Lets start with the less repulsive affair. It has to do with The Big One and his...uhhhhh.......expressitivity.
How could this be a bad thing, you ponder? Let me break it down for you....
The boy's little peepers open each morning and as if connected by an imaginary string, his mouth opens simultaneously. He begins to talk. About everything. About nothing. About little kid stuff. About things he probably shouldn't know about. And then there are the questions. Oh, sweet Jesus the questions. Questions about life. About him. About his sister. About things he definitely already knows the answers to. About things I'm not willing to answer until he's much, much older.
He has always been talkative but it's getting ridiculous. It's becoming insufferable. To listen to his much too loud albeit sweet voice from morning 'til night is in a word- EXHAUSTING.
"GOOD MORNING MOMMY!" I hear before I even open his door. (He heard me coming)
And as the door is opening:
"Mama, did you know that Darth Mater can defeat Luke Skywalker? Did you know that, Mommy? Well, he can. He can use his light saver. His light saver is red. It's not blue like Luke's. That's because Darth Mater is a bad guy and Luke is a good guy. Darth Moll is a bad guy too. I'm scared of Darth Moll. That's why I don't want to have to fight him at the Jedi Training Academy at Disneyland. What day are we going to Disneyland? Are Papa and Grobin going? Is my cousin coming? Are we going to stay 'til late at night? I like to stay up late at night. That means I'm a big boy because little boys can't stay up late. When I was a baby I went to sleep early because babies need more sleep because they're growing. Do I grow every night when I'm asleep or just on the weekends?....."
See what I'm saying? Nonstop jabber. Questions. No breaths in between. No momentary pauses. Just constant diarrhea of the mouth. I don't know how to stop it or even curb it a little. Sssshhhhusshhhhing and "PLEASE be quiet for a minute." just don't do the trick. I've tried BIG pieces of bubble gum, peanut butter and other things that one might think would keep a mouth busy. To no avail.
So, what do I do? Ignore him? That seems cruel to me. I don't want his little psyche affected for the rest of his life because his mommy didn't listen to him.
I enrolled both kids in swimming lessons for the summer. What a nice way to get some exercise and learn to swim. Class one began with The Big One introducing himself to his teacher.
"My names 'The Big One' and I'm four and a half years old. This is my sister and she's only two and half. We came swimming in this pool on Saturday with our Mommy and Daddy. I can touch the bottom but my sister can't. Can you touch the bottom? Are you a grown up? Is this your job? ...."
The class went on for 30 minutes and he talked the.entire.time. Yes, they went under water. And he emerged sputtering....but talking. Talented, huh?
I absolutely adore his love for life. His need for knowledge. His interest in everything. I just need a teeny weeny bit of silence.
I think I'll type the next part of my post in the bathroom with the fan on...and my earplugs in.
Now for The Little One. Let me begin by advising you the following depiction is DEEEE-SCUSTING! It's graphic and real and nasty. It involves copious amounts of ummm.... excrement.
My dear, sweet Little One is in the end stages of potty training. Whoever said that girls are easier to potty train had never met our little angel. The pee pee part of training has been fairly uneventful. Once she got it, she got it. No accidents to speak of. She still wears her little Pull Up at night but otherwise she's good.
Thank God for that Pull Up!
My kids are nothing if not scheduled. They both like structure and routine. This even goes as far as potty times. They're very predictable. Somehow, some way The Little One has gotten herself on a nighttime poo schedule.
But she has that Pull Up on, right? Right. But that poor little Pull Up only holds so much.
Three mornings in the past week I've been greeted by the undeniable smell of sewage creeping under The Little One's door. Coincidentally, three mornings this week I've thrown her pajamas directly into the trash can. Nuff said?
So, Thursday the poop meter hit a dangerous high. I entered the
"Shit." I muttered appropriately. Followed by a defeated sigh. I mean, what can I do? Yell at her?
Yeah. That's not gonna do it.
We've talked to her on more than one occasion about letting Mommy and Daddy know when she has to go. I'd happily trade the occasional midnight poop call for the daily carpet cleaning.
Plus, she's so cute about it all. The fateful poop-on-the-floor day she said, "Well Mommy. Poo came outta my diaper this time." Her matter of factness helped me take it all with a grain of salt. I love how she is such a girly girl. Loving pink and purple and unicorns and princesses and babies and Barbies. But she's not too much of a girl to shit on her bedroom floor. Nice.
So, back to the soiled carpet. I dutifully retrieve my crap cleaning supplies and get to scrubbing.
And from the hallway I hear,
"Mommy, are you cleaning poo? Did Lulu poop on the floor? Dogs poop on the floor. Remember when Charlie was smaller and she pooped on the floor? Dogs are supposed to poop outside but Charlie didn't know that. Can we play outside today? I don't think it's going to rain. Rain comes from clouds....."