Potty Perfect

Anyone who has ever taken a child out beyond the 4 walls of their home knows what a disaster public bathrooms can be.  I'm not even going to 'touch' on the germ factor - too gross to think about.  But just physically navigating the bathroom itself when you have one or multiple young children is a nightmare.  Where do you put them when the disabled bathroom is being utilized and you can't take your stroller in?  There are many options at your disposal, none of them pretty.

A) Prop the narrow stall door open with your stroller.  Works well till someone walks into the bathroom as your haunches are hovering above the nasty toilet seat.

B) Balance your child on your lap while you pee.  Not really that great if you are toilet seat phobic like myself.  I have balanced Charlie on my leg while hovering, great thigh work out, but you usually wind up peeing a bit on the seat if not down the back of your leg.

C)  Leave child outside the stall door while you pee.  It's pretty much guaranteed someone will come in and judge your fitness as a parent here, unfortunately you gotta take the hit and pray they just don't take your kid.

D) Bring the child into the stall and have them sit on the bathroom floor.  This is vile but really the only option if you have 2 kids with you.   Gregory has actually licked the base of the toilet bowl in a public restroom and I'll be darned if that kid hasn't had a cold in 2 years.  There is a case to be made here for good germs.

Given the state of most public bathrooms, any one of these scenarios could force even the heartiest of souls to become homebound.   But before you join AA (Agoraphobics Anonymous), things are looking up.   I recently paid a visit to the 'family restroom' at the local mall.  Check this out.

No your eyes do not deceive you.  That's 1 big potty, 1 small potty, and 1 infant chair complete with restraints, I mean straps.  Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!  I'd like to know who I have to contact to get an initiative on the ballot for 2016 requiring family restrooms like this everywhere there is a large congregation of people - airport, mall, stadium, etc.  I'm considering having another kid just so I can really take advantage of this.  Ha!

Waste Not Want Not

I hate waste. My husband would argue that I enjoy wasting money, so let me be more specific.  I hate wasting food. I'm quite certain this is genetic. One of my fondest childhood memories is of my Dad slamming the freezer door over and over again while yelling, "What the...For the love of...Dammit!  Who opened all of these!?!"  He would frequently find five to six open containers of ice cream in the freezer, most of them with freezer burn that left them inedible, which is probably why we kept opening more.  Duh.

Another favorite was when my Dad yelled at me and my brothers for the uneaten 64 oz economy sized jar of pineapple sauce that had molded in the fridge.  Unfortunately, pineapple sauce never really gained the market share that Dole had hoped for, despite Dad's most valiant efforts.  He was a coupon clipper at heart, no matter what the product (or how gross), he loved to save money.

I definitely get my waste hating from him. And this week I was wishing with all of my being that my Dad could have been here to help hand out a good old fashioned Greek ass whooping on my eldest son.  For the record, a Greek ass whooping does not involve feta cheese or lamb.  Just a lot of yelling, hand gesturing, and red faced exasperation, oh and maybe some spanking if you did something really bad.

Charlie is 7 and one would think capable of brushing his own teeth.  Not quite.  Though the actual brushing is not where we have the problem.  The kid turns into the Jackson Pollock of toothpaste every time he gets around an open tube.  Keep in mind we usually have one strawberry and one watermelon flavor opened at a time, so he is working with greens and reds in his color palette.

While the mess is fairly contained - a few designs on the vanity, maybe a happy face on the mirror, and always a generous coating on the toothbrush from handle to bristle - it's extremely sticky and nasty and hard to clean.  I do have Charlie pick up after himself, which winds up being less about cleaning and more him smearing it around further.

Over and over I utter monotonous phrases like, "Please only use a little bit of toothpaste.  It is very wasteful what you're doing.  Stop making a mess.  Now you have to clean this up.  No, clean it, don't just rub it all around.  CLEAN. IT. UP."  I get tired people, of yelling, cleaning, and listening to myself.  Something needs to change.

Last night Charlie must have thought it was my birthday because it looked like cake frosting exploded in the bathroom.  Green and red toothpaste all over the counter, light pink and green foam on the mirror.  That's right, he decided to spit at the mirror instead of the sink.  The sink was another story all together, the entire basin and faucet, including the hot and cold water knobs, were covered in a thick zig zag pattern.  I was less than pleased.  Charlie was laughing hysterically in his room as he heard me yell, "What the...For the love of...Dammit, Charlie!"

