Healthy Organic Mom

Elmo poops

by marisa on January 25, 2012

Its true, mes amies. Our furry little friend with no discernible asshole does, in fact, drop the occasional deuce.

It must be true, because I have in my possession a book that not only states it but shows a picture of the little red fella climbing onto his very own potty, belly full and round and obviously ready to unload a serious stinker.

This all came about one day when Piglet announced, in a rather frantic tone, ‘New bum new bum new bum!’ (this means, essentially, new diaper, and is usually said after she’s shat herself. Understandable – who would want to cruise about with a full load in their pants, right) But she hadnt shat her diaper, because, as per our usual morning routine, she was naked. (she will pee in the potty this way, no problem. Half the time Ill be washing up the breakfast dishes and suddenly hear the splash of her dumping her own potty full of pee into the toilet. Its great.)

So for her to suddenly demand a new bum without an old one on… sparked a few thoughts.

‘Do you have to go poop, honey?’

‘NO.’ Frantic head shaking. ‘No. No no no no nonononono.’

Pretty sure that translates to yes, YES yesyesyesyesyesyes.

‘How bout we go to the potty and try?’

‘No!’ More frantic head shaking. ’No, no mommy, no poop, nonononononono. New bum.’

Excited, now, knowing all signs point to go, I took her by the hand and led her into the bathroom. She was clearly scared, the word ‘no’ on repeat from her trembling little mouth, so I kept reassuring and soothing her with gentle murmurs of “mommy’s here”s and “it’s okay”s, hoping against hope that this was the day.

I was careful not to force her, and luckily she sat right on her potty without prompt even, but the crying was on high. Several more “new bum’s” came tumbling out of her mouth, so I knew a poop was on the horizon. I was simultaneously bubbling over with excitement at this milestone and terrified I was going to handle it all wrong. I hadn’t had to do anything for her to pee on the potty – I just put it out there for her to see and get used to and away she went – and I hadn’t started looking into poop training methods yet, nor had I received any of the ever-infallible ‘Well in MY day we used to…’ stories. (which I love. Of course. Winkity, wink wink.)

Anyway I was wildly unprepared and caught completely off guard (which is hilariously ironic considering what a big play poop has had in my life lately). So after 45 minutes of tears despite gentle coaxing and hand holding and reassurance, I did what any nervous-self-doubting-first-time-mother would do: I consulted the Internet.

My method thus far had been to ensure above all that she knew she was safe and okay, and not being forced to do anything, while trying in vain to rouse in her an enthusiasm about the prospect of pooping on the potty. I offered up some special stickers as reward, and even dropped trough myself in hopes of pinching out a loaf for her to see. (no dice.)

I skimmed this and that and discovered, to my surprise, not much advice at all. Most offered up things NOT to do, the biggest being forcing/physically restraining the child on the potty, and getting angry or punitive. (who is doing those things?) Many suggested reward incentives, which I’d done with stickers, and all talked of staying positive and encouraging, but other than that there wasn’t a whole lot out there. Every child is different, blah blah blah.

I felt a little flush, realizing I was – on my accord and direction – doing it right, and despite being nearly an hour into this heartwrenching venture was now fueled with pride (in both of us) and determination. I’d almost broke – a million times, if I’m to be honest – but I knew that poop was just around the corner, because she kept asking, so frantically, for a new bum, then panties, then jammies – anything she could poop in. God granted me small but sweet reprieves in her clever, adorable lookings for anything to distract me:

“I want go park!”

“I hunry!” (hungry)

“I go play toys?”

“I hunry!”

“I want go pool!”

“I want daddy! Daddy car white.”

“I want juice.”

“I want book.”

“I want Yoe Cay!” (Zoe & Cade)

“I hunry.”

“I want bath!”

“I want see Ashey Bookyn!” (Ashley & Brooklyn)

“I want watch Elmo!”

To each of which I answered “Okay! We will go to the park/eat/have juice/read books/etc… Right after poop.”

