Shit Happened

Anyone who has made the mistake of innocently asking me, “How’s it going?” in the past couple of months has received an earful of potty training trials and tribulations. For those who’ve become emotionally invested, and for those who are just plain curious to see if I’d actually throw a poo poo party (and what it looked like), I’m thrilled beyond measure to share that the deed is done! My 3-year-old daughter pooped on the potty and I’m pretty sure I was happier than I was the day she was born (mostly because I had a full-blown panic attack that day, and let’s face it: childbirth is a miracle, but it’s no picnic).

Right after the kids and I celebrated with a jumping-up-and-down group hug, I put in the call to the Publix bakery for the cupcakes. I LOVE their bakery. You ask them to make a half-dozen poop emoji cupcakes for you at 4pm for 9am the next morning and they say, “OK!” And only for five dollars! TOTALLY worth it.

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It so happens my best friend from growing up and her family were visiting this weekend so we had built-in party guests. She was quite amused, but made it clear that I need to get a hobby, a job, or a life of some sort. Point taken. But here she is humoring me with the poo piñata. Oh, yeah. I ordered it from Amazon.

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And here’s my big girl, holding up her piñata treasure: unicorn poop, of course! Also from Amazon. (I have a slight Prime problem.)

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We slammed a poop piñata with a Louisville Slugger, and ate Unicorn Poop candy and poop cupcakes. A good time was had by all. Now if I can only get her to poop in the potty a second time…

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Potty pity party of one.

While natural and manmade disasters devastate lives in Texas, Florida, and (gasp) beyond the borders of our own country, let me tell you about some real suffering. I’m a stay-at-home mom who actually has to stay home with her child. All the time. Every day. I know, right?

I had it planned out so well. My son started his new school right after Labor Day, and my daughter was all scheduled to switch to her new preschool for three glorious full days a week, until I addressed the diapered elephant in the room. She has to be potty trained before she can go to her new school. They aren’t being jerk faces; apparently you need a special license to have diaper changing in a school, and they do not. So while rule number one of potty training is to not put any pressure on them and that “when they’re ready, they’re ready,” I need Abbie to be ready, like, now. Or more like two weeks ago. She’s doing great with peeing, but this text pretty much sums up where we are:

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It is most definitely a situation. I can watch her all day, but the second I turn my back, she hides behind the couch and drops a deuce in her pants, which sticks out in her undies like a nasty case of hemorrhoids. I try to watch for signs so I can grab her before she goes and run her to the bathroom, but she’s like a poop ninja. I even put the training potty behind the couch where she likes to go, but she just poops next to it. I thought she was just being an asshole (and maybe she is, afterall she is my daughter), but it turns out some kids are scared to poop on the potty. They think they are actually losing a part of themselves when the poop plops into the toilet. How this is different than scraping it out of their underpants and then flushing it down, I have no idea. I mean, it’s just taking out the middlewoman. But there’s no rationalizing with the insane, which includes 3-year-olds. And a fear by definition is irrational. I don’t expect people to understand my fear of pigeons… just nod politely and at least pretend to respect it. So as for my migraines, I’m trying to explore and entertain suggestions from friends and professionals alike.

I came across this gem on Parents.com:

To help your child overcome her fear, Dr. Brown recommends this gradual step-by-step process: first, let your child poop in a diaper but only while in the bathroom. After a week or so, continue letting her poop in her diaper, but have her do it while sitting on the potty or the toilet. Next, cut a hole in the diaper with a pair of scissors just before putting it on your child, and let her wear it as she uses the toilet. (We know it sounds a little crazy, but she’ll still feel the diaper’s familiarity and security while her poop drops into the potty.) After she’s used the hole in the diaper for about a week, it will be time for underpants!

This doesn’t sound a little crazy. This sounds A LOT crazy. But so does a poo-poo party complete with a poo-piñata, cupcakes, and a poo-poo present. Which is what I’ve promised my daughter when she finally does the deed. To be clear, the poo-piñata, is a regular piñata simply with the word “poo” attached to it. We won’t fill it with poop or anything. Hmmm… but maybe buy this one and fill it with Tootsie Rolls and Milk Duds?

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UPDATE: OK, so I wrote this post seven hours ago, and just an hour ago texted with Abbie’s school to give them a potty report. I was totally honest and told them she was peeing in the potty like a rockstar but not so much with the poop (side-eye emoji) and they are STILL giving us the go-ahead to start on September 26! I have my light at the end of the tunnel! This no-longer-summer-but-not-time-for-school limbo I’ve been living in is coming to a close. Biggest exhale ever. But a poop in the potty would really be the icing on the cake. Which gives me another idea for the poo-poo party:

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“I’m not a turd.”

