Mmmm, pupcakes!

Until a few days ago, it seemed Grace had pooped on every potty except the ones IN OUR HOUSE. For Mommy, she saved it all for naptime, bedtime or just any old time she felt like it. So the other night I sat her on the potty and sang to her, told her stories, made faces at her and said mean things about Elmo until she just couldn't take it anymore. I tortured that poo out of her, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Our deal? She gets a cupcake whenever she poops in the potty, and this baby cost $3.50 at New Seasons. Please do not bring to my attention the possible long-term psychological ramifications of such blatant food bribery. I'm tired of washing underpants, and she's so proud of herself, she will tell anyone who will listen that she poops on the potty like a big girl.

To sleep, perchance to poop.

I still creep into Grace's bedroom at night to make sure she's breathing and to snap the occasional picture. Lately, however, the smell of poo greets me when I open the door, because Grace is so fully committed to NOT pooping, the only time she lets it go is when she's sleeping. (You can't help but admire that kind of willpower.) So I stand there trying to decide whether to let her marinate overnight, which is sure to cause a rash that can only worsen the situation, or to roust her from a sound sleep for a quick clean up. Thus far, I've chosen the latter, and OH MY GOD CAN THAT CHILD SCREAM. And kick — hard. I'm not too worried about her being bullied in school; I have a feeling my little girl will be able to take care of herself.

Here come the disaster dreams again!

This week was such an unrelenting bummer, or rather a series of bummers, that when my mom mentioned in passing on the phone last night that Paul Newman died, which I had somehow managed to miss, there was this long silence as I came completely unhinged, and then my mom going, "Laurie? Laurie, are you there? Uh, are you CRYING?" She hadn't known I was such a big fan of his. I was actually talking to my dad a couple weeks ago about how Paul Newman was the perfect man, how he had such talent and integrity, how I loved his plans for retirement ("...we're just gonna horse around..."), how he didn't take himself too seriously even though he did so much good, and how he aged with such dignity. But that wasn't why I cried. It was the cumulative effect of all the sadness going on EVERYWHERE I TURN. Just one good thing needs to happen soon, or I will continue to dream of plane crashes and bug infestations and Brady running into traffic and Grace falling out a tenth-floor window and my teeth crumbling in my mouth. If Grace poops on the potty (or I can stop), if I find a job or get an agent, if my friend's family somehow makes it through the funeral tomorrow without someone becoming ill or collapsing, even if Sarah Palin is attacked by a pit bull wearing lipstick, then I'll keep on striving for that brighter future. Right now, I'm just going through the motions, and John is picking up the slack.

Girlie got a haircut.

Every time Grace has gotten her hair cut, she has made some sort of progress developmentally. The first cut, she started walking. Next cut, she was all over the jungle gym at the park like a little monkey. And last time, her language skills improved dramatically (okay, that may have had something to do with her switching schools and being around five year olds). Need I say what I'm hoping for this time? SHE WILL POOP ON THE POTTY.

What's wrong with this picture?

In this idyllic moment, unbeknownst to me, my sweet little angel (who sat on the potty less than ten minutes ago after staying dry through a four-hour nap) is shitting her brains out. I am not exaggerating when I say this was a forty minute clean up. She remained cheerful throughout the entire process, bless her heart, or my head would have exploded. Perhaps the grimace should have alerted me, but I've got other stuff on my mind. Still, how cute is she?

I'll live. The Cute Doctor's chances are iffy.

Everyone I talked to who has had a colonoscopy promised I'd get great drugs, would be out like a light and wouldn't be able to remember the ride home, much less the procedure itself. And I believed them. I am, however, a drug-resistant freak, and while I was a teeny bit drowsy for a while, I felt and remember everything from the moment The Cute Doctor arrived at the office in bike shorts and helmet until, well, now. He looked damn good in those shorts, and gave me a disarming grin, a thumbs up and said, "I'm all ready!" All I could come up with was, "Don't change clothes on my account." But that was before I realized he was a Sadistic Prick.

