At what age does public nudity stop being cute and start being inappropriate? Sadly this question is based upon an experience we had last night. We were driving home from dinner when suddenly my three-year-old yelled, “I have to pee-pee!” At first we did what we always do— told her to hold it because we were only four blocks from home.
But soon the cries grew more desperate. Plus, we were stuck behind a driver who was 9,000 years old, shorter than Webster and had glasses that were as thick as coke bottles, which doesn’t explain why she was breaking for stop signs that I couldn’t even see yet. Finally after my husband and I finished yelling at each other because neither of us knew what to do, we stopped the car and held her over someone’s yard as she wee-weed all over their weeds.
So the other day my daughter’s peeing on the potty only to stop midstream and start screaming bloody murder. Hmm, that’s weird— usually I’m the one screaming bloody murder as she walks around the bathroom with toilet paper soaked in urine still hanging from her tush.
After this keeps happening all morning long, I realize I have two choices. Call the doctor or stop feeding her liquids. Two hours later I find her on all fours drinking from the cat’s water bowl, so I make that dreaded phone call. As much as I beg, the receptionist says no they cannot diagnose her over the phone and that we’ll have to come in. “Okay, then can you please hide the germ-infested train table in the waiting room before we get there?” I plead. Again, she declines. Bitch. We put on our Hazmat suits and head to the hot zone.
Before I became a parent, never did I think I’d say some of the things I say on a daily basis. Like this morning I was standing at the changing table when I uttered these words to my daughter. “No, you cannot look inside your brother’s tush with your flashlight.” I mean, seriously? And the scary thing is I think she really wanted to, poopie diaper and all.
But then later on I was thinking, maybe she’s interested in the inside of tushes, and am I going to stop her from pursuing her interests? I pride myself on being a supportive parent. Maybe she’s going to become a proctologist one day, and who am I to tell her she can’t? As parents, aren’t we supposed to encourage them to be whatever they want to be? And then I thought about it.
I don’t know about you, but when I go to Target with my kids in tow, it’s usually one mortifying moment after another. My son will be screaming at the top of his lungs because he wants to leave while my daughter is standing her ground in the toy aisle because she refuses to. But this week on one of four trips to Target, my daughter made me prouder than I’ve ever been.
We’re walking through the toy section looking for yet another birthday present when the following conversation ensued between us.
So the other day my kids were getting into their wagon when my ten-month-old spit up a little on his shirt. My neat-freak husband wiped it off with his finger and looked at me with this giant grin. “Can you believe how far I’ve come?” he said proudly holding up his wet finger. It took every ounce of willpower not to go get a gun and shoot him. I stood there watching my beaming husband thinking to myself, “Do you know what I touch on a daily basis?”
Let’s just take this past week for example. That’s right, all this in seven short days.
For some reason in this country when a child’s birthday rolls around, the mom is supposed to entertain a bunch of snot-nosed kiddos with some “special” activity, hop them up on sugary cake, and then send them home with a small bag of worthless, plastic toys.
Well as far as I’m concerned, this is bullshit. Do you know what happened on my daughter’s birthday? I shot an 8-pound bowling ball out my hoo-ha. And how do I get paid back for the agony I went through? Every year around that date, I’m submitted to something that’s almost as painful—planning a birthday party. But unless I want my daughter to move to the island of misfits, what choice do I have?
So the other day I’m standing at the checkout at Target talking with my main man Ardvin (Yes, I know his first name, but what’s scarier is that he knows mine). I pull out my wallet to pay and something else flies out of my purse onto the counter. A pair of little girl Rapunzel underpants. Agggh! Just a tad bit mortifying. Either:
A. I’m shoplifting
B. I’m a pedophile
C. I’m a mom who carries around extra underpants in her purse
About ten or so years ago, I walked into my bathroom only to find my cat standing on the toilet using his paws to unroll the entire roll of toilet paper. If I were a fan of America’s Funniest Home videos, I’d probably still be laughing. But alas, I can only laugh so many times at a man getting smacked in the balls, so I’m not.
Who knew toilet paper would come back again to haunt me one day. Ahhh, potty training. Every day I face the battle of teaching Zoey how to use toilet paper. I know perforated tissue seems like a simple concept, but you’d be surprised. Exhibit A, my pantsless daughter running around the house holding a flowing roll of toilet paper above her head pretending it’s a kite. Seriously? I bought her a real kite with Disney princesses all over it, and she’d prefer Charmin Ultra Soft?
Nordstrom is amazing. They’ll take anything back, and they’ll smile and act pleasant through the whole transaction. I once heard a story that someone successfully returned four tires to the store. Well, guess what. I found something they won’t let you return. See the following conversation:
ME: I’d like to return this.
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Tagged accidents, airlines automated phone system, head spin around, hoo-ha, Kazakhstan, mom goes to prison, Nordstrom, Nordstrom returns, pee-pee, potty training, the Exorcist, toddler, warranty on toddler