Update: La Pipi Résistance

In the last week and a half, I have washed Pumpkin's bedding 11 times in 10 days.

Something about taking the mattress pad, fitted sheet, pillow case, pillow protector, stuffed animals, blankets and woobie in and out of the bedroom to be re-washed has sent said items into revolt. They began fraying at their edges, seams coming undone -how very metaphoric for my state of being after enduring laundry room purgatory.

I have additionally cleaned her bathroom floor and entire toilet bowl twice now because Pumpkin resolved that imagining herself going pee-pees in the potty simply would not suffice. The required contortion, no matter how flexible she appears, always tragically ends the same with a stream ricocheting off the potty seat and landing all over the bathroom floor.

Unfortunately, Mommy doesn't notice what happened until she's already stepped in it while offering a portion of the treasure chested TP. (After 3 entire rolls ended up on the floor, TP landed in the hidden treasure chest. Only Mommy can dig it out and always finds it when needed, a.k.a. I get some from my bathroom and schlep it to her after potty success).

Finally, I've washed it twice off of the dining room floor. Just yesterday after lunch, I headed to the frig to get her a chilled banana for us to split as banana buddies. Before I could pull the banana from its bunch, the tragedy begins:

-"Silly pee-pees!"

-Quizzical look: "Eh, what?"

-"The pee-pees got my socky all wet! They're so silly!" Giggle.

-"Wait. Did you just pee through your grown up undies onto your high chair and down your leg?"

-Sheepish expression: "Uh-huh."

And just like my futile attempt to survey the damage in the bathroom, I stepped right into the mess waiting for me because, although I stood 3 feet away, hitting the hard wooden floor had increased its circumference of destruction.

While I raced to swiffer up the mess so I could throw her in the tub, Pumpkin decided swinging around her soiled sock didn't create enough enjoyment. Instead she tucked it under her chin, pretending to be a St. Bernard carrying a mini-barrel of whisky through the snow to the rescued. What seemed like a "wash off from the rump down" situation now became a full scale bath. Not only did the volume of body I needed to scrub down increase, but also the amount of dirtied furniture.

Amidst her stint of boredom watching Mommy clean and analyze the floor with all lights on to ensure no drop remained un-mopped, Pumpkin's roaming pee-peed tootsies meandered to the table leg and on top of the end of the table from her high chair. Note to self: don't forget to wipe that off.

And, la pièce de résistance: her pee pee hands touching me on the way up to the tub. Now I had to totally strip. I'd already rid myself of the sweatpants and socks that inadvertently stepped into the mess. Now my favorite pink T-shirt I just pulled from the dryer all warm and cuddly had to go like a shooting star. It's blaze of glory lasted only 20 minutes, but I enjoyed wearing it nonetheless.

Ultimately, I must prepare to jettison my romantic notions of handing Pumpkin unused diapers to mistakenly ::wink, wink:: dispense out the car window en voyage because we don't need them anymore. I still fantasize about squirting tubes of Desitin in the trash, and dream of packing away "Potty Time with Elmo" for the next child that I pray comes later rather than sooner, if at all. Who can do this more than once? Only moms.

I Pee in Your General Direction

Every pregnant woman's handbook, "What to Expect When You're Expecting," although very informative, lacks a number of things to expect long-term. The only update is "What to Expect the First Year," but not thereafter.

I'd like to update this alleged gold standard reading with the following:

1. Intimacy often becomes a scheduled appointment as though one were visiting the dentist -supposed to happen every 6 months, if it doesn't, eh. You'll get around to it...eventually.

2. "We're not them, we're different; we won't turn into that family," (both parents shushing and chasing misbehaving children around church, weddings or the grocery store) become the last words uttered before a second child arrives.

3. Your child/children may become the only "for better or worse" worthy person in the household.

4. Date night = sitting on the couch, watching a show you can both agree on, passed out by 9:30/10 (only if the kids are asleep by then).

5. Oprah's traded for Caillou, hair do's for pony tails, showers for wet wipes.

6. A sincere and devoted hands-in interest as Top Excrement Judge will ensue involving: frequency, color, volume, texture, consistency -nearly everything but taste.

The list goes on, however the last of these critical revelations has been a thorn in my side as of late.