It hurt like a motherfucker. Every time that damn camera slammed into the wall of my colon, I felt it. I tried to be stoic, but I squeaked a few times and they told me to breathe. As if the pain were my fault because I'm a bad breather. Finally I gasped, "You said I wouldn't feel anything." And The Sadistic Prick joked to the nurse, "I think she's calling me a liar." They had a little chuckle, then upped my pain meds, which did nothing. Apparently he was having trouble maneuvering the scope, so they had me roll this way, and that way, then on my stomach. I knew exactly how much progress he was making because I could feel that friggin' thing banging around until it was all the way up under my right rib. I figured we were just about done, but the retreat wasn't much easier. He wanted to be thorough, so he took a couple of biopsies, and even though they kept giving me more drugs, I felt it all. I made sure to breathe audibly while I plotted my revenge. Once he was done, he told me everything looked normal and the biopsy results would be back in a week or so. Then he half-heartedly apologized for my "discomfort" and explained that because I am so thin, my colon is particularly angular, which made it more difficult for him. Then the nurse brought me to the recovery room.

Ah, the recovery room. Never before have I been in a room full of people being encouraged to fart. I imagine Katie Couric had a private room for her recovery (I don't watch whatever morning show on which Her Perkiness shared her own experience), but mine was just a bunch of gurneys with curtains around them. Here's what I know: all the other patients were in a much better mood than I was, had loved ones come in to sit with them, and had no problem farting up a storm. When my nurse promised me juice as a reward for passing gas, I was all, "Juice? Make it coffee and I'll blow a hole in the wall. With half and half, please." At some point the Sadistic Prick came in and asked me if I remembered the conversation we had when he'd finished torturing me, and I was like, "Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" He repeated it anyway, then suggested another procedure if my biopsy came back negative. He seemed concerned that my ride wasn't there yet, but it was probably best that Ella showed up after he was gone. Otherwise he might have overheard me ranting to her about The pain! My God, the pain! Ella was definitely the best person for this job, because she knows me and expected nothing other than me complaining nonstop all the way home. And she brought me a Snickers bar. Angel.

Getting tired of washing my hands.

Grace will poop anywhere but in the potty. Literally. We've tailored her diet so she won't have painful poops, so it's nice and mushy — and impossible to hold in. A little bit is always sneaking out, and when she sleeps, whoosh! But the gnarliest part (forgive me, Grace, for sharing this; I promise I'll pay for your therapy when the time comes) is that she can't eat without pooping. It's hard to watch: she squirms and makes all kinds of faces and I can hear her bowels rumbling. Cleaning up after meals has become quite a bit more time consuming, and I'm thinking about feeding her on the potty. (I'm sure there would be myriad psychological repercussions to that.) This week, I took her to a "Child & Adolescent Mental Health" professional at her pediatrician's office (I guess she's already in therapy) to nip this in the bud before it turns into every parent's worst potty training nightmare — the anal retentive child. But I forgot to mention that for the last three months, she has witnessed my own potty issues, and really, can you blame her for not wanting to have any part of THAT?

Shit happens.

It seems to have taken over my life, however, and while I know this too shall pass (ha ha), I'M READY FOR IT TO PASS. Yesterday I saw my gastroenterologist, who happens to be young, handsome and hilarious — not exactly the kind of person I want to talk to about poop. He's also married with kids around Grace's age, so at least he uses words like "poop" and "turd" instead of "bowel movement" and "stool," which would be too much for me to deal with. Anyway, tomorrow I will have a colonoscopy, which means I cannot eat ANYTHING today, and a bunch of other gross stuff I won't go into. And while we're approaching this with a "better safe than sorry" attitude, a little part of my brain keeps remembering that my father had colon cancer three years ago. I hate that little part of my brain.

I also got a call from the Perfect Roommate, who has fallen in love with NW Portland and is trying to rent an apartment there. I can't blame her; in fact, I keep thinking, "Why didn't WE live there?" Then I remember it's hip, crowded, noisy, expensive and you can't park anywhere, and we were looking for a family neighborhood, something a bit more chill. I'm glad she's found a place that suits her, and we'll likely end up being friends, so it's wasn't a complete waste of time, but I haven't yet told Brady that she won't be seeing Boo again. Since I'm having second thoughts about the cohousing Ecovillage, I was kind of relieved that she wasn't rarin' to sign a lease and move in, but this puts the kibosh on two list items I thought I had settled: where I'll be living for the next six months and where I'll be living after that. What's best for Grace that I can afford? And that gets me thinking about the rest of the list — ring, job, book, etc. — and I want to curl up in bed.

I'm hungry.