Poor girl. She was so annoyed.

And then I remembered the book. Elmo’s Potty Book, it’s called, and I must say it was a huge help. I brought it into the bathroom (where it now lives) and sat on the floor beside Piglet’s potty and we read together, and by the good grace of God it shows Elmo’s potty beside a regular toilet, so I was able to point to that and compare it exactly to our bathroom. ‘Elmo’s potty; his mommy’s potty. Piglet’s potty; mommy’s potty.’ Her tear stained little face looked soberly from the picture to our bathroom, making the comparison. I could all but see her little mind working. Finally her little lips trembled out a hesitant ’Elmo poop?’

My excitement was uncontainable friends. “YES! Elmo poops! In the potty! Just like Mommy! And Daddy, and (insert the names of everyone she knows) and YOU, sweetheart!”

She continued to look back and forth from the book to her potty and my toilet, and I eagerly pointed out more things on the pages (Elmo flushes, washes hands, gets to wear big boy pants, etc) while she drank it up like college kid at a keg party.

There were still a few more cries/attempts,(“I hunry I hunry I want juice!”) and I knew we had to be right there when she started getting desperate (“I want go night night!”) but finally, fiiiiinaaaally, 90 minutes (or was it 9000?) after it all began… a happy shout:

“Mommy! I poop!”

I swear I nearly pooped myself, I was so excited. I ran – yes, ran, the seven steps to her potty – and looked and sure enough – she had!

*This is where I put a little tip/disclaimer for all you potty-trainers out there; if your child is anywhere near this stage, it would be wise to refrain from feeding them beets until it’s all over. No further details needed, I’m sure. You’re welcome.

We laughed and whooped and hugged and high fived. We covered ourselves in stickers and danced all around. We phoned Daddy and Gramom and left screechingly happy messages. We then both promptly passed out. God bless nap time.

What I’ve learned & have to pass along…

We repeated this entire process the next day but skimmed 30 minutes off the top; we took another 30 off poop #3, (which is saying a lot as we were at someone else’s house) and by poop #4 (3- yes THREE- mins!) I had figured it out – it was something so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. It was the element of privacy. Who wants to poop with someone – even if it is their own mother - right beside them? So even though she cried at first at my leaving the room, it was never more than 30 seconds until the inevitable ‘Mommy! I pooping!” came shouting through the door.

I’ve also employed a little bit of a, um, exaggeration-of-the-truth tactic. (NO, it’s not lying!) I simply refer to her pull ups as ‘panties’, so that when she has them on she still asks to go pee. She once peed in real panties and likely remembers the unpleasantly soaked feeling, so. At night, I make it clear that we’re putting on a ‘diaper’, since (for now, anyway) there’s no chance she’ll wake up dry, so I want her to really distinguish between panties and diaper.

Also, I only ever get ONE mention/ask from her; she says something like “I want/go poop” and when I ask it back (You have to go poop?) fear takes over and she says no. Every time. (No poop no poop no poop!) But because she does bring it to me once, it’s important to stick it out so she doesn’t get confused, so down go the crayons/off goes the movie/in we go from the park and to the potty we go.

I’ve found it’s all the more encouraging for her to see me using the potty, even just to pee, and especially at the same time as her, so I’ve been knocking back the coffee/water/diet pepsi by the gallon so that I can pee on demand. I don’t know that I would recommend this method as it can be very cumbersome when you have to make three trips to the bathroom in one grocery shop and the staff starts thinking you must be the worst shoplifter they’ve ever seen. Ahem.

I also found it helpful to stay one track minded. I answer everything she says with ‘Did you poop?’ so she knows none of her distraction tactics will work. “I hunry!” “Did you poop?” “No.” “Oh. Okay.” “I want go park!” “Did you poop?” “No.” “Oh. Okay.” “I want play toys!” “Did you poop?” Etc, etc…. etc.