I awoke on Monday morning to discover Pumpkin playing in her bed, pants and socks off. I asked her what happened. "I peed fru my pants." Awww, poor baby. Alrighty then. I better hop to it because she has so many stuffed animals in her bed, I have about 2.5-3 full loads of laundry ahead of me in addition to the giant pile awaiting my magical mommy wand.

I awoke Tuesday morning to discover Pumpkin again, playing in her bed with just her pull-up on. I asked her where her pants and socks went. "I peed fru my pants." Great. Here we go again. I kept some stuffed friends out this time in case this happened again. Only 2 extra loads that day.

I awoke this morning to the same thing. That was it!
"What happened, Pumpkin?"
"I peed fru my pants."
"I know. Why did that happen?"
"I wanted to look."

After a brief question and answer period, I got the low down as well as a Tony Award winning performance. My little voyeur apparently stood up, yanked her pull-up to the side and took a gander at her revolt to my delay in entering her room and starting our day. Unfortunately, most of it ended up on her pillow. Washing a pillow case: easy as pie. Scrubbing the constellation studded urine out of a Laura Ashley pillow to avoid lumpy innards from a trip in the washer: broken nail worthy. This, after three and a half years of suffering nose deep through her stuff, drove me to re-acquaint myself with some texts from the Toddler: Owner's Manual section.

I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.

When I dated Sean, I did what every single adult does during the dating process: tally up the seemingly minute or even "cute" idiosyncrosies/habits and estimate the degree they might annoy me if exacerbated exponentially.

Some things, like checking other women out, especially in my presence, became a deal breaker. Other habits, however, like a personal hygiene ritual, offended me less and couldn't seemingly get worse because I could simply close the door behind them. Little did I know I needed to acclimate instead of sensitize to behaviors that didn't easily adjust to accomodate cohabitation.

Admittedly, I didn't want to bring up anything that annoyed me, big or small, too soon after we wed so as not to make him regret his decision to marry me. Maybe I should've understood the "for better or worse" a little better instead.

It also didn't help matters that I delivered Pumpkin a measely 6 months after marrying. I struggled in the throes of ushering Sean through the channel of single bachelorhood into married life with a child in tow. I quickly realized having a child makes every transition more demanding and time critical. For instance, there I sat, desperate and dire in the bathroom, with no toilet paper on the roll and none within arm's reach. Not a big deal per se, but it becomes a bigger deal when I'm sitting there without TP, five days out from delivering a child and simultaneously leaking thru the nursing pads. Tact during that two week post-partum window also goes down the drain with the bathwater, which didn't help my cause.

Bless his heart, he tried, however. Sean helped me with everything I needed whenever I needed it as my wing-man. Around those early days with Pumpkin, I made a mental note to help Sean out in a big way too by taking over nearly everything household related because he worked full time. Hopefully by doing practically everything, I wouldn't become a nag by reminding him to follow thru with things a thousand times. Unfortunately, a fundamental flaw ensued: I couldn't possibly do everything on my own even if I tried, but try my darndest, I did. I kept trying right up until I finally couldn't ignore how overwhelmed I felt because of sleep deprivation. My non-commercial employment started the second I woke up and didn't end at 5pm when I left an office. Sometimes it lasted all night long which ran right into the next day and the next day and the next.

I decided my next move required transferring things from my to-do list to his list of responsibilities.

Leaving things in Sean's care a.k.a. "their own devices" turned into a crapshoot sometimes. I had to later trade some chores for others he could manage better, while certain critical responsibilities, like making sure the utility bills got paid, I added completely back to my "to-do" list altogether after one fateful day Pumpkin and I had no running water for a few hours. Thankfully the lights never blacked out and the burners have always turned when needed -only for the grace of God (and our debit card.)

I remember asking for help around the house one weekend, and Sean suggested that I should be taking care of things on my own while he watched Pumpkin because he didn't get to see her very often since he worked during the week. But...what about the household stuff that needs to get done during the week when he's not there and I have to forfeit play time with her in order to fold laundry and clean the kitchen and vacuum? Those things can't all wait until the weekend to get done. Don't we all have to make sacrifices?

