandish that it couldn’t possibly be believed, something like, “I ate an elephant for lunch.”  He accused me of lying…which is technically true, except for the fact that I never meant for him to believe it.  We played a similar game where he had to differentiate between a statement that was an outlandish assertion and one that was a lie.  At this point, let me caution you NOT to let your 3 year-old overhear you tell the other son that there’s a shark in the toilet.  It’ll totally de-rail any efforts you’ve put toward potty training.  Not that that happened.  I’m just sayin’…it could cause problems.

Now, I’m not a certified child psychologist, or even an uncertified one, but I’ve seen this technique work really well in our household.  Bear in mind that I’m doing this with a 5 and a 3 year old.  I wouldn’t advise using this on your tween daughter unless you’re looking to see her generate some big time snark.

Happy Parenting! 

Girls Are Just Different

When I first became a new father, I was scared to death of raising boys.  After having Griffin and Gage, and the ensuing years of practice, I’ve become pretty comfortable in my role as parent to two of these rowdy little guys.  Girls, on the other hand, are a totally different matter, and I’m struggling to come to terms with the dissimilarities.

First off, they are physically different, which comes as no surprise to anyone above the age of three.  However, there are certain rules involved in this difference that I was not immediately aware of.  Did you know I’ve been changing diapers the WRONG way for five whole years?  Apparently, there’s a correct and incorrect direction in which to wipe a dirty hiney.  And beyond that, what’s with giving daddy a hand-shower almost every time he changes the diaper?  She’s already peed on me more times than both boys ever did…combined.

Another area of disparity that I’ve noticed is clothing.  Boys are generally very easy to get dressed.  In fact, the three year old can pretty much take care of all his clothing needs now, though he does come in with the occasional backwards shirt.  When dressing Haven, I’m the one more likely to put something on backwards.  OK, buttons should be on the front of the dress, people!  For a baby who lies on her back ninety percent of the time, it makes no sense to hide the latches where it’s doubly difficult to snap or button them.  And what sick person first thought up tights for babies?!?  I spent 5 minutes trying to get hers on yesterday.  For those of you who’ve never tried, it’s an experience akin to taking a live squid, putting it in a mesh bag, and then trying to keep all the tentacles from coming out the holes.  Every time I’d get one of her legs in and start working on the other, the first leg would pop back out.  Girl clothes are not easy, by any stretch of the imagination.

And furthermore, exactly how many shades of pink are there?  Thus far, I have been able to distinguish two, and that’s only when they are lying side by side.  However, I’ve been told there are quite a few more than the couple I’ve found.  Color distinction is a genetics issue, from what I understand.  Something about the X chromosome helps in differentiation of the color red.  That would be the X chromosome that all males get only 1 of where females get 2.  Keep that in mind, ladies, next time you’re stressing over which shade of heels to wear for an evening on the town.  Chances are your date can barely tell which section of the color wheel it came from.  This could also, consequently, explain the phenomenon where we look in your closet and exclaim, “How many pairs of black shoes do you need!?”

All those differences aside, there’s also a certain sweetness about Haven that I didn’t quite notice with the boys.  It could be the way she smiles when you lay her down to change her diaper, or maybe the way she laughs when you pull her arms out of her clothes, or maybe the way she babbles back when you ‘coo’ at her.  I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, yet, but it does merit some further research.  It’s possible that girls are just made out of sweeter things than boys…like sugar and spice and everything nice.

Diapers are NOT magic

Tuesday morning, as Gage lay down on the bathroom rug to get his diaper changed, he uttered one of the funniest things I’ve heard in a while.  I had unfastened his nighttime pullup, and was getting some wipes to clean him.  He pulled the diaper out from underneath him and tossed it on the tile, to which I said, “Gage, don’t pull that off yet, I’m not ready.”  His response was priceless, “I like taking off diapers!  It’s magic!”

As cute as that may be, I’m here to tell you that un-potty-trained diaper removal is in no wise magical.  For proof, I only need to look back at Sunday, to an un-diapering event that will forever be burnt into my memory…

We had not gotten a lot of sleep the night before, Tamara and I.  We were completely exhausted, and the baby woke up extra early wanting to be fed.  Tamara stumbled into the nursery fighting against a migraine that would last almost the entire day, and did what she could to feed the baby.  I took over after that, giving Haven a bottle of formula.

About midway through that bottle, Griffin materializes from around the corner and announces that Gage has poo-poo’s in his diaper.  This didn’t worry me a great deal, because Gage almost always mistakes a saturated overnight diaper for one having poop in it.  “Gage,” I called, “come here.”  A few moments later, my three year old waddles around the corner sporting a bowlegged shuffle that looks like he’s been on a horse for the past two days.  I sent him on to the bathroom.

Had I known two crucial things, at this point, it would have changed the whole course of the morning.  The first thing: Gage was NOT in a nighttime diaper, he was in a daytime diaper.  For those of you not versed in the subtle differences between the two, bear in mind that a nighttime diaper is designed to hold more.  The second: Gage was not done peeing in said diaper.

Like they say, hindsight is 20/20, and without that foreknowledge, I elected to continue feeding sister her bottle.  Upon finishing, I laid her down in the crib and walked toward the bathroom.  Gage was not lying down on the rug, as I had told him to do, but what bothered me more was the puddle growing under his right foot.  I quickly got him off his feet and started pulling his pj’s off.  The bathroom rug underneath him saturated almost instantly.  There was nothing left to do but take a step back, take a deep breath, and decide on the next course of action.  So I did take a step back, right into a puddle of pee.

At this point, I’m pretty thoroughly grossed out.  I pulled a Clorox wipe out from underneath the cabinet, cleaned my foot, and wiped it off on a part of the rug that was still dry.  I told Gage that he was not to get up, and then took the wet pj bottoms to the laundry room. 

Upon my return, I finally started taking care of the heart of the matter.  In my zeal to get the whole ordeal over, I gripped the sides of the pullup and yanked the Velcro tabs away from their fasteners.  My face and arms were instantly showered with tiny specks of urine.  I had no idea that was even possible.  The second tab on the other side did the exact same thing.  It was disgusting, but this far into the process, all that was left to do was wipe my face and move on.

When I lay the pullup open, I could see the liquid washing back and forth inside of it, like waves in a bathtub.  I actually had to go get a second diaper to lay on top of the used one and soak up the excess.

The next 30 minutes was eaten up with giving Gage a bath, washing the rug, and mopping the bathroom floor.  If ever there was a morning to be in bed with a migraine, this was it.

So, you see how I can say that taking off diapers isn’t necessarily a magical thing.  In my estimation, potty-trained children are where the real magic is at.