Get It In Ya!

This summer I had had enough.

You know your typical day as a parent. You start it tired. Your initial fatigue is somewhat proportional to midnight munchkin visits. I tend to lose count around four or five.

Then you have to actually get out of the house - battles over breakfast; confrontations over clothing; tortuous tooth brushing. Just getting them to daycare or school is an epic saga whose protagonists sap your strength and weaken your will more than the one ring to rule them all, without that useful invisibility bonus. And if you think Tolkien went a little long, my utterances would fill volumes, although there are only so many ways to say "Put your shoes on!"

The commute comes next. Daily I mourn the career that could have been-  me, an F1 champion. Mirabeau has nothing on the crucible of Toronto traffic, backseat shenanigans, multiple drop offs and the need to get to work sometime before noon. I need a whole pit crew just to clean out the backseat.

After a day at the office, itself no picnic and I think sort of important given the need for food on table and a roof overhead, it's time to take to the streets again. The trip home has the added heartpounding of a James Bond thriller (with none of the witty banter) as the "late pickup" timebomb ticks inexonerably down towards zero. $5 for 1 minute? Sure! No allowances for that four car pileup, you say? Of course!

Then, if you've remembered the dry cleaning or the groceries or the trip to the pharmacy, you arrive home. The ungrateful brats demand to be fed. Why yes, wouldn't we all, but instead they would also like to play in the garden, go to the park, dump out the nicely folded laundry, battle each other like mini-gladiators or some other activity that is ocertainly not going to get that food on the table in a jiffy. Once you have moved heaven and earth to cook, from scratch, a healthy, family meal for all to enjoy (we deserve awards for this), they proceed to turn up their noses, dump their plates on the floor and whip their milk across the room.

Yes. This is where I had had enough. And an epiphany.

Forget family dinners. Sure it's what you are supposed to do as a good parent, but it was making me a basketcase. A bad parent.

Now we cook something quick and easy that they will eat, and often it can still be healthy (I said often, not always). After they are in bed, then we can enjoy our own more civilized meal. We can still do a family meal or two on weekends, but it doesn't always fit in the gauntlet of modern family life. I'm ok with that.

Big Boy Bed

Mornings for the past few weeks have been earlier and more sudden than in recent memory.

Rather than a distant, if persistent, cry, wail or general agitation, it's there. Right there. Jumping into the bed with us, bouncing on us, pulling, tugging, yelling, licking and generally getting his way. "We're up! We're up!"

I had thought that he was making big strides. I thought that he could handle it. And he can. It's just me that can't.

By the third weekend, I was starting to feel we had this one figured out. A bit rough sure, but figured out. We were just going to have to get up when he did. I made peace with that.

So he changed it.

Sunday morning. Early. I heard the patter of the little feet, but instead of down the hallway to our room, I heard the stairs creak. I unclenched by body, conditioned by the mornings of Wrestlemania Volume 648. But no.

He'd gone downstairs. Quiet.

Was his brother up?

Yes.

Could he handle the little guy?

For sure. They'll just watch some tv.

Wait. What?!

Could we sleep in? We went for it. Visions of sleep, pillows and actual rest dancing across my eyelids.

Still quiet. That was it. We were starting to drift off again.

"Mommy!"

Please let it be just one plaintive cry.

"Mommy!"

Ok, two was still fine. Maybe I could get that dream back.

"Mommy! MOMMY!"

If it's really important he'll come and get us, or his brother will. Right?

"I need Ketchup!"

What?

"Ketchuuuuuuuup!"

This was getting more insistent by the moment.

"Ketchup! Ketchup! KETCHUP!"

Am I dreaming? Why the blazes does he need ketchup? Surely I'm hearing this wrong.

"KETCHUP . . . FOR MY MAC N CHEESE!"

But he's not yelling for Mommy to get the Mac N Cheese, which means, which means he already has it. Dreams of a morning sleep-in, or dare I say it, even a snuggle, were replaced with Mac n Cheese ground into the hardwood, with the pasta smeared on the walls, with all that dairy goodness adorning our living room couch. Did I mention we have a white couch? Or at least it used to be.

So yes. We were up. And every morning since.

Best not to think about it.

poop

I understand this is karma. Just desserts. What goes around, etc. Whatever you want to call it, but this time, I'm up to my elbows in shit. Literally.

Yes. We are potty training MaxLoco.

The first time around with the big guy, potty training was no big deal. We started on a weekend, made some progress, shipped him off to daycare and by the end of the week the kid was toilet trained. No bed wetting, no accidents. Heck, he can hold it for a full four-hour drive to cottage country, traffic delays included.

So when it was time for Loco to move up to pre-school room at daycare, we thought no big deal. This will be a cinch. Why are there all those parenting resources on the internet anyway? 

That was in October.

Loco is great on number 1. We put him in a diaper at night and naptime, and it is usally dry when he wakes. Good stuff. Another bladder of iron.

And then there is number 2.

I could go into great detail here about the challenges with this particular bodily function. I could get into the consistency (runny). I could get into the frequency (9-10 times a day). I could get into the preferred location (underwear), but I will just say this: when we have prior notification (olfactory and auditory), when we are close to his toilet (one of only three he will use in the whole universe), when he admits through his toddler defiance that it is in fact on the way, his primary insticnt when he starts to feel movement is to leap off the throne. From this point on he will remain rigid, rock-solid rigor mortis stiff. Killer plank bro. But he hasn't finished. Rather, he's barely started. Use your imagination.

And then the clean-up begins. Again.

Good thing you're so cute MaxLoco

Pre-poonami

Messy Max

We broke out the fingerpaint.

Release the Beast!

"Release the beast!"

A cry that heralds the unleashing of ferocious savagery. A purposeful decision to release something perhaps best kept contained. A recognition of an unstoppable force easier to flee if wild. A sign to take cover.

This is our call when, amongst the carnage that was once a clear table, a clean floor, unbent cutlery and intact dishes, we let bend to the inevitable. When we let #MaxLoco out of his highchair.