The Walk

Australian Shepherds are quite variable in temperament. Some lines are extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive, while others tend toward a milder, calmer manner.

It may be too early to tell, but I suspect that Kiah falls in the former category. I suspect this because of the number of times a week I say the following: “THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!” I might yell it a little bit. I definitely say it twice as often as I did before Kiah came into our home and started decimating it.

So, I’ve begun taking her for long walks. It’s the only way to settle her down a bit. I put the twins in the double stroller and the three of us take a merry jaunt through and out of our neighborhood. I like to stroll down a nearby country road to a very old, small cemetery. The twins get out and stretch their legs while I flap my arms and implore them not to climb the tombstones. After that, we head back. It’s a charming time.

Today’s walk didn’t get off to a good start. I could not find Kiah’s leash anywhere- it wasn’t where I left it and the twins weren’t talking- so I fashioned a leash out of a jump rope. Then, Ella managed to fall out of her seat onto the coarse pavement, which she was not happy about. The cemetery is not even a mile away, but it feels so much longer when you’re pushing twins, picking up stray twins and putting them back in their seats, all while corralling an extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive puppy. There are grates to be avoided, cars not to swerve into, and large teethy dogs to steer clear of.

Today, we made it to the cemetery and I sat with Kiah under a large Hickory tree. Daniel soon broke the tranquility with a “Look mom! A little Daniel chair!” I went over to remove him from the low-to-the-ground tombstone. It was right then that Kiah decided to defecate beside the grave of one Robert Danworth, deceased in February of 1868 at the age of 89. Someone had recently stuck a small American flag by his grave, so I have to assume he was a veteran. Of the Mexican-American War. Or the War of 1812. Maybe even the Quasi-War with France. Who knows. (I think it’s lovely someone out there knows.)

Immediately after she finished her business, Kiah trotted off, bent over, ate a Hickory nut, began choking, and spit the thing up. I stared at her, somewhat dazed. She stared back.

It was then I became irritated; however, always willing to do my duty as a responsible pet owner, I reached into my pocket for a baggie. (This whole carrying your dog’s poop in a baggie thing, by the way, is quite possibly the worst part of dog ownership. Even if it’s triple-bagged, you are still always profoundly aware that you are walking around with sh&# in your pocket. I generally gravitate toward someone’s garbage tote on the curb and sneak Kiah’s waste into it, even though I have heard that some people don’t like their garbage mingling with other people’s garbage- hence the sneaking.)

There was no baggie in my pocket. We’ve only had Kiah a little over a month, so I have not yet developed that “never leave the house without a baggie” mindset.

You can imagine my predicament. I had several options:

1) Turn around and never ever visit the little cemetery again. Pray for forgiveness.
2) Find large leaves, pick up poop, and fling it into the woods behind cemetery. (This was my least favorite option.)
3) Go home and return later to clean up the mess.
4) Ask the woman who was staring at me the next house over if she had a baggie.

I went with option 4 and unloaded the baggie in someone’s garbage tote about six houses down.

The walk took longer than I imagined it would, and as I approached our development, Caleb's  and Ben’s school bus sped by me. And thus a race of epic proportions- think Ben-Hur- commenced. Kiah and I sprinted to the house and arrived 30 seconds before the bus did.

When we got home, Kiah raced to her water bowl. After an incredibly long and sloppy drink, she did something she’s never done before. She went into her crate and laid her head on her paws, looking very beleaguered, and went to sleep. Just like that.

Score one for Holly.

Escapism

So, my house kind of smells like a barn. I didn’t realize this until I left and came back in. Not a horrible smell- just like hay. That’s been peed on.

It’s absolute chaos here. Our puppy, an Australian Shepherd, is a herding breed, and herd she does. She does this by chasing the children relentlessly about the yard, nipping at their feet. Aside from the screaming, it's pretty hilarious. And Ella, poor Ella… Ella is small enough that the dog’s mouth fits snugly about her small calf. She's taken to perching atop the couch and tables and other high places, out of the dog's reach.

