Preshus Photo Weekend Round-Up #24045831233

We went up to Pennsylvania to visit family this weekend. The three-hour drive up took six hours, my hairspray exploded in our suitcase and I forgot to pack the kids' bathing suits.

Somehow, I don't think they minded.

Nor were they particularly concerned with following proper Slip-n-Slide safety guidelines.

Then again, neither was their father.

Naturally, they couldn't get enough of it. 

Meanwhile, I was all "LET'S GET A GROUP PHOTO OF EVERYBODY LOOKING NORMAL."

Yeah.

That never really happened.

But this did.

And this.

Then this.

And finally all of this.

So I think it was one for the WIN column. 

Pomp & Faceplants

I believe I have discovered THE biggest difference between life with a singleton firstborn and what it's like by the time you're on your third.

When Noah's preschool sent home announcements about parties and other special events, Jason and I would both immediately clear our calendars and charge up the camera batteries. And the backup camera batteries. I chaperoned every class trip, never missed a field day and have dozens and dozens of photos of him eating cupcakes with his classmates, none of whom I remember the names of anymore. But it was all nothing but magical preshus memories and dammit, I was going to be there for every single one of them, even if it killed me or got me fired from all the things. 

The concessions started when it was Ezra's turn to start school. Usually only one of us could attend the parties or picnics, though thankfully his school never had as many as Noah's. (Or maybe it did, and I simply got lazier about checking his various backpacks and hoard-boxes for notes and missed them all.) We had an informal sliding scale of parental priority: An IEP meeting was worth both of us taking an afternoon off; a parent-teacher conference to discuss a three-year-old Ezra's fingerpainting skills probably only needed one of us there. I couldn't chaperone Noah's trip to the zoo this year — something I think he's still bent out of shape about — and I missed everybody's Valentine's Day parties but damn it, I showed up at not one, but TWO Halloween parades. At different schools AND times! Give me some credit.

And then Ike's school sent this home and I was just like ggguuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhh.

A toddler "graduation" parade. For two and three year olds. Around a parking lot.

Instead of being UTTERLY DELIGHTED BY THE WHIMSY OF IT ALL — all I could think about was how I was totally getting ripped off here; it's the last day of school, keep him there until noon like I done paid you for, dammit. 

But of course, I went. I jumped off a conference call at 10:45 because yeah, I have to go to a graduation parade for my two year old WHO IS NOT ACTUALLY GRADUATING, HE'LL BE IN THIS EXACT SAME CLASS NEXT YEAR, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO BRING THIS UP AT MY ANNUAL PERFORMANCE REVIEW AS WELL.

I went because I didn't want Ike to be the ONE toddler there without a parent present. However, he was one of only TWO toddlers who didn't have both parents present, and one of maybe FOUR toddlers who didn't have both parents and at least one set of grandparents and maybe some aunts and uncles present. Whuuut. A lot of them dressed up for the occasion, everybody brought SLR cameras and a few people brought flowers for their little graduates. 

(Buncha overachieving rookies, if you ask me.)

(Well, except for the families who had clearly brought along multiple older siblings. Those people were just...my betters.)

So there I was, by myself, with a half-charged iPhone, waiting for my non-graduating two year old to emerge from his classroom and march around a suburban church's parking lot.

He came out, looking pretty baffled, holding tightly onto a beaded rope for proper parking-lot safety...and then promptly bit it on the asphalt after about 10 feet. BABY DOWN. WE HAVE A BABY DOWN!

To his credit, he never let go of his bead (because RULES), but instead kind of...lay there like flipped-over turtle for a minute, unable to stand back up because of the death-grip he had on the rope. The kids ahead of him struggled to comprehend why the rope wasn't moving anymore and the kids behind him tried not to step on him and end up in a massive toddler pile-up.

I stood on the sidelines, unsure whether I should...intervene? Go to him? Or would that disrupt these Very Formal Graduation Proceedings too much? So I just flapped my hands and shout-whispered "IKE! IKE! STAND UP IKE!" until a teacher noticed and helped him up.

"That one's mine," I said proudly to the dad standing next to me. 

He wasn't hurt in the slightest, and for a second it seemed like Ike was going to make a full recovery from the faceplant.

But then...

Uh oh.

Oh dear.

Aaaaaand it basically went on like that from there. 

We all followed the kids around the parking lot in a Giant Parental Horde, cheering and snapping pictures and shooting video, like some kind of bizarre reverse Pied Piper scenario, while Ike bleated for me and I tried to give him smiles and thumbs up and assurances that lo, I WOULD RESCUE HIM SOON. JUST HOLD IT TOGETHER FOR LIKE, 20 MORE FEET.

His crying turned out to be contagious, and by the end of the "parade" there were at least three other children sobbing in confusion. 

GOOD WORK, SON. *FISTBUMP*

It was, of course, completely hilarious, heartbreaking and mighty adorable all at the same time. I'm so glad I got to go.

Congratulations, Ike! Just think, this time next year they'll probably make you do it all over again. 

Of Second Birthdays & Feral Noodles

Ike's actual birthday was very low-key. Which is bullshit-speak for "boring." Or perhaps: "HE'S TWO. PLAYING WITH BUBBLE WRAP IS STILL THE PINNACLE OF HIS LIFE EXPERIENCE."

I'm glad we didn't have any big ambitious plans, however, since on Friday Ezra came home from school, scarfed down his usual four pounds of lunch and then set off to amuse himself doing...I don't know exactly what. Something in the basement? Backyard? LOOK WHATEVER IT'S NOT LIKE HE WAS PLAYING IN THE STREET. I PROBABLY WOULD HAVE NOTICED THAT. 

