The Potty: Is He Ready?

It's a rite of passage, progressing onto using the potty.  The hard part is determining the ideal time to take the leap into the abyss.  Me?  I'm in no hurry.  To clarify, I am potty trained just fine, it's Sam's potty training which I am not in a hurry to start.  From everything I've read or heard, if you rush them, it only makes it worse, but you should be on the lookout for signs of readiness.  The most important and obvious sign is an actual interest in the potty.  Sam hasn't been quite there yet.  He loves his "Elmo on the Potty" video, but then again he'd be thrilled to watch Lawrence Welk, as long as it's on "TB."  

When we were at the mall the other day, I had to use the potty myself, so I took him into the family bathroom with me.  There was a big  potty (to which adults without small children refer to as "the toilet") and a little mini-potty for pint-sized potty users.  Pretty neat!  As I got ready to use the potty, I suggested to Sam that he sit on the potty with his pants still on, just because "it will be so much fun to sit on the potty."  (You can a blame a girl for trying, can you?) He responded, "Sam don't want to sit on the potty."  OK, OK, so I went about my business.  

Since Sam's potty was close to the ground, he quickly figured out that he could reach the flusher.  And they became fast friends enjoying a flushing bonanza.  FLUSH!  I couldn't help laughing out loud.  FLUSH!  Cute, you gotta admit.  FLUSH!  No longer so cute.  FLUSH!  Cut that out!  And so on...  This thing packed some serious power, so the water had gained momentum and was churning like there had been a violent underwater explosion.  

Much to his chagrin, I subdued the Mad Flusher as soon as I was able, before he either flooded the floor or flat-out broke the contraption, or both.  As we washed our hands, I tried to avoid making eye contact with the other better behaved patrons.  I was leery of receiving one of those looks that said, "Can't you control your kid?"  Then, of course, I would want to respond with a look that said in no uncertain terms, "If you think it's so easy, why don't you give it a go and see what song you are singing after a couple of hours of pinging around the mall with 

him?!" 

As we left the scene, I noted for the record, "I still don't think he's ready yet."

P.S.

For all of you out there who were jealous of my two pound weight loss in two days, read on.  You will be happy to know that for some God forsaken reason I GAINED BACK 0.4 today even though I stuck to the dumb diet -- really!  I am cursing the Duchess' name -- and Jenny McCarthy's too while I'm at it.

There's no telling what will happen tomorrow!  Stay tuned!

Off to drink more water...

LibbY

I'm HUNGRY!!!

Well, I finally turned myself in to the Duchess of Pork, aka Weight Watchers.  I've only been talking about doing this for six years.  Actually I think it's only been five and a half, which isn't nearly so bad, right?  It's been a mere two days, and God am I HUNGRY!!!  I haven't been this starved since after I had Sam.  When he was finally born at 9 PM, the nurse informed me that dinner was over for the night.  However, I could have a salad.  Who the hell wants to have a freakin' salad (with iceberg lettuce to boot) after suffering through 12 hours of labor and 24 hours with nothing but shaved ice?!   My husband went out to get me some Taco Bell, but since it was way after 10 by then, it was long closed.  So he came back with my second choice - a King sized Snickers bar.  Perhaps it is choices like that have contributed to my suffering today...

The fact that I am SO HUNGRY (have I mentioned that yet?) makes me wonder what the heck I was eating before I decided to help the Duchess pay her way out of debt.  A whole Sara Lee pound cake with a pint of Ben & Jerry's on the side?  It was definitely eating more than 22 points a day, I can assure you that, probably whizzing past 22 by mid-morning. 

The good news is that I've lost two pounds already, and my jeans already fit better.  I know it's probably water weight, but it is definitely some encouragement to keep on truckin'.   Gosh, I think this is the flattest my stomach has been since BS (Before Sam), not that that's saying much.  I've had all of the WW info from the last time I did it, but somehow it doesn't seem "real" until I paid money to do it, sort of like the Velveteen Rabbit.  I'm sure Freud could have a field day with that one.

The bad news is that I have 15 pounds to go -- and maybe a few more for good measure. Starting four weeks before Christmas is probably not ideal, but then again it could save me from my usual five pound weight gain right around now...

I must go now.  I am too hungry to write anymore, but tomorrow is another point-filled day.

LibbY

Bye Bye Baby?

Until he turned a year old, Sam only used his pacifier in the crib.  It was a Godsend, miraculously calming him down.  And, even better, statistics show that using a pacifier dramatically decreases the chance of SIDS.  All that and more for $1.99.  

Then it all changed.  He insisted on having it in his mouth 24/7, even while eating.  This didn't make him an attractive dinner companion at all.  As he started to talk, he called it his "Baby."  I have no idea why except that when he was a baby himself, I used to give it to him at naptime saying, "Here you go, baby."  And so the Baby was born.  