I assured my son that not only was I not “a turd” as he thought I had proclaimed, but that I also wasn’t deterred. He stood next to me as I examined myself, staring at my latest purchase — a full-length mirror — wearing my second latest purchase, vintage overalls. Size medium. They were tight (these are not skinny jean overalls), and they wouldn’t button on the sides. I double-checked the label to make sure the size was correct. I’ve never not fit into medium overalls before, but then again I haven’t worn overalls since college. A psychological blow like this would usually send me face first into a bottle of wine, but there were two things to consider:

  1. My kids. I promised myself when I became a mom that I would not project my crazy body image crap onto them. Just like arguing with my husband, this was something for the “behind closed doors” category. And there, both my kids were, standing next to me. Deep breath.
  2. Today also happens to be the day I started yet another plan to transform myself: BodyBoss. It’s one of those seemingly brilliant one-word-that-should-be-two-words fitness methods that targets women like myself in our Facebook feeds. Hook, line, and sinker.

It’s day one of my 16-week journey, and my ill-fitting overalls came at just the right time. I’m still optimistic that I can complete all 16 weeks, even though today kicked my butt when I quite literally couldn’t kick my own. One of the HIIT circuit exercises was butt kicks and I could. Not. Do it. My best looked more like a hobbling running-in-place motion. Like I’d been clubbed in the shins with a tire iron by my kidnapper while trying to escape, tried to keep going, but froze up in a mix of shock, pain, and fear. So basically how I always look and feel at the gym.

As with any other overwhelming life change, I just need to take it one day at a time. I’m holding myself accountable, but I also told my kids as I shrugged in my Liberty’s, “It’s no big deal. When I put these on in November, they’ll fit.” So I’m now accountable to them as they look forward to seeing me dressed like a farmer (they don’t get fashion yet). And now I’m accountable to you. I won’t post on Facebook every time I check into the gym or complete a training circuit. But you might here from me when I’m particularly proud (or ashamed) of myself… or when I’m feeling a little like a turd.

 

I’m Lindsey. I’m Disgusting…

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I share earbuds with total strangers at the gym. OK I really “borrow” them from the lost and found when I forget my own. But then I started to worry: Can I get herpes from this? Because I’m convinced I’m going to get an STD at my gym. Not because my gym is dirty. In fact, it’s super clean and almost spa-like. It’s more about karma and the fact that I can’t believe I avoided them in college (no matter what you might have heard, no kidding, there was quite the nasty rumor going around, and I know who started it, you know who you are).

On a particular day when my post-workout euphoria shifted into post-workout paranoia, I Googled “can you get herpes from sharing earbuds?” It showed up on not one, but several no-fly, fear-mongering listicles including:

According to BuzzFeed, my nasty habit can result in “infections, boils, or pustules.” Ew, ew, and/or ew. So no more shared headphones. If I forget my own, I’ll have to sing out loud to myself (sorry, elliptical neighbors). But onto the quite literally burning question: Can you get an STD at the gym? 

The first story that popped up in my research from the New York Times told of a potentially deadly staph infection you can possibly pick up on the mats. Of course, my eyes skipped over that at first and went straight to New HPV Warnings: You Can Get It at the Gym. Now, you can’t believe everything you read on the interwebs, but since I discovered this story on a lesser known site, I have read similar findings from what I consider trusted media outlets. It’s enough to give me yet another reason to avoid spin classes. And short shorts.

Also, when I started to type “Can I get an STD at …” into my search window, the following searches tried to automatically fill in my blank:

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So there goes all those foam parties I had on the books.

I Will Make You Feel Better About Yourself

I’m that friend. If you’ve gained 10 pounds, rest assured I’ve gained 20 (I really have). If you got a parking ticket, there’s a warrant out for my arrest for dodging traffic court. If you gave your child Mountain Dew in a baby bottle, well, that’s on you. That’s just plain wrong.

So it was no surprise when I received this text from a dear friend that I was able to cheer her up:

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To which I replied:

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And then I shared with my old friend the amazing capacity my new friend has for, well, me. This is a text within a text. Try to keep up:

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The girls’ night I had was with three women I’ve become friends with in the past couple of years. Those of you in your 30s and older know what I mean when I say it’s not easy making friends past a certain age.