I could feel myself channeling my father's Greek rage.  I wanted to slam some drawers and yell and lecture.  But then I remembered something, we too used to laugh at our Dad during these episodes of his. He got incredibly mad over something as trivial as ice cream.  The madder he got, the funnier it seemed to me and my brothers.  Granted 365 days of toothpaste cleanup is no laughing matter.  I wanted to teach Charlie a lesson, and to date, the yelling thing wasn't working.  Maybe a Greek ass whooping wasn't the answer.

I decided to hit him where it hurt.  I marched into his room and said, "Give me your piggy bank?"
'What?  Why?'
"Give me your piggy bank?" I calmly said.
'Why?'
"You owe me $4 for the toothpaste you just wasted."
'What?'
"The toothpaste.  That's all over the counter.  It's expensive and you just used an entire
container, so give me $4 to pay for the next one."
'Um, okay', shell shocked, he handed me the money and I walked out.
Victory!  I still had to clean up the nasty bathroom, but a victory none the less.

I could feel my Dad smiling down upon me, wondering why he hadn't made me and my brothers pay for all of those uneaten gallons of ice cream.  I'd like to think he'd have let the pineapple sauce slide.
But this was progress people.  We learn from the mistakes of our forefathers and make progress.

Circus Circus

We took the boys to the circus this weekend. It was an impromptu decision. Brian was beyond excited to share his boyhood memories with Charlie and Gregory. 'This is the same circus that I went to when I was your age. There will be people on motor cylces riding around in a huge globe and then a man gets shot out of a cannon...' The boys were hooked.

I was not as enthused, I have never loved the circus. The clowns are creepy, the ring master looks like some mustached lothario straight out of a 70's porn movie, and the animals, those poor animals. I just have a hard time with wild creatures out of their natural state, performing for us.

Despite my apprehension, I went along. I decided to keep my opinion to myself in the spirit of supporting what should be a childhood pleasure - cotton candy, lights, the big top, families clapping and laughing in awe of the spectacles. The Greatest Show on Earth, right?!?

We were barely out of the car, the first thing we saw were protestors with poster size photos of tortured elephants. Great. All of the fears about the circus thatI had floating in my head were now spilled out into the parking lot of the Cow Palace, being paraded in my kids faces. I told Charlie and Gregory to keep walking, don't look at the pictures.

'Why Mommy?'

Just keep walking till we get inside, I said.

We were just about in the ticket door when a woman stood just outside the entrance, looked at my boys and said, "Ringling Brothers hurts the elephants. They do."

Fortunately my kids weren't familiar with the name Ringling and didn't give it a second thought. However my own feelings toward the circus were immediately choked down by my rage toward this woman. I understood her and what she was doing and I even admired her passion. But to bring my kids into it and hurt them in the process, was it really all for the greater good? How are my kids nightmares about the elephant with the big 'bandaids' on his bloody toes going to stop this? Talk to ME, beyotch, I'm the one with the wallet.

Almost as an act of defiance, we bought our tickets. Charlie of course asked what the signs were about. I told him, some people believe that animals at the circus are not treated properly and that they shouldn't be kept in cages or forced to perform. Other people think that the circus is a fun place and that the animals are happy and treated well.

Oh, was all he said.

I was amazed he stopped it at that. It was probably the snow cones in the white bengal tiger shaped plastic cup calling to him, or those spinning globes on a stick that flash colored lights. Despite Charlie letting me off the hook so easily, this was a really difficult moment. I had to separate my personal beliefs from my desire to protect my kids. No matter how much I agreed with the protestors, I deplored their method of using innocent children to get to me. They should know better.

We took our seats and watched the clowns and the Cirque du Soleil style acrobats perform. The high wire act was amazing, Charlie was certain they had some kind of super glue on the bottom of their feet that kept them from falling. We were having the experience - we smiled, ate cotton candy, and big soft doughy pretzels as flaming bowling pins were juggled in front of us. Gregory clapped like crazy. Charlie stared up with awe and wonder as the human catapult was set ablaze and launched skyward. Cool.

When it was over, Brian and I decided we would not be returning to the circus, and it wasn't because there was no longer a motorcycle act or the absence of a big top. It was indeed the animals that put a damper on our fun. The boys seemed equally unimpressed by them, they preferred some form of fire in their entertainment.

Was it the protestors, you ask? I don't think so, though they were always in the back of my mind. Watching a man taunt a bunch of tigers with a whip so they would snarl and claw and hop in the air seemed cruel. The zebras running in circles were ridiculous. And the elephants looked sad. I know, like I could really tell, right? But if you ever read Water for Elephants, that book showed elephants to be highly sensitive creatures, capable of showing depths of emotion similar to humans.

