Everybody's doing it

I'm happy to report that after approximately one hundred thirty-three million, nine hundred twenty thousand seconds of enslavement to the child-bearing-birthing-nursing-rearing-machine, I have at last seen the light at the end of the tunnel. And it is good.

Over the weekend the Bugglefam trekked out to the beach club despite the misty, overcast weather. Clearly my morning raisin bran had been tinged with PCP, because right before strapping everyone into the car, I shoved a magazine into our LL Bean beach bag. I figured that, at most, I might get to peruse the cover bylines, maybe flip halfway through the first twenty-two pages of advertisements, if Bugglehub was willing to spot me a couple of minutes.

It was so much more than I could ever have imagined.

Bugglehub and I sat, FOR HALF AN HOUR, in our teal canvas beach chairs, facing the kids' play area, peering over our periodicals only periodically to catch a glimpse of Bugglegirl making sand angels and Buggleboy veering dangerously close to the edge of the jungle gym. I daresay we almost forgot we had offspring, but for the dad sitting next to us who felt the need to broadcast this tidbit to his two young boys:

"You know why I was gone for so long?"
"Why, Daddy?"
"I had to make a poop."
"Was it a big brown poop?"
"Yep. It sure was."

Yes, children have emerged from my nether regions. Even so, I really didn't ever need to overhear this conversation. Particularly as I'm attempting to ignore said children.

The Potty Diaries: No end in sight

Lately we've been struggling with a little thing I call number two. I use the term "we" to indicate myself and Buggledaddy, since apparently Bugglegirl is completely comfortable right where she is. This exchange happened recently, on a day that ends in "y." Welcome to the world according to poo.

"Mommy." Bugglegirl is calling me from her bathroom. She's been in there for nearly half an hour and I've started to wonder if she'll grow up to be one of those people with vintage stacks of Popular Mechanics and Redbook next to the john. Anyway, I walk in there and immediately spot trouble: little wads of not-so-white toilet paper scattered about. She looks up at me like I'm Cruella de Vil and pleads, "Mommy, I'll never lie to you again, Mommy." Oh boy. She knows she's supposed to call me when she's finished and apparently I've freaked her out to the point of confusion.
"I'll never get pooey on my dress again, Mommy." Weird, I don't see any poo on the dress.
"Is there pooey on your hands?"
"No." Her fingernails aren't exactly appetizing.
"Let's wash them really good." We dry our hands and Bugglegirl pats me on the back and says, "You're not upset, Mommy?" Insert knife and twist.
"Is there pooey on your blankie?"
"No."
"Did you touch your blankie after you wiped?"
"Yes."
"You did?"
"No."
"How did you get pooey on your belly?"
"Ohhhhhhhh, it just got on me," she muses, in the same way one might casually announce one's preference for paper instead of plastic.
"But how did it get there?" Cornered, she starts to play it off with that George Bush giggle.
"Heh, I just leaned over the potty, you know, and - heh - it got on me, Mommy."

I don't press the issue. Because maybe I don't really want to know. Maybe I'm going to close my eyes now and not wake up until she's graduating from junior high. When I can deal with less harrowing situations like blow jobs and braces. Please, keep the cocktails coming.

We're practically wading in it

Before our first baby was born, Bugglehubby and I made all the requisite preparations. Painted the nursery. Learned how to install the carseat. Started ignoring the dog. What we couldn't seem to decide on was what the hell we were going to call it.

I'm not talking about the baby. I'm talking about what comes out of the baby. Because along with snakes, exams with essay questions and USC athletics, Bugglehubby had this preternatural aversion to the word "poop."

Recognizing that indulging him in this bizarre, completely irrational quirk might prove advantageous, I agreed to brainstorm new ideas. But a cursory search through The 10,001 Best Poop Names left us wanting. We rose to the challenge. To his "growler," "dump" and "stinker," I added "freshie" and the old standby, "number two." We also considered the possibility of forgoing a label altogether in favor of gentle innuendo, as in "you change the f-ing mess."

In the end, we agreed to disagree: he settled on the macho, crude "dump," I on the sweetly innocuous "freshie."

But it was all for naught. There was just no avoiding the poop. The inadvertent exposure therapy eventually mitigated Buggledaddy's phobia. Today, he's able to utter the forbidden word with only a slight cringe, though he still prefers his go-to terminology.

Just the other day, Bugglegirl was gazing out the bay window, watching Buggledog in the yard. "She's taking a dump, Daddy?"

[Craving more toilet talk? Tune in Tuesdays for a freshie.]

Two (rather damp) steps back

Not that I consider myself a tragic hero or anything (often merely tragic!), but the other day's hubris definitely came back to haunt me. Barely more than twenty-four hours after bragging about my oh-so-progressive attitude toward the aforementioned pee incident, Bugglegirl struck again. This time it was blatant. This time, it was as though we'd rerouted the Euphrates. A deluge on the carpet, right in front of the leather sofa. I had started to undress her for bed when she bolted to the den to retrieve her blanket and relieve her bladder. And then she laughed.

Then today as I was crossing the courtyard to pick up Bugglegirl from school, I spotted a darkened half-moon at the bottom of her denim jumper. Sure enough, this was not the usual arts and crafts project gone awry. "Did you have an accident?" She nodded. I resisted the urge to create more drama and said simply, "Let's go get changed." And she complied - instantly, following me into the building like I was Cinderella carved out of ice cream. No doubt I'll be recanting these words soon enough, but I'm choosing to view this as a small victory rather than a soggy setback.

Fabulosipee

Right now I’m having a hard time writing anything because I’m absorbed in the Kimora Lee Simmons reality show. This episode is about her laughable attempts to “go green” while shooting a fragrance commercial in L.A. Kimora insists that her kids be in the commercial, because her “fabulosity” stems from the happiness her children generate. I’ve heard that each of her two girls has her own nanny (conspicuously absent from the program). Since I’m drinking Bordeaux I can watch it without wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

Today Bugglegirl peed on her bedroom carpet. I didn’t actually see her squatting there, but after her nap I happened to walk in there and spot the wet mark on the floor. I did a sniff test and when I asked her what it was, she looked me dead in the eyes and said she wasn’t sure. She was definitely grinning.

“I had a accident.”

Then she started in with the hand gestures and exaggerated expressions she uses when imitating the conversations I have with friends. “Actually, Mommy, I, you know, I tried to make it to the potty, see? OK? And, um, I had a accident, OK?” She flashed a conspiratorial smile. And I lost it. I had to do the turn-and-cough-into-the- crook-of-my-arm move. I was actually laughing out loud, thankful that she’s still young enough to buy the lie that Mommy was thinking of something else that’s funny; that I was in fact very upset about her lying, not to mention her peeing. But inside I was doing cartwheels and composing my acceptance speech for the Least Neurotic Mom of the Year award. I mean, I was still a good four hours away from popping the cork on that Bordeaux. I need to stop here and have another sip, lest I overanalyze.

Progress, people. It’s fabulous.