But, my word, this puppy is cute. She has two modes of being: manic and dead to the world. And she switches from one to the other in a blink of the eye. Which I completely understand. When I spend a good fifteen minutes wrestling a soda can and barking at it, working myself into an absolute frenzy, I pretty much pass out afterwards, too.

Daniel, possibly inspired by the puppy’s potty-training progress, has completely potty-trained himself in 24 hours. Pee and poo. There hasn’t been ONE accident since he first sat upon the porcelain throne. In his pants, anyway. I can’t say that the pee and poo always hit the prospective target, which has definitely contributed to the barn smell in the home.

The house is a wreck. If you are planning on visiting in the next couple of days, please go to the bathroom beforehand as I cannot promise that the condition of my own water closets will be amenable to guests. I simply can’t keep up. I’m constantly doing laundry, extricating my dog’s mouth from my daughter’s leg, making completely non-nutritious foods, cleaning up pee and poo, helping Caleb with his homework, and daydreaming. Lots of daydreaming. I daydream about having a nicely decorated house like this:


Serene blue and white, light and airy, a touch of French country. I look at rooms like this in magazines and scoff, saying, "How impractical!" But a room like this would make me feel calm. Though I could do without the dead zebra carcass on the floor.

I love blue and white. I am inspired by Monet's kitchen (I don't mean to brag, but I've been here):

Cookware as decoration! A marvelous idea. I wouldn't feel like I was being so wasteful with my pots and pans.

Or, I could be quite content with a room like this:

Looks like it would be cozy in the winter. And John would probably fit in better here. We'd call this the library. We would also have a parlor and a drawing room. I don't know what a drawing room is. I read about them in Victorian novels a lot, and I think there might be one in the game Clue.

They all did it. But if you wanna know who killed Mr. Boddy, I did. In the hall. With the revolver. Okay, Chief, take 'em away. I'm gonna go home and sleep with my wife.

In this room, I could easily draw Caleb hanging from the chandelier, Daniel taking a ride down the spiral staircase, Ben being Spiderman on the wrong side of the balcony, and Ella throwing all of the books on the floor. (She threw all of our Ayn Rand books on the floor the other day. Sometimes, she seems so very intelligent.)

I was feeling kind of guilty about my escapist daydreaming. After all, there are people in the world who have to live in yurts. Then I saw this picture:

Holy crap, that's a nice yurt. I've gotta find time to clean my house but good. Did I mention it kind of smells like a barn?

Tinkle tinkle little pee, in the potty you will be...

Today I took the twins to the library for the Potty Tales program, which is just what it sounds like. We learned to boogie to the potty dance, listened to stories about children who have conquered the potty mountain, and sang “Tinkle Tinkle” to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle.”

On the ride home, I discussed the cultural implications of remaining in diapers past a certain age to Daniel and Ella.

“…so, if you want to someday get married and have children of your own, it is crucial you wear big boy or big girl underpants. Because I can almost guarantee your mate will. So then, Daniel, do you want to sing the potty dance song again?”

“Yes!!!!”

“Good! And when we get home, will you make pee-pee in the potty?”

“No!!!”

It’s a process, people.

As a born procrastinator, I admit I should have been more diligent in potty training them in the past few months. People in Africa carry their babies around naked, training them to poop and pee over a potty (or hole in the ground or whatever) on command. Two-months olds! Little itty people! When I read things like this, I feel like a complete and utter potty-training dud.

Last week, I told myself I would start seriously potty-training after the garage sale, although Ella and Daniel were adamantly against it. Potty-training that is.

I put Ella on the little potty and pulled down her pants.

“Ew,” she said, “stinky stinky butt.” She loves to say stinky butt. Anytime she smells something foul, she declares it a case of the “stinky butt.” Whenever I change Daniel’s diaper, she comes over to inspect whether or not Daniel has a “stinky butt.” If I happen to run about upstairs in my underwear, she points at me and yells, “stinky butt!” (Which I take offense to. For the record, my butt smells like roses.)