As my children get older, these situations will continue to arise. War, abortion, organic produce, whatever the subject, the kids will ask me what I am for and what I am against. My guess is they won't let me off as easily next time. But I will tell them what I believe, when they're ready to listen. My hope is that Brian and I give them the tools to form their own opinion and be able to defend and debate that in a civilized, open minded manner.

I am happy that my children attended the circus. And I even see the silver lining to the protestors, provoking our thoughts and asking me to take a stand. However, if they ever touch or talk to my kids again, I'll go all Barnum & Bailey on their ass! Leave the parenting discussions to me, that's my job, not yours.

King of Random

Charlie consistently blows us away with his intellect and depth of thought, especially for a 6 year old.

"Daddy, do you know why I like sad songs? Because they make me feel my heart."

"Mommy, you know we're all really strangers, don't you?" What do you mean, Charlie? "Well, you don't know everyone in the world, so that means you're a stranger to someone."

Gregory, while equally smart and funny, is a bit more, how should I say, esoteric? Many of the aforementioned conversations take place in the car, where Charlie and I have thoughtful banter about many subjects; the fastness of every car on the highway and whether it could beat a Ferrari, how rain clouds are formed, what would happen if you really did try to dig to China?

Just as we're discussing the core of the earth burning us up, shovels and all, Gregory will chime in, "What would happen if all of these cars were made of green beans?"
I usually respond with a simple 'I don't know' or 'Oh, really', where appropriate. But Charlie is not that kind or tolerant, "GREGORY! We are talking, so be quiet. And, how would the cars even be able to drive if they were made of green beans? There would be no engine to make the car go! Jeez, Louise."

Sometimes it's not even that outlandish of an idea, but it's not right and I want try to help my boy figure it out without telling him he's flat out wrong.
"Mommy, did you know that llamas have horns?"
I don't know bud. I think llamas have really fuzzy ears.
"Yes, they do have horns."
Are you sure?
"Yes."
Maybe when we get home we can look at our 'Llama, Llama Red Pajama' book to see if that llama has horns.
"It does. They all do"
Okay.

And then the statement can be just so bizarre, all we can do is laugh because we have no idea what he's talking about. Charlie will be telling me about the different invasive and non native plants that he found while hiking at summer camp. Gregory will interrupt, "Hey, Charrie, wouldn't it be silly if Jason Sparkle 80 came to my camp and used my orange swim shirt as a scoochoodoochoo?" Not sure who Jason is, but I can imagine what a scoochodoochoo could be. You can see why Charlie started calling Greg, the King of Random.

I get it. The level of sophistication at which Charlie can converse, it's hard for me to keep up, let alone his 3 1/2 year old brother. The poor kid has to try to grab some air time for himself, no matter how ridiculous he may seem.

"Mommy, did you know that Pirate Booty isn't popcorn?" Really? "No, it's not." I checked the package when I got home. It really isn't popcorn, it's puffed rice and corn. Maybe not so ridiculous, but still very random.

Bulldish the Dog

Charlie has a new pet. His name is Bulldish the Dog. Charlie likes to take him for walks, give him treats, and play games with him. You are probably thinking, big deal, so the kid has a dog. Well, this dog didn't come from a breeder, or the pound, I birthed this puppy myself. Charlie's dog happens to be his brother, Gregory.

That's Gregory aka Bulldish in the picture here, giving me his paw.

Bulldish came into being last summer, interestingly right around the time school ended and summer began. My guess is Charlie was bored. We had a couple of weeks to kill before camp started. Most of his friends were on vacation until then. He missed them and the challenge of school so he created his own playmate to occupy his time.

I thought it would be a passing phase, lasting perhaps until camp started. Or that Gregory would simply hate it, cry about being called a dog, and Charlie would endlessly taunt him with it. I was wrong on all fronts. Turns out Gregory loves being Bulldish the Dog and Charlie loves ordering him around, 'Bulldish, give me your paw. Paw. Paw. PAW, Bulldish, PAW!'

Gregory is so into it that he has created several alter egos for Bulldish and Charlie enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out which dog he is at that moment. Frankly, I cannot keep track, but here's what I have so far.

There's Ski Rider, who's more of an off leash hound. He likes to jump on the couches and beds and slam doors. Sho Sho is a bit fancier. He is always on a leash (usually made out of yarn) and prances about like he's at a dog show. Baseball the Ghost Dog crawls around on his knees chasing people, though you're supposed to pretend that you can't see him, because, well, he's a ghost.

