Beautiful mind

Grace has been blowing me away lately with her intellectual, conceptual and potty progress, and I imagine it's just a matter of time before she'll start using words I'll have to look up.


I should wake up this chipper.


Installation with Multimedia by Grace. Note the use of maracas, a harmonica and a Nutcracker cartridge from a musical toy. Before I was able to capture the row of dinosaurs guarding this tower, I slipped and knocked it over. Like daughter, like mother?

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.

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?

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?

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.

I don't think I'm qualified for this job.

Grace spends her days trying to snap her neck, I believe. She throws her body around with total abandon, and when I'm certain she's finally done it and I'm trying to decide whether to take her to the ER at Legacy Emanuel, which is closer, or Legacy Good Samaritan, which is usually less crowded, or just call an ambulance, she jumps to her feet giggling and says something like, "That was CRAZY!" This afternoon our neighbor came over with her one-year-old, who is just starting to walk, and we winced repeatedly at Grace, who is just starting to fly, apparently. After one horrifying maneuver made us both gasp, Grace stood tall and announced, "I'm not weird, I'm just crazy!"

I can't complain on the potty training front, however. She has taken to it with such glee and pride; she sits on the potty and screams, "I'm peeing!" and it's all I can do to not piss myself.

She's messing with my HEAD.

Breakfast and lunch weren't too much fun yesterday, as my post may have subtly suggested. As usual, however, the universe slapped me upside the head and reminded me it's not nice to be an asshole. I put Grace down to nap after a long morning of semi-successful potty training, and she was so adamant about NOT NEEDING A DIAPER, I thought, "Fine. Marinate in your own pee for a couple hours," and left her in underpants and shorts. When she woke up? Totally frickin' dry, and she went straight to the potty and took care of business.


I felt so bad about the blog post, I set up the pool and let her drown whatever she wanted in it. While she was doing this, I assembled the little picnic table that had been sitting in a box in the front hall for weeks.


She's all, "Yeah, ya gotta take the bad with the good, huh?"