Tag Archives: Griffin

The “P.Q.”

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In his tragedy Medea, Euripides wrote:

Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius.
(Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mothers with two sons to potty-train.)

Okay, my Latin might be off by a smidgen, but that’s what he meant. That Euripides was totally brill.

My potty-training experience has been a journey of Homeric proportions, with a duration to rival The Odyssey and a casualty list to shame The Illiad — at least as far as undergarments are concerned. The clashing of wills, the shedding of tears and the conflagration of tempers has ever threatened to lay waste to our little corner of the Peloponnesus.

If you think this is hyperbole, let’s trade lives for an afternoon. 1

So as to keep this post on the upbeat — and you know that’s where I live to be— we are making progress and are close, so very close to the goal. We are, despite semi-regular accidents, in a mostly liveable stage where [details redacted] and I’m only averaging seven loads of laundry per week.

But there is one tiny thing that I would rejoice to outgrow. The Potty Queue.

How have my two sons — through some bizarre trick of osmotic transference, as yet uninvestigated by modern scientists or paranormal experts — managed to completely synchronize their bladders and bowels? Honestly, the coordinated precision with which “the urge” strikes my little boys should be the envy of NASA and The Rockettes of Radio City Music Hall fame.

But so it is. Whenever I’m conducting one son on his excursion to the “big boy potty,” I’m sure to be treated to the appearance of his brother suddenly beset by a similar, and equally urgent, call of nature. And they’re not even twins. How does this happen?

It’s not that we lack the facilities, but neither of my sons have reached an acceptable level of independence where toilet needs are concerned. Ours is a supervisory deficiency. I’m sure it’s only because I’ve been mothering less than six years, but I have yet to master that little trick about being in two places at once. I feel like such a failure.

My own mother had two sons, both now functionally potty-trained — at least as far as I know — so I’m clinging to the dim hope that this, too, may yet happen for me. And since I don’t play the lottery and I have yet to complete my future New York Times Bestseller, successful potty-training is the only jackpot for which I’m in active contention — which leads me to believe I have an outside shot of actually landing triple sevens on this one.

Eventually.

In the meantime, has anyone ever seen a two-seater potty? Craigslist came up empty.

  1. And no offense, but please don’t flood the comments with your suggestions or admonishments on what else we should try. Heard it all. Tried it all. Been there, done that, disinfected the floor afterwards. I promise. ↩

New Feature?

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I’m thinking of adding a new weekly feature to my blog.

Perhaps — in deference to the latest crazy sweeping Facebook, Twitter and the web — I’ll call it: Sh*t My Kids Broke.

On second thought, I’d better make it a daily feature.

I have two sons. Precious, adorable, cherubic children. They are my daily delight. I love them more than life itself. But.

For starters, they’re two-and-a-half years apart in age. They have no older sisters. They have no sisters, period. They like to wrestle. They are mechanically-inclined. They are obsessed with kitchen utensils. They are currently under contract to the CIA for their preternatural ability to bypass the most advanced security systems known to man.

Take a moment and peruse these “During” photos of my home. Note the dearth of accessories, knick-knacks and objects d’art.

I possess such things. I just can’t display them.

Those of you who have boys — and I do mean to make that plural — will understand. Those of you with girls, or even one solitary prince sandwiched between your princesses, won’t understand the breadth of destruction which can be wreaked by the combined exertions of “the heir and the spare.”

I don’t make empty accusations. Let me give you a “for instance.”

My husband is gracious enough to shoulder several duties in preparing our home for visitors. Standing Order Numero Uno is: put the toilet paper holders back where they belong.

Oh, yes. My sons’ favorite sport is ripping the toilet paper holders off the walls.

Would your daughters ever even think of such a bizarre act of destruction?

Exactly.

Did I mention I’m outnumbered three-to-one in this house?

The toilet paper holder thing is not the worst they’ve done, and some other day, I will post a photo essay to account for more extreme examples of their destructive tendencies. For now, I will just stick to the issue at hand.

Remember this?

Now it looks like this:

They “somehow” (meaning I have a pretty good idea exactly how they did it but have no actual proof…) managed to snap this bolt supporting the chandelier.

I found the whole fixture dangling three feet lower than usual and supported only by the wiring. Yippy.

Word to the wise: If you are considering having children, forget Lamaze class and take a shop course at your local trade school. Plumbing, Electrical, General Contracting, whatever you can squeeze in. You won’t regret it.

I managed to locate the breaker box, find the right switch for the dining room and turn off the power, unwire the very heavy chandelier and stash it away until hubby can weld it to the ceiling.

I’m developing a greater understand of the phrase “driven to drink” every day.

Boys, I love you. But you should know I’ve been keeping each of you a running tab.

Hey, what comes after “trillion”? Anyone?