Now by no means do I think I’m any kind of Prostar of Potty Training because Piglet made it through four poops in a row, and I’m sure all of you who have been through it before are laughing at my optimism, but, while I know there will be setbacks and accidents, I feel like we’re pretty much on the road to success. She recognizes the sensation of having to go, and I think both her and me maintaining a positive attitude about it is the other half of the battle. (easier said than done, I’m sure, the first time she poops in real panties in public… we’ll see how ‘positive’ my attitude is then, right? Ha.)

Alas – onward, on this next big milestone path for both mother and daughter… Here we go!

I would like to mention that this post was written over a week ago, before I went to work and commuted Piglet to Calgary, with Daddy and a new dayhome… I didn’t get to hear how things went at the dayhome, and BD said she only pooped once in her sleep for him, but we got home Sunday night and come Monday morning… “I go poop”… followed by 2 mins on the potty and a cheerful “Mommy! I pooping!” and then a proud little Piglet leaping off the potty and bending over for me to wipe her bum. All I can say is that it’s about bloody time poop gave me something to cheer about.

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Meet Gabe

by marisa on January 11, 2012

You know when you’re looking so forward to some quality, quiet alone time and the very moment you’re about to start reveling in it some tool comes along flapping their lips in your face and ruins it?

Annoying, indeed.

This annoyance is magnified for those who work in any kind of service/public industry, and particularly those that combine both like that of, say, a flight attendant.

Insert scene: Me, fresh off a 6+ hour flight, stripped of my suffocating uniform and finally without any smelly strangers yammering in/crowding my space, happily flip flopping solo down the street to catch the sunset. In Maui, of course.

Most would know better; but most also concern themselves with the state of their physique, and lately, well, I just don’t care about that. And so, rather than fussing with clothes & coverups I simply sailed out the door clad only in a bikini, not giving a rip about cellulite and thunder thighs and my mini muffin top. It should have come as no surprise, then, when some greasebag in a rental squealed up to a halt beside me on the street.

And out from the window: “Hey! Hey, you staying at this hotel? How you like it? Where you headed, girl?”

Um. Seriously?! Did this douchebag just pull over – without even bothering to get out of the car – to hit on me?

“Where you from, girl? How long you staying, what-cho-gettin’ up to tonight?”

Yep. It would appear so.

Wordless, still, caught somewhere between annoyance and hysterical laughter, I stood, stupified, as this idiot climbed out his econo-rental. He caught his visor – which might have been sexy had it been for a real purpose like golf or beach volleyball, but judging by his lanky, lack-of-muscled body, was clearly not – on the door frame in the process, landing it askew across his forehead and messy mop.

Undeterred, grease monkey adopted a cocky stance. ”What’s your name, girl?”

Smirking and not hiding it, I answered. Apparently my three syllable uncommon name was too much for him, because he asked me twice to repeat it. I flat out laughed.

“I’m Gabe,” he said, nodding in self approval, apparently very pleased with himself.

I nodded too, laughing harder now, which Gabe somehow interpreted as the green light to ask for my phone number.

Dear friends, this couldn’t have been more fun. Between laughs, I managed to say that I don’t give out my phone number, but no problem because Gabe was all too eager to offer up his.

As the seedling of this post sprang up in my mind, I wavered only for a moment on whether to be nice – let poor pathetic Gabe off the hook – or whether to have a little fun.

And so, dear friends, if you ever find yourself ‘in the San Francisco Bay area and looking for a good time’, call Gabe! At:

510 – 301 – 4405

And a note to all you fellas out there – if you really think hollering out a junky car window at a girl is a sure fire way to get some – it might be best not to be wearing a wife beater. ;)

Aloooooooha!

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Sleepless in… not quite Seattle

by marisa on January 2, 2012

I once went to this wedding where I did more hanging around the food bar than socializing, and happened to be right at the ready when they set out the coffee & tea bits; some suited fella set a plateful of Mighty Leaf teas right in front of me, and, knowing these lovelies go for nearly $20 a box, I naturally knicked a couple for a pick-me-up at a later date.

