Potty Party!!

Today is a magnificent day! After great struggles and numerous hazardous waste incidents requiring extensive clean-up in Automotive, Housewares, Bed and Bath, and any of the most embarassing and hectic locales throughout the metro area, my son went shooey in the potty! Without prompting!

Never in my mind did I think I would blog about this!

Never did I think I would be this thrilled at such a seemingly mundane activity!

But I almost ran across the patio to tell the neighbors! And I don't even know them! We moved in, they never brought me a single cookie, but I was still willing to share this momentous occasion with them! I've lost my ever-lovin' mind.

I won't go into detail about the mind-numbingly long ordeal we endured this morning -- "my bottom hurts," tears (mine and his) and the near cave-in of my stubborn will to not grab a diaper and be done with the whole situation, at least for today -- because it was all worth it! We see light at the end of the incredibly long potty-training tunnel!!
It cost me a sucker, too. Not just some stupid Dum-Dum-eaten-in-a-second-and-a-half sucker, either, but a Tootsie Roll Pop, the good stuff, the oak-barrel aged scotch of toddler cuisine.

And you know what? I'd give him the rest of the friggin' bag if he'll just keep up the good work!

You'll notice he is wearing his big boy pants on his head? It's fine, as long as the nether regions are covered in the same attire, thus protecting me and my world from surprise showers, or otherwise!

Where's the car key? Mama needs a Starbucks Frappuccino, she has earned it!!

My Own Little Goof Troop

It's not verifiable, but I believe my husband is goofy.

He's sweet and funny and handsome and an excellent provider, and seemingly every word out of his mouth is a malaprop.

I have notebooks and pens scattered about in which to collect his wisdom when he speaks particularly non-fluently. I believe he is creating a language all his own, perhaps because of too much Star Trek in his childhood. Maybe he thinks Vulcan can be tweaked and made into a user-friendly version of his own. Of course, he did read all of Tolkien's hobbit books and that was a multitude of newly minted languages.

Hmm, perhaps my hubby is not goofy...perhaps he's a linguist!!!

Let's Talk about Sex and Towels

Now that I have your attention, I mean sex as in gender.
Let's talk about men and towels.
I love my husband, make no mistake, but he has certain annoying behaviors that I feel surely are not restricted to him alone, and I'll bet you can help me with this quandary.
It's about towels. Specifically bath towels, be they body or hand.
Here's the question: are men allergic to towel rods? Usually, after a shower, my husband disposes of the wet rag either by throwing it on the floor or into the clothes hamper. According to him, anytime he puts something in a hamper should be a time for a treat and a pat on the head. Granted, but not wet towels, and invariably that seems to be the only thing for which he is willing to walk all two steps to the hamper. All other articles of clothing are but detritus on the linoleum, which are dodged and scooted until his morning ritual is complete. Then, of course, they are forgotten altogether and magically appear the next day, folded/hung/mended in the closet/dresser/rag bag as though fairies live amongst the clothes hangers to do his bidding. Someday he'll realize that in this house, if you see a critter without a collar, it is not Disney animation, it needs to be killed or shooed or at the very least, yelled at to go away.
Hand towels. They are a different genus all together. Once my husband uses the hand towel (always for something other than water removal; it's astounding how many hair products and lotions and powders this man can use in a day, all wiped off of the offending hands and onto my poor sad little towels) it is stuffed, there is just no other word for it, into the towel rack. Sixteen inches of cloth shoved into a one inch space between rack and wall. Not to mention the countless diseases lurking in the moist folds because they are strangled within a cold metal bar.
I have pictures.
And I hope you sense the bitterness with which I write, because I feel someone needs to take a stand for terry cloth. Few towels are left, and no one else can save them.

It's Raining, It's Pouring, Inside is so Boring!!