Old business, new business

Here's what's on my plate right now (I hate that expression):

- scheduling our second round of divorce mediation
- finding some poor soul willing to counsel a divorcing couple and their troubled child
- finding a job
- finding a roommate or a cheaper place to live
- selling my ring without divulging my address and phone number (web scammers are CRAZY)
- getting Grace to poop in the potty, as opposed to in her pants, in the backyard, on the couch or on the rug
- figuring out why I can't stop shitting my own brains out (gosh, do you think it could be STRESS???)
- waiting to hear back from literary agent(s)
- working on my second novel during my free time, rather than curling up in bed in the fetal position
- taking advantage of that "new house warrantee" to figure out why our tap water is brown, our foundation is cracking and our electricity on the south side of the house keeps going all wonky.
- some family shit, too, but that's off limits, I suppose.

On a positive note, I'm lucky to have people in my life who surprise me with their ability to listen to me bitch and moan, seemingly without end. I hope it's because I've done the same for them, or they know I would. Some notable examples: my parents, who must have taken "Empathy 101" recently, because they know exactly what to say; J. Po, for his consistency and insight; Ella, for keeping me company me when she's got plenty to deal with in her own life; my sister-in-law, Annette, who reaches out when she must be in an awkward position; Leslie and Peter, with whom I would entrust my and Grace's lives; and anyone else who has taken the time to acknowledge the fact that my life is in some serious transition. Those who find it a bit much to deal with, I understand. My, my, that came out melodramatic. But I mean it sincerely.

Talking shit. Really.

I dropped Grace off at school yesterday, looking as if she was eight months pregnant, with the warning, "She REALLY needs to poop." They thanked me for the heads up, and I pretty much forgot about it, having had one of the crappiest days in recent memory. When I picked her up, I fully expected to be handed a plastic bag full of poopy underpants and to see Grace in pull-ups, which they put on her when she soils all the extra undies I've stuffed in her cubby. Care to guess what greeted me? My cute little girl with a noticeably smaller tummy, and one of her teachers exclaiming, "Grace pooped on the potty!" After I'd finished whooping and high-fiving and making an enormous scene that is sure to linger embarrassingly in Grace's memory for years to come, the teacher added, "For, like, an hour." When I laughed, she said, "No, really. I sat with her for an hour. It just kept coming out." Ah, that's my girl. Grace was hugely proud, and if you called right now and I asked, "Gracie, what did you do at school yesterday?" she would yell, "I pooped on the potty!"

While the memory is still as fresh as the smell.

(Warning: I'm going to talk about poop now. Lots and lots of poop in all its glorious detail.)

I shouldn't have bragged about Grace's potty training. She's got the peeing down, but she's one of those kids who doesn't like to poop because she doesn't like to be wiped and as a result she sometimes holds it in until letting it go hurts like a mother giving birth to a GIANT-HEADED baby. I know when she's having a normal poo, because she stands quietly in a corner and yells, "No, don't come OVER HERE!" if I so much as glance in her direction. She needs her space, and I can respect that. But when it's a big bad poo, which doesn't happen often because we're pretty careful about her diet, she screams and cries and all I can do is hug her and rub her back and breathe through my mouth. She had one of those on Monday, and then her poor little bum was fire-engine red and I figured she was planning on never pooping again.

Yesterday morning Ella was here with Nathalie and Kitty and we were in the backyard, soaking up the beautiful weather and laughing at the girls playing. Grace was bare-bottomed, because I had a feeling she might need to have a little movement and she's more likely to do it on the potty if she isn't wearing underpants. The potty was on the patio and she'd already demonstrated her peeing prowess several times, although she really needs to work on her aim. Suddenly I realized she was off by herself, really quiet, so I asked, "Gigi, are you pooping?" and she shouted, "NOOOOOO!" and then Ella said, "Ohmigod, it's halfway out! Get her quick!" I ran and picked her up under the arms and on the way to the potty the turd fell and landed on my bare foot and bounced into the grass. So I set Grace on the potty to finish and went in to wipe my foot and get a plastic bag. (I've had twenty years of picking up dog poop, but I never thought I'd pick up my child's poop the same way.) Grace insisted she was finished, then screamed bloody murder when I wiped her sore bum, and I knew we weren't out of the woods yet because every time I wiped a tiny bit more would appear.