Today is that day, and while the steaming London Fog I made is certainly lovely… it’s not magical, and thus, melancholy I remain.

It is very very early right now; still dark, and being a holiday, most everyone is still sleeping. I should be, and would be, were it not for my internal self loathing, self destructive alarm.

I miss my child, dear friends, and even as I write that I know it’s both the biggest understatement of the year and the oldest story in the book.

I laid awake for an hour, trying to sort a way that I can see/have her before I go flying on Tuesday. Bottom line; it’s not doable.

Nature has conspired against me; I tried to do the right thing, leaving her with BD on Boxing Day to fly home solo and give her some rest & time with family, and my busted up back a couple days of much needed rest too. I’d planned two days of in-bed-with-books-and-movies (and no bending or lifting whatsover) to recuperate; imagine my surprise when, five minutes into this plan my ‘sore throat’ becomes wildly painful, massive, pussing tonsils rendering me unable to swallow; enter, Tonsillitis! And just try to find an open Walk-In during the holidays. So my two days of bed became two days of clinic hopping. (We’re closed. We’re full. Doc’s in surgery. Come back in six hours. Etc.)

By the good grace of God the anti-biotic took effect fast, and after four days of seriously next to no food or water, I tentatively started eating, and, hallelujah, resting.

But now Piglet has taken ill. She’s vomited in the night and has the squirts, BD tells me, and while I once would have said there’s nothing worse than your child being sick, there’s nothing worse than your child being sick while you’re not there.

I fucking hate this child sharing bit. I hate it. I’ve been so focused on being good and fair and looking out for the best interest of everyone except for me, I’ve run myself into the ground as a result. After this week of sickness and tomorrow’s pairing, I’ll have gone for a 12 day stint without seeing Piglet. How. Is. This. Possible.

After realizing this in bed this morning, (insert pathetic sob scene) I got up, (anti-biotic, swallow, anti-inflammatory, swallow, decongestant, swallow) parked myself in my green chair in the window, stared outside, and vowed to make this better. I will not be a part-time parent. I need to be with her as much as possible, and more importantly, if I may be so bold, she needs me.

Is the answer to move back to Calgary? Is it? I am absolutely filled with despair at the thought of it. It will definitely solve one problem – this horrid commute – but it doesn’t change child-sharing, and will open up new problems in its wake, and I, and more importantly, Piglet, love(s) the life I found here, and haven’t I said this all before, is this broken record never going to end? HOW are you still reading me, faithful friends; I admire (and appreciate) your loyalty.

I’m so good at finding all the questions to ask, and never being able to answer them. Not a great way to start the new year; this post isn’t a great way to start it either. Shouldn’t it be some sort of New Years & resolutions & reflections & optimistic hoohah? What a shite blogger I am, a total fraud. And I don’t have time to work on bettering that element of myself because being a good mother takes precedence; and on that note, I will – (deep breathe, set jaw, head high) climb onto the ever-annoying-cheerleading-New-Years wagon & make some sort of fresh-start/clean-slate/resolutions on how to figure this all out.

(Advice welcome. Encouraged. Requested. Demanded? Yes please. )

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The Visit

by marisa on December 24, 2011

“Mommy! Santa.”

“Mommy! Santa ho ho ho!”

“Mommy! See Santa! Santa Caus!”

You’ve guessed what’s coming. Off to see the fat man we went.

Now, before I share this photo, I must plead my case. Dear friends, let me tell you, I loathe the mall. Hate it. Avoid it all costs.

I also loathe lineups. Particularly lineups full of crying screaming squirming children.

But I LOVE my daughter, so face the music I did. I bundled her into an adorable Christmas outfit and braved the line and the crowds and the kids and the obnoxious parents who think their ugly kid is soooo cute in destroying everything within a ten foot radius, and while there was one moment of panic – nothing terrifies a parent more than a hint whiff of poop, (Oh gahd was it my child? Was it? Was it? -as every index finger in the vicinity is immediately yanking out the back of every diaper it belongs to.) and while history would suggest that it was my child, Christmas miracles do happen because it wasn’t.