This morning we actually had a birthday party for the latest 4 legged addition to our family, Ski Milk. Charlie made him a birthday cake, which consisted of Goldfish in a bowl. Ski Milk flipped the cake, along with his water dish, while trying to blow out his candles. As I stared at the huge mess on my kitchen floor, Charlie said, "Mommy, you can't get too mad, Ski Milk is just a puppy after all." Then he got down on his knees to rub Gregory, I mean Ski Milk, behind the ears, saying in a consoling voice, "Isn't that right Ski Milk, you're just a puppy. Good puppy."

Gregory is reveling in all of this positive attention - there's no eye poking, teasing, yelling, pinching, or name calling. He's probably created these different canine personas to keep the game fresh so that his brother won't lose interest in being nice to him. The saddest and most ironic thing is that Charlie treats Bulldish, and all the other dogs, far better than he's ever treated his brother. I wonder if he knows that they are the same person/dog?

Yo Mama

There is always fighting in my house, whether it's a war of words or fists; IT, is always on. Mealtime is no exception. Lately our dinner conversation has been reduced to my kids finding new ways to abuse one another. Shockingly it's not violent, but a complete verbal one-up-man-ship of how much they can kick the other's ass.

"Gregory, I'm going to take a cup of gasoline, dip Mr. Monkey (Greg's favorite snuggly) in it, shake it up, then watch him explode. BOOM!"

To which Gregory responds,"Charrie, I'm going to take lava and throw it in your cup and you will get burned." For some reason Gregory is obsessed with lava these days. He wants to know what will happen if a cat walks through lava, if lava falls on our car, or in your mouth.

Um, it burns, babe.

Mr. I Must Always Have the Last Word says, "Oh yeah? Well Gregory, I can take you in a helicopter and drop you in a volcano and that would burn you way more than just throwing lava on you. Plus lava would totally burn the cup up as soon as it touched it."

"Charrie, the lava is going to burn your butt, too."

"Gregory, I'm going to take gasoline AND diesel mixed together, put it in your glass like it's water then you'll drink it and die! Hahaha."

Any talk of death or killing and I bring a quick end to the banter. Clearly Gregory isn't as adept at the verbal sparring game as his brother, but at least he's playing along. Not too long ago he would have been in tears at the mere mention of Mr. Monkey being harmed.

After listening to the boys go on like this endlessly for a week, I noticed something. The cadence of the exchange smacked of something familiar. I wracked my brain trying to determine what it could be. Literally 2 nights later the movie White Chicks was on TV and the bells sounded off in my head like sirens. I realized my kids were having their own Yo Mama Off, only it was the Marin County preschool boy version.

In the movie, Marcus and Kevin Copeland, played by the Wayans brothers, are cops cleverly undercover as 2 white sisters, hence the title. The White Girls get into a Yo Mama Off with Megan and Heather Vandergeld, your stereotypical rich bitch Hampton society bimbos. After Megan insults the White Chicks' mother for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, one of them retorts, "Your mama is so dumb she went to Dr. Dre for a pap smear."

To which Heather Vandergeld scoffs, "Oh yeah, well your mother is so stupid that she exercises when she could just get like, liposuction or something."

As someone whose fanship of the Wayans brothers ended with In Living Color, I must confess that the movie struck me on a couple of levels. First, I found the predictably played out blunders that the brothers experience as they try to pose as women comical. That's right, I laughed when I watched it, a lot. But it also struck a deeper chord. The verbal lashings each side gave to one another in the movie reminded me so much of my kids, each rebuttal getting lamer and more ridiculous, that it made me think - Why couldn't I script a movie using my kids as a foundation? The writing would be significantly better, and the content about equal in quality to White Chicks.

Eureka! I finally found a use for my kids besides as bitter fodder in my undersubscribed blog!

By the way, for those who don't see the humor in the whole 'Yo Mama' genre of jokes, I apologize for the poor representation in this post. They really are hilarious. I hope that the following will restore your faith, peak your interest, or at least make you smile. Or maybe Yo Mama jokes are like the Wayans brothers, you either tolerate them or you hate them. Whatever the case may be, this is one of my favorites.

'Yo mama so fat you have to grease the door frame and hold a twinkie on the other side just to get her through.'

A Beautiful Mind

Charlie has always been a child who loves structure and routine, yet revels in the disorder he can create. While a steadfast observer of all traffic and safety related rules, the ones regarding basic treatment of your fellow man are virtually ignored; like don't hit and tease if you want your friends to play with you; or don't wrap wires, cords or rope around your brother's neck. As he gets older, the set of rules by which he governs his life continues along divergent paths, making him ever difficult to predict and follow.

