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.

Kids Are Good

This really needs to be presented to you as a video.  It came to me that way and I hope to be able to show it to you also, but not today.

Today, I just need to tell the world that kids of all ages can be good, creative and caring.  I am taking the term kids to its extended limit because I am referring to college "kids" in this story.  We seem to hear only about the drugs, the rapes, the car wrecks, the frat/sorority parties gone wrong, the fixation with clothes carrying certain labels or the drinking.  These are realities, but do not pertain to all.

I just spent two weeks on a state university about 30 minutes from my home.  One week was to prepare for the second week. The crowds from previous years were discribed, the tension caused by the high costs of the textbooks and the other teaching materials required, the anxiety of the students beginning a new semester and the 9 to 12 hour days required to handle all of that.

I worked in a textbook store where most of the texts are sold for the university's ever-increasing number of students both pre and post graduate.  There may have been more strain this semester because of the economy.  Many of these students came from homes both average and affluent where sacrifices had to be made for education.  The cost of a backpack inspired creativity in book toting and I saw some clever renovations of purses and book bags and camping packs.  No matter, the student is the important element.

This university's student union is the largest in the nation and will begin renovations very soon which will improve and update an already effective structure. It is big....really big.  Students had trouble finding the right rooms or service areas or the post office or computer study areas. They did not, it seemed, have trouble finding the food areas.  They asked for instructions to locate every conceivable room in that huge building, but there was never a questions, not one, about where to find food.

The energy level reached an almost visible point about mid-day each day.  The students were excited and nervous and some were scared.  They had expectations which allowed no time for negatives.  They had a schedule and everything had to be made available to them so that schedule would be met.  Please don't tell them that a book is unavailable or a class closed.  Whatever their motives, they were ready to go and knew where they were going.

There was also an amazing lack of presence in their surroundings.  They were on their phones either talking or texting; they were plugged into their pods; they were entering data into their notebooks and laptops.  They needed to be brought into the physical world  on occasion and looked surprised when their name was called or a request was made for ID or credit cards. 

I thought some students were going to pass out when the register totalled their charges, some seemed about to cry, some looked at the parent with them to determine the parent's reaction before releasing their own and some were almost giddy with relief when the total was less than expected.  However, not one student was rude, snotty, crude, flip, uncontrolled, etc.  They were great!  Each one was courteous, pleasant and helpful.  They signed and checked whatever and whenever required.  They walked away with bags equalling 25% of their own weight without complaint.  They stood for 30 minutes or more without aggravation being noticeable.  They smiled and made jokes and offered help to others and were patient almost without exception.  Parents would have been very proud.

I came home the last day of campus work to see a video on NPR reflecting the same kindness and concern for others that I had just seen on our local campus.  The video was from UCLA and involved an unknown number of students as only three played an active role.

The subjects were a mother squirrel and her adolescent-size child.  She casually jumped a 4' solid concrete wall which was in their path.  The child squirrel sat by the wall for a while seeming to estimate his chances of having the same success.  He seemed to think they were....not so good.  He tried, however.  The wall gave him no way to get traction and no spot for taking a hold on anything.  He tried again and slammed into the wall again.  The mother jumped down and began coaxing quietly.  She was obviously agitated, but refused to leave her offspring.  He tried yet again and again.  The mom jumped back up and called encouragement from the top of the wall. All of this was to no avail.

A tall male figure appeared from the edge of the video, slowly placed a backpack again the wall and then backed away off screen.  It was an obvious effort at steps.  The squirrel immediately began to evaluate its use and made an effort by running up the pack.  The pack was, unfortunately, just short of the needed height so the young squirrel couldn't quite make the jump.

Another figure moved slowly toward the wall with a gigantic backpack which seemed to almost touch the top of the wall.  The little squirrel needed no encouragement, took a run and scaled the pack straight to his mom.  I didn't hear them, but I feel certain that there was applause and yelling from the unseen students.

We may be leaving this world in the hands of a generation of thoughtful, creative and caring people.  They just may do a better job than we have.