So Ella was on the potty. She immediately got up and ran off yelling, “Ew! Ew! Ew!”

Ben has been training Daniel in the art of pooping on the potty. In fact, the training sessions got a little weird, so I had to put a stop to them. Daniel won’t even sit on the potty and clings to his diapers like Charlton Heston clung to his guns. During the Potty Tales program, we all encouraged our kids to shout “No more diapers! No more diapers!” If it had been a union strike, Daniel would have totally crossed the picket line. He is that attached to his diapers.

“YES diapers,” he muttered. Ella, on the other hand, never gives up an opportunity to yell anything.

“No more DIAPERS!” she shouted with the crowd, and then did a little spin move and fell down. An agitator for sure.

Tomorrow, we’re going off diapers cold turkey. I expect there will be at least four to five accidents. But I’ll put them on the potty ever hour and see if anything happens. I’m betting Daniel actually goes first, because I expect he will be mortified when he has his first accident.

Oh, I don’t want to do this. I’m thinking of moving to Africa, where I can carry my babies around naked in a sling, and live a life of minimalism. I mean, I’m sure most African peoples can’t conceive of having so much crap that they could sell it at a garage sale. (My garage sale was rather poorly attended, by the way.) I would be the palest African in the history of Africans and would live in perpetual fear of the black mamba, but a simpler life appeals to me. Sometimes I think- I know- I make my life harder than it has to be. By accumulating worthless junk. By procrastinating. By picking fights with people on the internet. (That’s a bit off-topic, I realize, but it’s what I’ve been up to lately.)

I want simplicity. It’s something I’m really really going to work on- after I potty-train the twins, of course.

For Cara: A Tribute to Country Living

I vacillate between wanting to live in a hip, urban environment like NYC or Pittsburgh (Pittsburgh is very hip now. Really!), or in the far-reaches of civilization- a country paradise with rolling hills, babbling brooks, and Amish neighbors who will help me build a barn for my horses, of which I will have several.

John wants to move to Kentucky, which is one of the last places in the U.S. I would choose to live (after South Dakota, Los Angeles, and Detroit). He is drawn to the state’s notable trifecta of sin and debauchery: bourbon, horse racing, and tobacco. (All to be enjoyed in moderation, of course, he protests.) I might consider Kentucky if I had my own racehorse. I would be both an excellent owner and jockey. I would name my horse Otis and we would rock the countryside.

I have considered the many drawbacks that come with country living. For instance, having lived within ten minutes of a Wegmans food market my entire life, I would have a hard time adjusting to shopping at a Grand Union or, even worse, a Super Walmart.

Second, there are the yokels to contend with. (No offense to my yokel readers.) Yokels are the ones who use their welfare checks to buy bourbon, tobacco, and horse bets, instead of spending them on trips to the dentist, which is what they really, really should be spending them on. I have a low tolerance for yokels.

And then there’s the garbage situation. My 87 year-old grandma has to drive her trash and recyclables to the dump every week. This does not appeal to me. A lot of people get around this hassle by burning their garbage in their expansive backyards.

This weekend, I ventured up to Chautauqua County for a lovely bachelorette party. (In case you were wondering, there was no bourbon, betting, or tobacco at this particular gathering.) I want to relay what country living has done to a sweet, dewy-faced newlywed named Cara.

Cara has been married for less than a year. At the gathering, Cara told of a recent marital conflict in her home.

She and her husband made the brave decision of adopting a puppy. Since they both work during the day, the puppy has been trained to do its business on newspaper. When she gets home from work, Cara takes care of the mess by simply scooping up the papers and throwing them in the kitchen trash, which is later transported to the backyard to be burned.

The conflict arose when her husband wondered why their kitchen smelled the way it did. When Cara explained that the “business” had been deposited into the kitchen trash, Cara’s husband became… upset.