However, Christmas drollery also happens because while Piglet has the power of dropping a stink bomb that could clear a room, (inherited from her father, obviously) she also has a great sense of humour and blames whoever happens to be nearest; and thus, during a collective sigh of relief from many a parent eliminating their child as the offender, she shouted a loud & clear ‘Mommy toot!’ for all to hear. Ho, ho.

So finally Santa drags his ass around the corner and picture time begins. Piglet was SO excited: ‘Santa Santa see Santa Santa Santa see Santa see SANTA!’

Until she got a look at him. I swear it was a mid-breath halt – “Santa see Santa see Sahhhhhhhh…. insert small gasp which she immediately choked on, followed by four tiny limbs death-gripping around my leg.

Come Hell or high water, this child was going nowhere.

Now, dear friends, put yourself in my shoes. The outfit, the parking lot, the mall, the line the kids the shrieks the noise ahhhhhhhhhh! Not to mention the fact that I’d already purchased our package and now after all this there was no way in hell I was leaving without it.

Besides – watching this two second transformation was absolutely hysterical. It was SO funny, friends, in that way that only a parent can laugh at a crying child because they know the cry is not one of real pain.

And so, I whisked us both up to good ol’ St Nick and two teenage elves captured the moment that will forever solidify my title of Worst Mother Ever:

Fa la la la la, la la, LA!

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T’was the week before Christmas – uncut

by marisa on December 22, 2011

T’was the week before Christmas

And all through the city

People were starting

To get rather shitty

The last minute shopping

The stress of the buys

The last-one-in-stocks

That result in black eyes

The brigade of the parties

The food, and the nog

The Advil and Motrin

Lifting the fog

The kids! – Their concerts

Their shows and their cheer

Has everyone reaching

For a noise numbing beer

The presents, the parcels

The ribbons and bows

The back-breaking wrapping

Is killing; it shows

Family arriving

By land and by plane

All making you wish

You’d been hit by a train

So make room in your purse

(You would be so clever)

And stash some sweet treats

And a flask of whatever

Exhausted and weary

Yes! But don’t fret

Armed with our vices

We’ll get through it all yet

Santa has it right

That willy old dear:

Visit people -

But once a year.

Ho, ho, HO! :)

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Skip Run Hide

by marisa on December 20, 2011

Have you seen Four Christmases, dear friends?

You must. The movie itself is good – Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon, both adorable as usual but the premise of the movie is to what I’m referring; the idea of skipping Christmas. Absolutely brilliant.

(Gasp) This, coming from the girl who prattles on about the lights & the food & the songs & the very essence of Christmas? Surely you must have read wrong?

No. You didn’t. The difference is this: I do very much love the season of Christmas – all the time leading up to it… I just dread the actual day. (How sacrilege, right, the birth of Jesus and all. But back up off me, everyone knows He was actually born in April.)

I envy children and their innocent excitement and anticipation, the magic and joy of the morning…

But I am a grown up (sort of – sigh) and a) Santa isn’t coming for me and b) the anticipation, instead of for ‘magic’ is instead for ‘how to please everyone’.

I remember far too well the business of carting Piglet round, trying to make sure everyone got time with her but probably pleasing no one as a result of rushing through things, and then feeling both guilty about that and upset with myself for not just staying put and telling everyone if they wanted to see her they could come to our place. (oh, to have a set of balls…)

Enter Year of the Separation. (that word is now tainted forever for me. Boo.) Just thinking of sharing and shuffling Piglet to and fro & trying to be fair to friends & family alike while attempting to keep some semblance of happiness makes me want to flush myself down the toilet.

And so, I’ve thought long and hard about this. For months actually, even as far back as last year when BD and I knew we were over I’ve been imagining what this would look like.