My three-year-old lives for the outdoors. Loves it. Throws things, whatever is laying around (including dog poo, I'm sorry to say), swings at stuff with his little bitty plastic golf club (dog poo applies here as well, I'm afraid), and longs to be grown as he watches the big kids on their skateboards. Nature is a veritable Utopia for boy children.
But alas, it has been raining, since April it seems. Here it is the middle of September and garden plants have not had enough sustained sunshine to fruit, but by golly, whatever hellacious brand of allergens in the world have found this weather apt and fitting for torturing everyone in their wafted path. I think even the spring bloomers have had a second go at me and my snoot. Kleenex is sending me free boxes for every twelve that I purchase. (Okay, maybe not, but they should!)
And it is scheduled to rain throughout the weekend and possibly into early Tuesday morning, leaving me in a precarious position: what to do with a small child for, oh dear Lord, three days!!
Naps can fill about an hour a day.
Eating requires around twelve minutes per day, start to finish, all three meals figured in. Apparently he is not my child, as he has no interest in eating while I think eating is divine.
He'll sleep through the night, generally around 8, maybe 9 on a good day, hours.
Bathtime, tooth brushing, nightwear, story time -- about an hour a night, I'll say.
Five, six trips to the bathroom each day for a total of what, five, six minutes each day?
Totalled: eleven hours, eighteen minutes on the optimistic side.
Leaving a remainder of twelve hours, forty-two minutes each day for the two of us to stare longingly out the window and pray that the weatherman is wrong.

Foot Fetish Realized

In the past I always thought feet were weird. Human feet, that is. Dogs, cats, whatever, didn't have strange feet, but people did. As a rule they're just these long things on the ends of our legs, with toes that can be utilitarian and cling to small things we've dropped, like the occasional pencil, but not really serving much more of a daily purpose. Well, okay, there is the walking and running part...
But they're funny looking! Toes are not proportional to the remainder of foot, pinky toe nails are so small as to look like something out of a Cubist painting, heel skin gets so rough and scaly it's almost iguana-like. (Okay, so maybe I need a pedicure.)
And I was always on the quest for "pretty feet." In my mind, these were the stereotypical model prototypes that existed on commercials and in print ads but never in real life. They must have been airbrushed to hide corns and ragged toenails, right? Seldom, seldom, did I ever see what I thought were aesthetically pleasing paws.
I've noticed that sometime within the last three years, I have developed a fetish, an absolute love for feet, provided that the feet are little. Baby-size, if you will. Never mind that my son was born three years ago, I'm certain there is no connection. I have only matured, realized that utility is a pleasing quality, and since feet are so unique in their purpose, they are thus even more attractive. In small sizes.
And when I was scrolling through my digital camera picture cache the other day, I saw that my little boy has developed the same intrigue as I with the flaps on our lower appendages. See below (and please pardon the pun):

Loved Once, but No More

What is it about old barns that is fascinating? I can't pinpoint whether I like the aesthetic or not, as much as I like the history. This is probably a hundred years old, settling down into the earth on a plot next to a rather modern looking home. Until fairly recently the owner kept his Cadillac in this barn until strategic pieces of beam started to fall downward, endangering the beloved car.

This old silo is cool too. It's just down the road from the barn pictured above, but it's on a busier street next to a house that hasn't weathered well at all. See next image...

I've no idea how old this structure is. It sits on highway 177 outside of Stillwater, Oklahoma. The flowers come back year after year, but the property is locked up tighter than a drum, so the blooms have no audience except the one in cars driving by at 70mph, inattentive to any sort of decoration, only worried about getting wherever they're going.

But this tree is happy. Notice the smiling face near the bottom of the trunk. It is a happy face for passers-by who slow up a bit and enjoy the scenery.

And, as an added bonus to my wanderings through the rural landscape, I perfected the one-finger wave that so many country livers adopt at some point during their lifetime. It's an unconscious nod at whomever you are passing, that you do indeed see them and wish them a safe journey. Or maybe some of them know the other, but it seems more likely that we are all just strangers passing on a lonely road to somewhere else, though we don't know yet where that is.