These days he is quite a connaisseur of Babies, often holding one in his hand and another in his mouth, alternating them back and forth.  Perhaps one has better suction and the other matches his outfit better.  Who knows?  And now that we only let him have one Baby at a time, he will declare, "Sam want the OTHER Baby."  This kid knows his Babies, folks.

So many people have been so very generous with their unsolicited advice on how to get rid of the Baby.  Do you think I can't see the drool-covered cowbell hanging out of his mouth?  And, no, not even his mother can understand him when he talks with that thing in his mouth. Yes, yes, I know, there are options:  giving it to the Baby Fairy, asking Santa to deliver it on his route to some poor deprived baby in Botswana who doesn't  have one, and some other Pollyanna-esque schemes.  

I prefer to be realistic.  I KNOW that I will feel like I am looking into the burning fires of Hell when I take that Baby away from him for good.  So we keep putting it off, trying to stockpile sleep for the inevitable showdown ahead.  I remind you that sleep deprivation is a form of torture in many countries.

Eventually it will be time for Bye Bye Baby, but until then it looks like the Baby is here to stay. 

A Trip to the Library

Yesterday Sammacky and I went to the library looking for intellectual stimulation.  I was thrilled to discover a  Curious George book we had never read.  (I had never even seen "Curious George Goes to the Aquarium" before, let alone read it 87 times like all the others.)  And, better yet, Sam picked out a bunch of cool books on fire engines, helicopters, and earthmovers.  (If you don't know what an earthmover is, don't worry, you probably don't have a small boy in your house.  This information will not come up at a cocktail party unless you hang out with contractors at cocktail parties.)  

We were all set to dive into the new books when I noticed that story time was about to start in the room next door!  Such serendipity!  A free activity!  Plus, I ran into some nice women from my neighborhood who were going with their kids, so I was all excited to have some adult conversation.  As each child walked in the door, the librarian distributed a cut-out picture.  Once that item came up in the story, the kid was supposed to bring the cut-out up front and display it.  Sam got a cute little carrot, one of his all-time favorite vegetables.  (He ate so pureed ones when he was a baby that he actually turned orange, really orange.)   This was going to be so much fun!

The first whisper of trouble was when Sam walked in the door, saw all the people in there, and took off.  I coaxed him back in, promising that we didn't have to stay.  If he didn't like it, we would leave.   I settled down in the back row with the fun mothers, but Sam decided to sit on my lap instead of up front with the other kids.   

The sweet librarian started reading a cute story about warm, cozy indoor places.  As she began to name items around the house, kids started coming up front to put their matching pictures on the display.  All of a sudden Sam boomed out, "SAM DON'T LIKE IT!"  I decided to pretend I didn't hear that comment booming from my lap.  I knew it was a bad decision when Sam boomed again, "SAM DON'T LIKE IT!  GO HOME!"  He followed it up with a guttural "WATCH TB!" just for good measure.  I whispered to Sam, trying to convince him that he was having a really good time but he just didn't know it yet.   

After one more refrain of "SAM DON'T LIKE IT!"  Sam wandered out of the the room.   Just as I was going to go find him and corral him back in the room for one more try, I noticed him looking into the back of the room through a small window.  Then he started to lick the window out of sheer boredom -- or maybe it just tasted so good he couldn't resist.

And then, don't you know it, the freakin' carrot just had to pop up in the story right then.  At first I decided to be really quiet and not tell anyone I had possession of the missing carrot.  It was my little secret.  Then I felt guilty, so I tried to hand the carrot off to one of my fun friend's well-behaved tot.  When the little girl refused to take it, there I was, exposed as the reluctant carrot holder.  

I checked over my shoulder  -- Sam was still engrossed in licking the window pane, so there was no one but me to bring the carrot up front.  I was trying to act like I wasn't completely mortified marching up there like a two-year-old when the librarian yelled, "Let's hear it for MOM!"  Everyone began to cheer.  Sam owes me big time for this one.

I refrained from slapping the librarian, stuck that stupid carrot on the display, and hightailed it out of the room.  I grabbed my little licker and whispered, "Mommy don't like it either!"  So we checked out our books, went home, and watched some TB.

LibbY

Our Own Little Bob Dole

"Sam trying to run away," Sam announced as he did just that, taking off so I couldn't change his oh-so-stinky diaper.  He's been doing this for months -- hightailing it for the border when it's time for a diaper change AND talking about himself in the third person, Bob Dole style.  It's catching -- now we do it too.  "Does Sam want more pancakes?  Mommy made them just for Sam." 

Sam moderates his way through the day like it's the Truman Show or something.  "Sam eating breakfast," "Sam driving in the car," "Sam building a tall bridge," "Sam digging a hole," and his favorite refrain, "Sam watching TB!"  ("TB" is Sam for "TV.")  Anyway, you get the gist.  He's all ready for his own reality TV show.