After a long nap, she whined and cried and acted like a complete asshole (Ella says I can't call my child an asshole on the internet) brat from the minute she woke up until the end of dinner, which was cut short when she expressed her sudden disdain for guacamole by pouring a glass of water on the table. I figured she was grumpy because she had more business to take care of and didn't want to, so I decided to get it over with by giving her a suppository laxative. (I'm not sure who enjoys this procedure less.) Later, I was folding a mountain of laundry on our bed, and one minute Grace was downstairs with John (wearing pull-ups), and the next she was upstairs calling, "I pooped, Mommy!" Because I'm such a sunny, optimistic person, I assumed she'd pooped on the potty in her bathroom, so I came out to do the high-fiving and dancing and congratulating, but instead was confronted by a trail of poop all the way from her room, down the hallway to our bedroom door. A truly mind-blowing combination of runny poop and chunks of solid poop and poop running down her legs. All on her bedroom rug, a rug in the hallway and all the carpeting along the way -- pale beige berber carpeting.

Accidents happen, as we've learned from hundreds of viewings of "Elmo's Potty Time," and one must remain upbeat about potty training. But come on. While I washed Grace in the tub and John did the best he could with the floor, I honestly thought my head might explode. I hummed the "Accidents Happen" song so Grace would know we weren't mad, but all I could think about was putting her to bed and having a beer. Lots and lots of beer.

Salmonella. Not nearly as fun as Salman Rushdie.

And I hear he can be a real stitch after one too many vodka gimlets. Honestly? I wouldn't recommend it.

Morphine, Dilaudid and Zofran, oh my!

That was the drug cocktail I got in the ER this morning to stop the barfing and the cramping, which I swear was worse than labor. And a saline chaser for dehydration. It was delightful. Even though I got stuck with a paramedic trainee who took about twenty minutes to start my IV, the people who made me feel better were, once the drugs kicked in, my very favorite people in the world, which I told them repeatedly. This friggin' virus kicked my sorry ass. It's because of all the ants I've been killing, isn't it?

My tummy, she is sick.

This is pretty much how I looked all day today, except I was in more of a fetal position, and either in bed or on the bathroom floor. I don't know if it was the sushi platter a couple days ago or this stomach virus going around, but DEAR GOD I felt like crap (pun intended). I love my mother and Leslie for listening to me complain about my condition ALL DAY LONG and never letting on that they were bored. Grace didn't seem too concerned, but she did cover me with a blanket while I laid on the floor and watched her unload the contents of the bathroom cabinets. And I don't think she hit me once today.

Looks like we got a pooper!

Yup, Brady's snout is right up Grace's skirt, and for good reason. Nuff said.

I can't believe I've lived without this.

I may have mentioned that one of the things that attracted us to the new house was its green status -- it was built using environmentally friendly materials, renewable energy, it's Energy Star Certified, etc. More on that later. But check THIS out.



I have no idea what this feature has to do with being green, but as if that weren't impressive enough, here is the decal instructing us on how to flush. I'm going to peel it off and label the buttons "#1" and "#2".

The potty training isn't going so well.

Grace isn't very interested in using the potty, but she loves turning over the step stool and pretending it's a cart. I think it's cute she's so creative, giving her doll a ride and all, but at some point the HOURS we've spent watching "Elmo's Potty Time" better start paying off for her, because John and I have the potty thing pretty much nailed.

D'ya think it has poop on it?

This morning I woke up with a headache (might have something to do with last night's wine consumption), and while I lazed in bed with a cold pack on my eyes, I overheard this conversation between Grace and John:

"What's this?"
"That's your brown shirt."
"Does it have poop on it?"
"I don't think so."
"What's this"
"Those are your white pants."
"D'ya think they have poop on them?"
"No, I don't think so."
"What's this"
"That's your red shirt."
"It's dirty."
"Yeah. That's why it's in the hamper."
"What's this?"
"Those are your pajamas."
"D'ya think they have poop on them?"
"No, they're just dirty."
"What's this?"
"Those are your green shorts."
"Do they have poop on them?"
"Yes. They definitely have poop on them."
"What's Mommy doing?"
"I think she's laughing at us."

No picture. Almost no words.

I hope I can do this story justice, because it far and away tops the recent Target incident with Grace. One of my friends (let's call her Ms. X for the sake of anonymity) left her 3 year old son at the Playland while grocery shopping. The little boy ("J.") is in the process of potty training, and store policy is that the child must be able to communicate any bathroom needs so the mom can be called to tend to the situation. On this day, Ms. X received no call. When she went to fetch J., however, the Playland attendant informed her that J. had pooped his pants, but the TURD ROLLED OUT OF HIS PANT LEG ONTO THE FLOOR, where she was able to pick it up and dispose of it. Hence, no call. Just a lot of judgement, and, of course, embarrassment and guilt for poor Ms. X.

I will say this: I peed a little when she told me this story, and I have been potty trained for 37 years.