Abigail

aka Mama

Mothers & Sons

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I have the best of both.

Although in personality I most resemble my dad, my mama had the unenviable job of tempering the concatenation of quirks, freaks and neuroses that is yours truly into a balanced, moderately normal human being.

And you thought your job was tough.

In all seriousness, my mom has been my steadfast guide through good times and bad. Although I stopped being afraid of her as soon as I became taller than she, I have never stopped respecting her for her graciousness, humor, wisdom and love.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! You are an amazing woman and I am so proud to be your daughter.

And then, five years ago today, I had a child of my own.

Words fail me. That innocent little lamb had no idea — still doesn’t — how he rocked my world with his arrival.

Most people only imagine babies this easy. I actually had one. A sweeter, sunnier baby than our little Griffin couldn’t be had.

Five years later, I am daily reminded of the blessing God gave us in the cherubic form of this little fellow. His tender heart, his helpful spirit, his lively sense of humor, coupled with perpetual motion and photographic memory, all brighten our home. I have never met a boy who takes more delight in just being with his family — wherever we are and whatever we do.

My mama often says that God gave us the children He did because through them, He can transform us into the people He intended us to be. Serving their needs, their personalities, their uniqueness help mold our lives into all that our Heavenly Father longs for us to become.

I’ve learned at least a few things through my sweet son. Such as patience. Having a sweeter spirit. Tempering my sarcasm. The currency of earnest praise. Knowing enough to slow down and savor moments with my family before they pass by.

He’s not a perfect angel. And he hasn’t made me into one, either. But I thank God everyday for the privilege of being his mama.

Happy Birthday, sonny! We love you!

It’s All in How You Say It

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It only takes having a four-year-old to learn how key enunciating your words can be.

For example, my four-year-old has the tendency to drop a lot of “R”s. Mostly harmless. Except when saying at least one word.

Today’s lesson:

I was in the kitchen fixing the kids a sandwich after church. Griffin was battling with the buttons of a collared, button-down shirt — his nemesis. After a few minutes of struggling, his annoyed and plaintive request:

“Will you get this sh-t offa me?”

Say what???

For the moment before I could put it together, I was horrified. Then I got it.

Shirt. He said: “shirt.”

Whew.

I know a lot of you parents have a list of “no-no” words your kids aren’t allowed to say. Butt, stupid, hate, shut-up, etc. Maybe you can help me out with this one.

Exactly how do I ask him to never say the word “shirt” again?

Tears and Fears (and rears).

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I fear my computer is hosed.

Boo-hoo-hoo. Sniff, sniff.

Yes, I spent most of my evening doing just that. Until I gave up trying to sort out the mess and watched both Jon Gosselin and Flipping Out until I felt, well — not better, exactly, but OCD casts a long shadow. Almost as long as wife-on-husband spousal abuse. At the very least, I feel more philosophical.

So now I’m sitting at The Dragonslayer’s computer, waiting for McAfee Virus Scan to tell me that everything is perfectly fine — which is wrong, wrong, WRONG — and coping with the knowledge that other people out there are facing much more challenging and heart-rending circumstances tonight than I.

Now I’m really depressed…

So all I can offer before I thump my head against the desk for choosing a diet that (until Saturday) forbids alcohol in any form is a cute anecdote — one lone, shining moment of humor from an otherwise aggravating and tormented day.

After naps today, it was time to pile the boys in the car and go vote (Note to Self: check election returns…). By the end of the twenty-minute chorus line that passes for “getting ready to leave the house” around here, my precious eldest son is still parading around in nothing but a pull-up, walking the tightrope of my last fraying nerve. Walking? He’s doing Riverdance on it. And bless him, he doesn’t even know it.

The cold truth is that Griffin is a gifted meanderer. His guileless little soul has no malice a forethought: yet he piddles, he drifts, he dawdles, lost in a world all his own. Maybe it’s a world with a giant waterfall crashing into a churning riverbed or huge jet planes taking off all day. Because there has to be a reason he tunes me out. It must be that he just can’t hear me.

Anyway, it goes like this:

Harried Mom: Griffin, it’s time to go.

Dawdling Son: [unintelligible response — perhaps a quote from Dora — followed by no discernable movement exitward]

Harried Mom: [trying to keep a lid on it]  Son, I am losing my temper.

Dawdling Son: [cue the wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look, thinking: What did I DO?]

Harried Mom: [DEFCON Four] Griffin, get your butt downstairs NOW.

Dawdling Son: [innocent eyes widen, searching the floor in sudden panic] Where’s ‘my butt’?

Of course, I stopped. I took a deep breath. I laughed. I explained the new word and its related concept. Dear child, how can such sweet innocence be aggravating? Thank you, Lord, for a little reminder of what’s most important in life.

Hint: it’s not my POS computer.

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