At least he is honest, which comes in handy.  Today I heard him announce through the monitor, "Sam trying to get out of the crib."  Sure enough when I barged into his room, there he was straddling the railing about to jump.  Busted!  And last week after he took a big spill on the playground at recess, he narrated on the way home, "Sam crying at recess."

He also refers to himself  as "Sam Macky," his version of our last name, McNamee.  He runs it all together so it sounds like one word, "Sammacky."  When he's awake in the crib and wants one of us to go get him, he announces, "Sammacky waking up!" followed by "Sammacky: Mommy always comes back!"  Then he waits a while.  If no one show up after a few minutes, he tries another tactic.  "Sammacky: Daddy always comes back!"

On the pronoun front, he hears us referring to him as "you," so he refers to himself as 

"you," not "me."  For instance, "Mommy, pick you up!","Mommy, give you that!" and my hands-down favorite, "Mommy, hug you!" It makes so much sense, doesn't it?  How did we ever figure out the whole "me" thing anyway?  I know I should be correcting him more, but I find it so hilarious that I can't bring myself to do it.  Plus it's kinda complicated to explain teh concept to a two-year-old.  It would go something like this, "Mommy calls Sam 'you,' Sam calls Mommy 'you,' but Sam calls Sam 'me,' and Mommy calls Mommy 'me.'  Got it?  And for our next lesson we will be learning the Russian alphabet - backwards!"

Well, gotta go.  I can hear Sammacky chirping in his crib, sweet sounds which are quickly turning into screams, punctuated by jumping on the bed.  Here I come.  Mommy always comes back, you know, eventually.

LibbY

Sam's Mom

The whole "y/ie" controversy  aside (see previous post), people know me these days as Sam's Mom.  That's my name just about everywhere I go -- to the park, the Y, the library, the toy store at the mall, and in carpool line at preschool.   Everyone seems to know my new name too without me needing to introduce myself -- all of the clerks, the baggers, and anyone in our general vicinity. How so?  Well, I bet they can usually hear us before they even see us.   That's because I am forever calling out to the rambunctious little dude-let, "Sam, honey, please put that down;" "Sam, please come back here;" "Sam, sssssshhhhhh..."  "C'mon, Sam, we don't act like that," and so forth.  

I've noticed that whenever I meet other mothers out and about, we never even bother to ask the other's "real" name.  Let's face it -- it just plain ole doesn't matter.  Quite frankly it is one less thing to have to try and remember.  This way you get a better bang for your befuddled memory space  --- remember the kid's name and then you automatically have the mother's name down too!  Score!  In defense of our rudeness though, there is usually not enough time to finish a sentence without constant interruption, let alone engage in the usual niceties followed by civilized people.  In fact, even for my closer mommy friends, I only have a vague idea of what they did Before Baby, usually a one or two sentence conversation months ago. It's not that I don't care, but it is just so far down on the list of priorities.  There are many far more pressing issues at hand to discuss:  maintaining harmony in the sandbox despite the shortage of functioning shovels, exchange of potty training advice, antics used to keep your kid awake so he won't fall asleep in the car for three minutes and ruin his three-hour nap, and, most importantly, the endless lamenting over Body After Baby. 

There is one other name I do often answer to these days -- Mommy, spelled with a "y" of course.

LibbY

Libby with a "Y"

I've gone by "Libby" for my entire life, all 40 years and eight months of it.  No one EVER misspelled it, not even once, until I moved to Richmond seven years ago.  Then - POOF! -my goof-proof name ran into some serious interference.  Literally everyone I encountered would spell my name with an "ie." (i.e. "Libbie")  YUCK!  It drives me craaaaaazy!  I mean, gasket-popping crazy!  People still do it all the time, even people whom I consider (considered?) to be very good friends and have known for years.  People often send an email, obviously spelling my name correctly since it is part of my address, but then in the the message, they call me "Libbie."  It makes me want to wretch.  What is a polite way of telling someone that after years of friendship he/she is still spelling my first name wrong?  Do I spell any of my friend's names wrong?  I certainly hope not; I know how annoying it is. 

The root of the problem lies in the fact that here in Richmond there is a well-know street called Libbie Avenue cutting through town, so people have that particular spelling engraved on their subconscious.  But hasn't anyone ever heard of Libby's Canned Vegetables?  Remember the jingle?  I could never live it down when I was a kid; it followed me everywhere. "Libby, Libby, Libby on the label, label, label."  If you know what I am taking about, please feel free to skip the next annoying sentence.  (You probably already know what it is anyway.)  "And you'll like it, like it, like it, on your table, table, table."  Maybe I should start singing the jingle to people who misspell my name, over and over and over again, just like the hard rock they played to smoke Noriega out of the Vatican Embassy.

Thanks for reading the first installment!

LibbY