  1. It’s simply more difficult to get to know people when you’re not shoved into social microcosms such as high school or college. It takes so much more time to get to know other women, and then you have to figure out which ones won’t be horribly offended by your borderline alcoholism and awkward blurts.
  2. Once you find other women you click with, you have to find the time to “date” them. Add kids into the mix and the time you have to meet up and go out with just friends is limited and precious.
  3. If you are lucky enough to find good friends in your 30s, you will want to keep them. A good way to do this is to not throw up on their furniture in the middle of the night. But if you are as fortunate as I am, that friend will not only be forgiving, but empathetic. At least this time.

I’m a 38-year-old mother of two. My career peaked at 24. A month ago I found myself spot-treating the skidmarks out of my husband’s mankini (which he owns purely for humor), wondering what happened to my life. About a week later, I puked on my friend’s pull-out bed. I truly feel things can only go up from here. In the meantime, at least my bottoms can serve to buoy my friends’ lowest moments up toward the surface (isn’t that how it works? I got a “C” in oceanography and physics). It’s not the purpose I was aiming for, but anything for a friend.

This Is Not Toothpaste

unnamed-3This is not a travel tube of toothpaste. It looks like one though, especially when you aren’t wearing your contact lenses and it’s sitting right next to the sink. Luckily I figured this out before something tragic happened. I can’t say the same for the time I mistook pepper spray for a lighter. I had been planning a romantic evening and was trying to light the candles with what I thought was a fancy lighter I found in one of our three junk drawers. Instead of coming home to a candlelit dinner, Dave came home to me coughing, crying, spitting and puking on the couch. It was awesome.

What this is, is tattoo aftercare ointment. For the tattoo Dave got unbeknownst to me while I was in Palm Springs with my college girlfriends. “So, I got a tattoo,” he tells me after the kids are in bed. At least he waited until the kids were in bed. This is not the first time I’ve come home from a trip to learn of new ink on my husband. The last time he made the announcement in front of fly fishing houseguests I’d just met and our then five-year-old son. So you know, at least he told me in private.

“Is my lower lip trembling uncontrollably?” I asked him after a long silence. SO much running through my head. Trying not to say things I can’t take back.

“Um, yes.”

“Do I need a drink before I see it?” I ask.

“It’s not that bad,” he reasoned, as if you can rationalize an unplanned tattoo in Florida. (For some reason it seems all the worse to me that he had it done in Florida.)

I felt my body relax a notch or two and asked to see it. I SO needed a drink first. Maybe seven.

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That my friends, is the surly monkey. A brainchild of Dave’s that serves as his magazine‘s mascot. It’s creative, it’s funny, but I don’t think it belongs permanently on his torso holding a fly rod and giving the finger. I reminded him that we have children who will see this when we go to the beach. And on Shirtless Sundays. Which isn’t a thing in our house, but now it never can be. Thanks Dave.

And I was just thinking about how cute it was that while Dave was in Florida and I was California, we were searching for a white Speedo for him at the same time. Because that’s what couples who’ve been together as long as we have do. We finish each other’s sentences, look up at the sky across the country and wish upon the same star, and simultaneously shop for mankinis.

It just goes to show you: Just when you think everything’s all hearts and white Speedos, a surly monkey has to come along and flip you off.

My Theme for 2017: Less is More

I’ve noticed a pattern in past new year’s resolutions: write more, exercise more, shower more. You see?

This year, as I stepped back to take a look at my proverbial plate, I thought to myself, why am I adding more? What could I take away from my life that would make it better?

  1. Facebook less. That’s not a typo, that’s “Facebook” as a verb. And that doesn’t mean I will be Instagramming more.
  2. Watch less TV. I’m currently in a bingewatching foggy hangover state from staying up way too late watching — don’t judge — season 2 of Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce.
  3. Shop online less. It’s not so much that I buy a lot online, rather I go from site to site adding items to carts. “Lindsey, did you forget something?” is a popular email in my inbox. It’s therapeutic, but so is cutting.

Looking at my resolutions, you will see a theme within a theme. We spend 70% of our lives in front of digital media. Yipes. Admittedly some of these “less” resolutions may imply more of something else, but hopefully that will be a healthy natural reaction in the right direction, and not a force against the fibers of my being and all I hold dear. (Note, I did not say “drink less”. I’m not a masochist.)

No Poop For You!

 

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Because I don’t work for a top ad firm or a top pharmaceutical company, I’m sharing my brilliant idea for a commercial with you. The scene: The “Soup Nazi” restaurant from the famous Seinfeld episode of the same name. Jason Alexander and Julia Louis-Dreyfus (in character as George and Elaine) are anxiously waiting their turns to order. George grabs his stomach. Something’s not right. He tells Elaine in so many words that he has a situation down there and needs to find a toilet immediately, but doesn’t want to anger the Soup Nazi or lose his place in line. Just then, they move up to order.