Poor Cara is not to be blamed for believing that poop should be burned in the yard along with banana peels and cardboard boxes and newspapers in a bonfire behind her house. She came from a family that burned everything- television sets, the kitchen trash, pets that had bit the dust.

I informed Cara that John and I have a similar problem. Over the last couple of weeks- in moments I can only attribute to extreme laziness- John has taken to putting dirty diapers in our kitchen trash container. This annoys me to no end.

“What are you supposed to do with poopy diapers?” Cara asked.

The mothers in the group explained the wonder of the Diaper Genie. I submitted that a poopy diaper might go straight from the baby to the outdoor trash bin.

Cara contemplated this for a few seconds, and then asked, in all seriousness:

“Can you burn it?”

Ahhh… country living: nights where you listen to the sound of crickets intermingled with beautiful silence and the whinny of my horse, Otis; nights where you can gaze upon the wide open black sky that is sprinkled with shimmering stars; and, of course, nights where you savor the intoxicating smell of a good old-fashioned fecal fire.

Who needs Wegmans?

(Cara is the gorgeous girl on the far right.)

Raising the Male Child

This blog post was inspired by my first successful transformation of a Transformer from a robot into a car.

The following courses are for those who are expecting or who have recently given birth to a male child. Completion of all courses results in an associates degree in Raising the Male Child.

Basics in Engineering: This ten week course teaches parents basics in engineering. Learn to decipher a duplo from a lego from a mega-blok. Learn to build a basic cabin complete with chimney from Lincoln Logs. Construct a volcano from wooden blocks. Build a train track with bridges, tunnels, and multiple routes for Thomas the train and his many friends. Final project for course is to design and build a marble run with four different paths.

Advanced Engineering: Requirement: completion of Basics in Engineering. Building upon lessons learned in Basics in Engineering, students will soon be able to master quick transformations of a variety of Transformers, be proficient in creating K’Nex simple and complicated machines, and be able to build a robot from an Erector Set. Final project for course (required for certificate) is completion of the Lego Star Wars Millennium Falcon.

De-sensitivity Training: Parents must come to class prepared for brutal mental exercises. This class prepares students for the many inappropriate jokes and comments that only come from the mouths of young boys. For instance, parents may be given a tootsie roll, be told it looks like a piece of poop, and be required to eat it without gagging. Requirement for successful completion of course requires the student to sit through an entire three-course meal while bombarded with diarrhea and fart jokes without succumbing to loss of temper.

The Criticism Seminar: Parents will work together to come up with constructive ways to deal with criticism from family members, friends, and people they meet on the street. This class is specifically geared toward parents with sons. Parents will learn how to effectively respond to people who call them the devil for getting their son circumcised. Parents who choose not to get their son circumcised will learn how to respond to strangers who ogle their child’s uncircumcised penis during diaper changes. Parents will role-play scenarios where they are criticized for putting their son in dance class, letting their son’s hair grow out long, and for allowing their son to climb on their furniture (to the furniture’s detriment.)

Sports Camp: Originally created for mothers, we have found fathers also benefit from Sports Camp. Learn what the major American sports are and who the major players are. Learn basic terms like “shortstop” and “first down” and “penalty shot.” By the end of the course, students should know which sports have periods, which have halves, and which have quarters. Students should be able to name one major league player from each sport and should be able to recognize Peyton Manning in any one of his commercials. Parents should know who John Madden is and be able to sing all of the words to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Final project is to sit through an entire soccer game in the pouring rain while paying attention to who scored what when and who assisted.

A Good Kid

Conversation with Caleb, just a few minutes before the bus came:

Holly: Did you go to the potty?

Caleb: Yes. (pause) But I didn’t put the seat up this time. And I didn’t pee on it, so it was okay.

Holly: Well, that’s good. But I’d still rather you put the seat up when you go.

Caleb: Why? I hardly EVER get pee on the seat.

Holly: So you do sometimes?

Caleb: Hardly ever.