For the past 9 months Charlie has been obsessed with the door to his bedroom and making sure it is shut every single time he leaves. Even if he's just going to visit the bathroom, which is literally next to his room, that door gets closed. But be mindful that the door is not closed all the way. The frame and the edge of the door are touching ever so slightly, but the smallest crack of light needs to be left. I learned the hard way the importance of proper crack allotment to my son. "Mommy, Jeez Louise! How many times do I have to tell you? (said with eyes rolling) You have to close my door but not really close it. See, like this. NOT LIKE THIS. Do you see the difference?"

At times it feels as if he's declared Martial law on the little 9 x 10 ft box that is his room. Some of the directives of Charlie's regime are easy to follow, like how much crack is too much or not enough, other rules leave us walking on egg shells, hoping we don't misstep. Most specifically those applying to the highly regulated, and ever growing mass of 'stuff' in his boudoir.

At the end of Charlie's bed, on his dresser, the shelves of his closet, and now under his bed, there is a collection of, well, shit. His closet naturally houses the largest amount of trash - silly putty, old gun holster from his policeman costume, furry bear key chain, remote control car. It's like the closet of forgotten toys that needs to be purged. But try telling that to Charlie, it's all sacred space to him.

On his footboard, he's a little more particular about the arrangement of his treasures. Though most of the items seem to be worthless left over birthday party gift bag trash - 5 used glow sticks (and not an ounce of glow left in them), 1 set of LEGO wheels, 1 pair of childproof scissors, 1 small silver tin pail, 1 pink birthday candle, 1 pumpkin shaped flashlight.

Saving things as memorabilia of fun times past, this I get. But I'm not sure what to think about the rest of the items at the foot of his bed - 1 roll of duct tape, 1 Dixie cup with a single black feather, 1 pair of broken plastic pliers, 1 broken plastic camera, a wad of fake money (mostly $5's and $20's), 1 Edna Valley Chardonnay cork, and 5 clumps of cut hair.

Why are these things on display? It almost appears to be a shrine of evidence honoring some gruesome crime that's been committed (Can you tell I'm a Law & Order junkie?).

But alas, even the most seemingly worthless of trinkets, no matter how bizarre in nature, have rules attached to them.

Rule #1 - Positioning of items - 4 of the 5 glow sticks are to be laid directly next to one another with the fifth placed exactly in the middle of the footboard. Do not try to group all 5 glow sticks together to create some kind of symmetry . Everything has it's place and do not question the divine order of all things Charlie.

Rule #2 - Terms of use - none of the afore mentioned items may be borrowed at any time, whether their owner is using them or even present in the house is immaterial. 'I will know if you use my scissors when I'm at school Gregory, and I will cut you.'

Rule #3 - Appropriate cleaning techniques - do not change position of any items even by 1 cm as their owner will know immediately upon entering his room if something has been moved. No consolidation/neatening allowed; the glow sticks would not look better if they were stored in the silver tin pail.

Rule #4 - Replacement items - do not attempt to switch out items with something of lesser or equal value. The Edna Valley Chardonnay cork is worth WAY more than the Penfolds Shiraz. Do not ask why, it just is. And the children's scissors must be from CVS because they cut better than the ones from the Dollar Store.

Rule #5 - Hair - there are no real rules for the clumps of hair under the foot of his bed. I was actually allowed to clean them up, thank goodness. Charlie decided one day that his hair was too long and bothered him so he cut it. He threw the clippings under his bed to avoid being found out. Incidentally, his favorite place to cut from is on the right side of his head just above his ear. So I guess there are rules even here.

To Charlie there is an order to the chaos of his 'stuff' that reminds me of the Coen brothers' movie, "A Serious Man" (yawn). In the film, the protagonist's unemployed, wacky brother, Arthur, sleeps on his couch and spends his days filling his Mentaculus book with equations and formulas that will, he claim, tie together all natural laws.

Disappointingly, Arthur's character is never really developed past this point, when you do get to see his Mentaculus book, it looks like the writings of a madman, but if you look just a little deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of genius. Like on Law & Order (damn it, I can't stop) when they finally get that search warrant for the apartment of the serial killer who's evaded detectives for decades. They enter and every square inch of wall is covered with numbers, letters, shapes, pictures, drawn in human blood but in these cool nonsensical, circular patterns that just scream out CRA-ZAY-ZEE and guilty (BTW, Arthur is later arrested for solicitation and sodomy).

Do I think my son is a paranoid schizophrenic or a serial killer in the making? No, of course not. Even the famous Carl Jung believed, In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

I'm just hoping some day to see the genius in the madness and not vice versa.