The Soup Nazi and George stare each other down. George is sweating bullets and clutching his stomach. The Soup Nazi reaches below the counter and grabs… Pepto Bismol [or other antidiarrheal medicine]. He thrusts it out over the counter at George and yells, “No poop for you!”

George grabs it graciously and takes it. The next scene shows George and Elaine comfortably enjoying their soup. The company’s logo comes up on the screen and you hear the Soup Nazi again, yelling “No poop for you!”

Would that stick with you or what? I admit the ending needs some work, but you get the idea. It plays to our nostalgic senses, it’s catchy, and becomes what I think would be a very shareable YouTube video. The hard part would be convincing Jason and Julia to sign on. And, you know, the fact that I’m pitching this to no one in particular from the comforts of my couch on a Thursday afternoon. So that’s what’s going on in my brain. What’s up with you?

Instant Pot Paralysis and Getting Out of My Side Dish Rut

I’m part of a large group of impulsive people who bought the Instant Pot a few weeks back when it was on super sale. I’d heard about all of its wonders, from yogurt making to 6-minute chicken, but I’d also seen the price tag. So when it was half-off, I didn’t hesitate. Now, it’s been sitting on my counter for three weeks, intimidating me with all of its buttons, bells, and whistles. It’s a pressure cooker, not a landmine, but I still can’t bring myself to use it for fear of blowing up my kitchen. So I continue to search for the perfect introductory Instant Pot recipe that speaks to me without saying my last rites.

A lot of the recipes I’ve found come from Skinnytaste. While I’m working up the courage to try her chicken taco chili in the pressure cooker, I did take a stab at the zucchini tots, which merely require a grater and good old-fashioned oven cooking. I can only steam veggies so many times, and all of my favorite frozen sides at Trader Joe’s come in servings of “about 3” which might as well read “not enough for your family, Lindsey.”

Gina describes this side as kid-friendly, which of course it is, but you don’t need kids to appreciate a good tot. When my super picky 2-year-old didn’t want hers, I was exasperated on the outside for show, “Fine, I guess I’ll have to eat them so they don’t go to waste,” and all Homer Simpson on the inside:

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Abbie doesn’t like pizza — yet — so I’m confident she’ll come around on these zucchini tots with time. For now, they are a hit with the rest of my household. I will say I should’ve added more breadcrumbs to my batch, but they were still delish. I’m no Beatrice Peltre, but this is how my tots turned out. No filter, no photography skills, no nothing:

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Hopefully my next food post will be about my adventures with the Instant Pot…and I won’t be typing it from the burn unit at the hospital.

 

Not a Happy Space Camper

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My son Jed is almost seven. He’s changing so much (growing, learning, all that great stuff). But perhaps one of the most exciting changes affecting our household right now is the evolution of our Family Movie Night selections. When you have a restricted social life (read: limited babysitter funds and an exhausting albeit adorable 2-year-old), Family Movie Night becomes the epicenter of your weekend plans.

After years of enduring “no people movies” (Jed would only watch animated ones for the longest time), every Halloween and Christmas special no matter the time of year, and the Pokemon catalog in its entirety, we are finally able to introduce him to the movies that we watched as kids: Flight of the Navigator, The Neverending Story, Cloak and Dagger, Goonies.

But my personal favorite is like the white whale of ’80s kid flicks: Space Camp. The 1986 “cosmic comedy adventure” has an all-star cast with Kate Capshaw, Tate Donovan, Joaquin Phoenix, Lea Thompson, Kelly Preston, and Larry B. Scott. It’s never on TV, be it cable or a streaming site. I finally found a video rental store in Asheville (yes, those still exist) that carried it, but the last person who rented it never returned it. And when I found out that a new copy of it costs more than $62 on Amazon, I have to say I couldn’t blame them.

I thought I found the answer to my problems with a foreign copy — foreign to another country, not to us — for less than $10. The reviews were good, it seemed legit. I had won. I had beaten the system. It even came on a day that our Internet went out like it was meant to be. I pushed the disc into the player and waited in anticipation for it to load, and then this popped up:

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I felt like my inner 7-year-old had been vacuumed out into space. SO disappointed. I’m pretty sure Jed was over it and happy to watch Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Road Chip. Again.

I’m not giving up though. There’s got to be a way to get a copy of this without spending $60+, right? All of its 30th anniversary nostalgic cinematic counterparts are new and used for less than $10. What makes Space Camp so special? Well, I know why it’s special, but you know what I mean…

If you have any leads, please share! Also please share your favorite movies from childhood that you’re introducing to your children. We’d love some more to add to our list!