Holly: Well, let’s turn hardly ever into never by putting up the seat when you pee.

Caleb: (dramatic sigh) Can’t I just be carefuller?

Holly: Yes. Be more careful. With the seat up.

Caleb: (long pause) Daddy doesn’t put the seat up.

Holly: That’s interesting information. Thank you for sharing that.

(Bus turns the corner)

Caleb: (Big sigh.) Another day at school. I sometimes don’t like peeing at school because D___ always tries to listen when people go. Girls shouldn't listen to boys pee. I don’t like that. Well, see ya, mom. When I get home, I’ll try to remember to put the seat up when I go to the bathroom.

Holly: I appreciate that.

Caleb: Don’t forget I want a snack when I get home. Maybe popcorn. Or an apple. Don’t forget.

Holly: I would never. I love you, buddy!

Caleb: (Running down the driveway.) I love you mom! See you later!

Potty training twins is another thing that is not for wimps.

Yesterday, Ella made the brightest neon green pile of poop that I have ever seen. Which leads me to wonder, how did anyone ever parent without the internet? Pre-WebMd, how many calls a day did the local pediatrician get from hysterical mothers insisting they bring in diapers full of their child’s nuclear green stool samples for close scrutiny and scientific inspection?

I am in the very first stages of potty-training the twins right now (which is such a good time) and one of the things you are supposed to do is to show your toddler where their poop is supposed to go. (This is the potty; it is not a corner in a closet or a shrub outside.) So, Ella pranced behind me as I trekked to the bathroom, or, as the twins view it, the room with fun splashing pool, where I deposited the slimy excrement into the toilet. I flushed and she said, gleefully, “Buh Bye! Bye-eeee!” Then she turned to me and said matter-of-factly, “Geen.” Yes, geen. An ungodly shade of geen.

Potty training is not a talent of mine. Yet, it must be done, especially if I want to ditch the kids in WKids next year so I can eat donuts uninterrupted in the café.

Parents find themselves doing desperate, socially inappropriate things in order to get their kids to use the toilet. For instance, this morning I found myself shouting from the kitchen:

“Daniel! Ella! Mama is going to make pee-pee in the potty! Do you want to see how mama puts pee-pee in the potty?” Modeling is also very important when you are potty-training and, for some reason, Caleb hates the twins watching him take a whiz so the onus falls on me.

The twins think this is a great show and especially love the flushing part, but when I ask them if they want to put their own pee-pee in the potty, I am answered with a resounding “No way!” from Ella.

“Nooo waaay!” says Daniel, soon after.

Just to see if they actually understand what I’m saying, I ask a test question,

“Would you like to throw blocks into the potty?”

“Yesh!” says Daniel.

“No way!” says Ella. (Which leads me to believe that she just likes the sound of her authoritative little voice, for I know how much she enjoys a good block throwing water party.)

But these are just the first stages of potty-training. Soon, I will get out the little potty and have them sit on it to get the feel of it. We will decorate it with stickers and then I will offer treats in return for some tinkle in the pot. They will do it once and there will be great rejoicing and cake eating and phone calls to family members! However, as soon as it starts it will abruptly end and not too long after I will resort to pleading and begging and the occasional benign threat. (So help me God, if you don’t poop in the potty I WILL SELL YOU ON EBAY!!!)

And then, one day, one of them will announce to me in a triumphant voice that they’ve gone and made a poo-poo in the potty. I will go into the bathroom to see it for myself, because children, as you know, are liars, and I will say, “Yes, indeed you did make a poo-poo in the potty! But let’s discuss what the appropriate amount of toilet paper to use is so we don’t clog the toilet again…”

Until that glorious, far-off day, I am subjected daily to viewing their number twos in close, personal, proximity. I truly long for that day when I no longer am clipping diaper coupons and only see my babies’ behinds at bath time, when they are soapy and fresh and therefore cute.

What Ben Said and Holly's First Day of School

Last night, John and I were appalled when we heard Benjamin call his younger brother a penis-head.