Eventually, I went on strike. We separated...bathrooms. Not long after, daylight began to glimmer -along with my porcelain toilet bowl! I additionally decided he could fold his own clothes since mine, the baby's, all the bedding, towels and other linens already used enough of my alleged free time. I also resolved I could loosen the reigns for a "Mommy's Big Night Out" once a month. I needed to get out and stretch my wings a little and one Saturday every 30 days couldn't cause too much trouble, right?

Famous last words.

The house was trashed when I came home, remnants of dinner still on the table, floor and a couple of walls. It looked like hurricane Katrina picked up my child's entire inventory of toys and displaced them throughout the house, even in the sink. I found Sean asleep in the nursery rocking chair (all by his lonesome) while Pumpkin played with a poopy diaper in her crib. After this scenario, I could only come to one conclusion: me + leave the premesis = never again, ever.

It didn't take much longer, however, for me to finally resign myself to my mother's advice: moms are moms for a reason. Mommies also need breaks. The very next time "Mommy's Big Night Out" rolled around, I just crossed my fingers and prayed Pumpkin would poop before my time to leave.

WWII On My Person: Battle of the Bulge

This is for all the mothers that don't opt for the pregorexic post-partum regime and also not intended for those whose baby bump conveniently snaps back into place like a rubberband after delivery as though it never existed.

At long last, and I mean looooooong last, I have finally reached the ballpark of my pre-baby weight. I use the term "ballpark" loosely, referring mostly to the standard range of +/- four dress sizes I meandered through during most of my young adult life. I'm finally starting to creep down from the upper part of the scale of ye olde weight range, but as a mommy, this has no relevance. None whatsoever.

I recently discovered I am the physical essence of Mrs. Potato Head: one round blob stacked on top of a bigger lump with dispraportionately smaller arms and legs. I made this discovery after I'd convinced myself that the time for trying on the pre-baby clothes had arrived. I spent the better part of an hour rifling thru my cute, professional work/dressy attire that I'd left in boxes in the garage on the off chance I'd finally achieve pre-baby weight during this decade. No need to take up space in the house and remind me daily that I haven't worn my "sexy, single" attire for the last 4 years, right?

Anxiously, I started trying on the clothes -right there in the garage (door shut, of course), and picked a modest selection of shirts, skirts and trousers I wore at a weight heavier than I am right now. I stood there, tugging and pulling, hoping to find that they'd fit loosely and I'd quickly need to down-grade to the next selection of my adorable clothes in the next smaller size -until I couldn't zip a mid-section zipper on the cutest top I've ever purchased to date.

What the deuce?

I know I weigh less now than I did when I wore that top last, but sweat started to bead as I tugged the two sides close enough together to finally zip it up an inch before I required surgical clamps to hold them in place so I could finish the job. Uh, where the heck did my physique go?

And the pants?! Seriously? I have to keep pulling them up every time I get up from a seated position so the muffin top that plops out when I sit down will merge with the bottom half of my mommy pooch instead of becoming a roll beneath my still ostentatious mommy boobs. And on the offchance I forget to yank up the sides of the waist to accomodate said muffin top, my pants immediately start to fall off of me, exposing my granny panties that do their darndest to hold me in because my patootie's gotten smaller, my legs as well -thank Heavens, but they do no good standing beneath a limiting mid-section. I've also considered flaunting the gams 'til the cows come home, but they've barely seen the light of day since donning maternity clothes 4 years ago.

The brutal truth: I still have yet to migrate fully to non-maternity attire. I'm actually saving that as my new year's resolution for 2010 since my 2009 garage/dressing room adventure evolved into a bit of a bust. Sweats are practically a work uniform when you're out of work and at home chasing a munchkin all day.

Sigh...I guess I've got even more work to do still. I keep thinking, well, if I only got some muscle tone. Unfortunately, the volume of leftover pregnancy skin that makes my lower tummy look like the jowls of a dog goes nowhere except smoothed and tucked down into my pants along with the pant pockets after zipping up a fresh pair from the dryer.

Wretched mommy tummy. Maybe that explains why my self-esteem takes a nose dive when Pumpkin's giving me another round of the terrible 3's -because I see the difficulty my stretch marks have brought upon me. I must chalk this up to yet another part of motherhood to "just get through." Maybe that's also why women over 40 are more likely to die of a terrorist attack than get remarried; I blame the loose skin that we earned as a scar of war -err, sign of motherhood.