Such endless musing has led me to wonder what the actual percentage is of people who actually enjoy Christmas day. Book after book and movie after movie have been written about it – some humourous anecdote or another highlighting the miseries, agonies & anxieties of family, the drunk uncle, the bitch sister, the meddling mother the perverted grandfather & the crazy brother. And the gifts – Oh gahd. Tie rack, anyone? Foam cowboy hat? Bunny slippers? Handmade-something-awful? You lose either way – you either get some junket crap you don’t want or your carefully-thought-out-gifts don’t land.

And the dinners; the luncheons, the breakfasts and the brunches. What are the chances 10-20 people at any such gathering are all going to get along, or even like each other? Enter the real Christmas Angels; rum & eggnog. Beer & wine. Spiced whatever. Liquor sales soar during the holidays, and it’s no surprise why.

Isn’t it just so sad that a time reserved for family & get togethers is so widely dreaded by the masses? Thank God for collective misery, masquerading as humour. Ho f*cking ho.

And so, after careful consideration… I’ve decided to… skip it. Reign in that judgment, please, and hear me out.

I’ll be the first to say what a great dad BD is. I knew in marrying him that he’d be an active and involved dad, that his children would be lucky to have him as their father.

His family loves her too, and a whole heap of them get together for Christmas day, and it would be wonderful for both them and Piglet to have that time together, and… for the sake of my daughter… I feel I should bow out gracefully.

Of course, my own mother and brother love her immeasurably too, and isn’t it fair that they get some time too? Well yes, it would be… but as I said before, the thought of all this sharing and shuffling makes me want to take a long walk off a short pier, and – Piglet is only two years old. She loves saying Santa and Snowman but really doesn’t get it. Every other Christmas, for the rest of her life, she will; and I’ll have it no other way than to be a huge part of it. But this year… I’m really struggling, still, with getting over everything, (obviously) and I seem to need some sort of – escape – to really move on. I’m in a transitional period; I’m not where I wanted or hoped to be; and childish as it may sound, I just want to run away and deal with all the hoohahs of this calendar year by myself.

And so I’m working. I will drop Piglet off with BD on the 24th and pick her up on the 26th (though hoping he’ll do the nicety of dropping her off as I’ll have worked the redeye in). I know he and his family will be so happy to have her, and she’ll be showered with love and attention…

So I’m trying to feel good about this decision. I just wish my own mumsy had something on the haps; I feel horrid, terrible, for leaving her… after she’s been so good to me. She deserves better than a shit daughter like me.

The high road, then? Or just the cowardly road? I’ll tell you one thing. I’m already planning for next year; I’m planning and booking a flight to Sand & Sunshine for me and Piglet from before to after this bloody dreaded day. I can’t take this heartache again.

But let’s part on a happy note: Santa has the right idea. Visit people but once a year. ;)

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The Waiting Game

December 14, 2011

Hello dawlings! Have you been on the edge of your seat, just dying to hear if I shat the bed yet? Well. I didn’t. (my mother breaths a sigh of relief) But – settle in. So I arrive at the place and am shown to my room where I drop trough and climb into the [...]

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Update

December 12, 2011

Well! Look at all the thoughtful comments! Thank you, dear friends! I also received some texty texts from well meaners, suggested prunes and prune juice, and (for back) deep tissue massage. The update…. isn’t much of an update, sadly. On the bright side, there were two – ahem – ‘movements’, if you will, though they [...]

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Wee bit worried

December 9, 2011

I’ve hurt my back, dear friends. And badly. I am, without exaggeration, the 60-year younger version of that old lady from the commercial nasty little teenagers used to make fun of : ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’. Back injuries are the worst. I won’t bore you with the details, (though I could regale [...]

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Each year this day

December 3, 2011

I think of you each year this day, Always wishing for a way, To tell you, show you, all she’s done, The lovely fivesome, they’ve become. You’d be SO proud, to know, to see, The life she’s built; her family. She’s still strong and so smart- Still has such love in her heart. A friend [...]