“Daniel, you’re a penis-head!” And then he laughed diabolically.

John and I convened secretly in the kitchen where we discussed how it was that Ben learned such a word.

“I swear he didn’t hear it from me,” John said, with an accusatory tone, I thought. Because that’s the kind of person I am: a person who uses vulgarities like penis-head. In fact, just this past Tuesday, a woman cut in front of me in the Wegmans parking lot and stole my prospective parking space. So I backed my mini-van up behind her, got out of the car and called her a penis-head while waving my fist. Then I stalked her in Wegmans and threw a ham at her head.

(It wasn’t until just a few years ago that I could even SAY the word penis without turning three shades of red. So, no, Ben didn’t get it from me either. I’m pretty sure he came up with this on his own; it’s a brilliant manifestation of his burgeoning, crass, MALE sense of humor.)

I don’t understand the male sense of humor. But I am continuously subjected to it. This past Wednesday was my first day of school. Graduate school. I have been an off again on again graduate student for the past eight years. This is my last class. I was actually done with all of my course-work, with only a thesis to finish, but then I ended up getting myself de-matriculated. In order to get myself re-matriculated, I had to consent to taking nine credit hours. A thesis can only eat up six credit-hours. And that’s how SUNY Brockport got another $1200.00 out of me and why on Wednesday nights, I sit with a bunch of college-aged creative writing students discussing the merits of the film “Being John Malkovich” in the Writer’s Craft course.

The course is a swing-course, which is not as exciting as it sounds and has nothing at all to do with dancing. It is a class that combines graduate students (I think there are 8 of us) with undergraduate students (I think there are 25 of them. Though it feels like 50.) This meant that before the class began, I inadvertently listened to three pimply-faced male twenty-year olds crack up over their mutual friend Sergei’s irritable bowel syndrome.

Poor Sergei.

Poor Holly. Not that I feel old. (There is nothing more annoying than a woman in her early thirties complaining that the kids she babysat for are now getting married and she feels so old!) But I feel beyond this.

When I took my last course, I had just recently given birth to Ben. I drove to the university in my Geo Prism. Wednesday night, I found it significantly harder to parallel park my mini-van on the crowded side-street, and ended up parking very far away and walking a good ten minutes to get to the campus. (Darn you, mini-van! You large, boat-like, totally uncool car! And no… I am not suggesting my Geo Prism was a cool car. It maneuvered a lot easier, however.)

I got home Wednesday night to find my husband and my sister eating Pontillo’s pizza at the table. I told them about my class, how it was full of insipid college students who all believe they are the next John Updike, and how there were even two women in the class over forty; these are students who are referred to as “lifetime learners.”

“Like you?” Joyce asked.

Touche.

And then John said that lots of people go to school for eight years. We call them “neurosurgeouns.”

And now you know what I’m facing on a day-to-day basis. Let the sympathy pour in, please.

Morning Music and Playdates

I love starting the day listening to a lively morning song sung by my precocious three-year old boy. Ben likes to entertain himself (and others) while on the potty. Here are the lyrics that drifted out from the bathroom:

I poop I poop I poop Yeah!
I poop I poop I poop Hooray!
I poop I poop I poop Yeah!
I poop I poop I poop... (pause)

I NEED HELP WIPING MY BUTT!!!

Caleb had a "playdate" (I hate that term. It sounds so... bourgeois?) with a girl from his class. Both Caleb and Ben were really looking forward to it. However, within the first five minutes, our extremely outspoken guest announced that she had come over to play with Caleb, NOT BEN. As you can imagine, there were gigantic, wet tears. I put on a cheerful face but I was seething. Seething at this six-year old girl who looked up at me with hands on her hips as she rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, "Well, he doesn't have to CRY about it!"

How could she not want to play with Ben? He makes up creative songs about poop! His voice sounds just like Mickey Mouse's! And he's not bad looking, either! It was a long three hours.

I think from now on I would prefer it if playdates happened at other people's houses.