Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Privacy Door

Today I took my ginormous wad of Girl Scout cookie cash (nearly $2000 in primarily one’s and five’s) to an older bank on the square of my small town. My companion, as usual, was the newly 2-year-old Hazard County (#3). We ran into the bank in the pouring rain and took advantage of the old school booths available for customers to use to count money, make out, etc… I closed the door of the booth, sat down in a chair and commenced counting my wad-o-cash. Hazard County felt right at home in the confined space. She climbed onto the chair, pulled herself up on the desk and lay down on her back, spread eagle and waited. I was distracted by all of the green but I said, “What are you doing?”

She pointed at her crotch and said, “Poo poo” with a smile. She expected me to change her diaper. I looked around: small room, empty table attached to the wall. Yep, it resembled a changing area in any public restroom. I had to laugh. Hazard County and her happy-go-lucky assumptions about the things of this world always make me smile. I had to squelch the urge to actually change her diaper in that small room with the all-too-convenient privacy door. It was comfortable, clean and there were chairs. CHAIRS! Maybe Hazard County is onto something.

Memo to America: Attach your public restroom changing tables about 2 feet down on the wall and stick a chair in front of them. What mom, enduring the torture of changing a diaper in a public restroom, would not appreciate the opportunity for a short rest of her legs in a chair?

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Latrine Lunacy

Yesterday my youngest peed in the potty for the first time. She went twice. The first time she showed me immediately. The whole family commenced to acting like circus freaks: dancing, clapping, smiling and screaming. It was a scene straight out of Mardi Gras, minus the boobs and the cocktails. Cocktails would have been nice though and I’m certain they would have improved my dancing skills but, alas, that is neither here nor there. She peed, we behaved like lunatics. We flushed, clapped, washed our hands, distributed a lone skittle to the potty trainee and waited for round two.

Not one to sit and twiddle my thumbs, I decided to multi-task. I put the potty in front of the bathroom door, sat Hazard County (that’s #3’s nickname) on it and filled the bathtub with suds and warm water. Hazard Country remained a fixture on the pot while the older two got their baths. We played a short game of volley-diaper, a genius activity that involves volleying a balled up, dry-on-the-outside-and-taped-securely-shut wet diaper back and forth until said diaper hits the floor. The kids think it is the Best. Game. Ever. Judge away. Given the choice between a ball and a waded up diaper, my kids will always go with the latter. Much like a fart joke, there is something hilariously taboo about it.

Diaper Volley must have gotten pretty intense because we all forgot about Hazard County and round two. Snapped back to reality by the scene out of the corner of my eye and my daughter’s scream, “Look at Hazard County!”, I turned to see #3 crouched over the potty, both hands immersed in a good size puddle of pee. Right next to her was a small plastic container full of rubber hair bands, which she was adding, one by one, to the potty basin and pushing them around in her puddle. She was smiling, clearly proud.

There was a time in my life when this scene would have sent me running for the hills and vomiting in my mouth. Those days are a distant memory. Hazard County has taught me a lot about sweating the small stuff and, believe it or not, pushing mini rubber bands around in a puddle of pee qualifies as small stuff. A simple hand washing and flush of the toilet is all it takes to clean up that mess and, even though she may have some misgivings about what to do after she pees, #3 did pee and that, my friends, is something to celebrate.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Unfantastic Voyage

Inspired by a recent blog by Rachel Held Evans, I have decided to write about a controversial subject that I am passionate about. Prepare yourself. It might just start another Mommy war.

Here is an ode to my recently acquired, not-so-gently used Honda Odyssey. I hate it with a passion that defies measurement and can only be expressed in a poorly written, pseudo Old English “poem”. Enjoy:

Oh Odyssey, Odyssey. How I deplore thee, Odyssey

How I loathe thy doors that cannot be forced open or shut and therefore require a performance worthy of Ringling Brothers on cold mornings when frost renders ye doors un-openable and I still must get three younglings in their seats.

How I deplore thy interior lighting system which has rendered thine battery dead on many a morning.

How I abhor thy lackluster seats, which require bi-weekly visits to my chiropractor.

How I detest thy transmission, which must be replaced every 150,000 miles to the tune of $3500.

How I wish thy were a Town and Country, a far, far superior vehicle in every way.