(EVENTUALLY.)

Anyway, I am not the one on trial here for negligence, but at some point I realized Ezra had crawled on the couch, covered himself with a blanket and fallen completely asleep. This is never a good sign — four year olds don't sleep in the middle of the day for any sensible sort of reason, like being "tired."

But because the Occupational Therapist Formerly Known as Ms. M___ was coming over shortly for dinner, and because I am selfish and starved for actual human interaction, I decided to let him continue sleeping there and just vacuumed and fussed around him in my attempt to get my house a couple steps above slum. Because company!

Of course, when I finally tried to wake him he was burning up with a fever. Go me! Dusting while my child was basically cooking under a heavy fleece blanket. I shook him awake and dosed him with some medicine and tried to ask him if anything in particular...hurt? Or bothered him? At all? Ears? Throat? Anything?

"I am sick," he admitted. "Because I hit my elbow on a house. But not a brick house."

Well then. That clears THAT up. Thank God it wasn't a brick house; I might have had to cancel our company otherwise. YOU'LL BE FINE.

I still have no idea where the fever came from — it faded within a couple hours and Ezra's appetite was a bit diminished for a day or two (during which I probably saved $300 on groceries), but then he was fine and never really complained about anything specific. (Other than his elbow, obviously. And he told Jason he was sick because a neighbor kid punched him in the shoe.)

Anyway, I mostly went on that tangent so I'd have an excuse to mention the fact that 1) I let my friend come to my house anyway, despite the presences of a feverish, possibly contagious child, and 2) during her visit I noticed that, despite all my frenzied cleaning efforts, there was a Lego minifigure head, a piece of mail and a RANDOM LASAGNA NOODLE sitting in a neat little cluster under our TV cabinet. 

The next day I found another one on the stairs.

IT'S AN INFESTATION. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE. RUN.

I admit I was super-tempted to just return this to the (apparently toddler-level) box in the pantry, then maybe wrap it all up like a birthday present for Ike. 

Luckily the Play Doh set we got him seemed like a worthy alternative. 

His brothers' enthusiasm for this gift stems from the fact that this is probably the first time we've had cans of pristine, non-mixed-up or dried-up Play Doh in our house in YEARS.

My mom sent him a baby doll and stroller. This is at least our third or fourth baby doll stroller, by the way. Ezra and Ike freaking LOVE baby doll strollers, but eventually they take them outside and like, drag race them down the hill, possibly with a live human passenger. (We're also on our third tiny toy shopping cart, for similar reasons.)

These are some crazy delicious cupcakes, for which I can take no credit. I was off getting mah roots done and came back to find Jason baking them. (Here's the recipe; we didn't have marscapone so he swapped it for cream cheese. WINNING.)

I licked the bowl? And bought the candle? That someone on Twitter linked to? Because...I'm useless? Yeah.

Ike actually didn't much enjoy the candle part (HOT! HOT! HAWP THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME!)...

But the cupcakes definitely went over pretty well with one and all. I was going to take some to our neighbors but...didn't. For some reason. Hmm. 

(MY BELLY DEMANDED THEM.)

Yes, it was a perfect little birthday for a perfect little guy.

I will miss having a Baby Ike, but I do very much enjoy having this new little Noodle. 

Zero One Two

It's Ike's birthday tomorrow. But bear with me for just a second.

I'd never even heard of Alabama Shakes before they were on SNL back in February. Jason and I were sitting on the couch (on Sunday morning, naturally, watching a recording because we never stay up that late anymore) when they first took the stage and started to play "Hold On." We both sort of...froze after a minute, as we were hit with that thunderstruck feeling you get when you hear music that you just really, really love. 

And I loved everything about them. The rich, Janis-like voice coming from the lead singer; the crazy, completely unselfconscious way she contorted her mouth to create bluesy, primal sounds; the way the whole band let the song casually, effortlessly unfurl with a slow burn to a frenzied climax without thrashing around on stage or pyrotechnics or or props or naked body paint dipped in glitter. Just good, old-fashioned rocking the hell out. It probably took me all of 30 seconds to go from "Who?" to "Holy shit, I need this music in my life every single day from now on."

When the song was over, Jason and I looked at each other.

"WHOA," we said, in unison.

***

There was so much going through my head on the day Ike was born, most of it of the second-guessing variety. Another baby. Another boy baby. Another c-section birth, another breastfeeding crapshoot. Easy baby vs. difficult. Typical vs. special needs. Another whole damn child, what were we thinking?

I remember pushing all those thoughts aside on the operating table and focusing on the acoustic ceiling tiles. It was my third time in the same operating room. I'd been prepped for the birth on the very same bed where I'd been prepped for Ezra's birth, and the very same bed where I'd had to unfortunately labor for several hours prior to Noah's birth, while waiting for a birthing suite to open up. One did, eventually, but I ultimately ended up back in this very same operating room. 

Another baby. Another boy baby. Another another, more of the same, just more and probably harder. Because ANOTHER. 

And then I heard him cry. 

And I was thunderstruck. Emotions exploded out of my chest and up through my face, and all of them were happy and good. I loved everything about him already. He was perfect, already. I couldn't remember life without him, already.

For the third time, Jason brought me a squished, closed-eyed little newborn, wrapped in the same hospital blanket, wearing the same pink and blue hospital hat. For the third time, I kissed his swollen cheeks over and over and pushed back the edge of the hat to see his hair. For the third time, Jason and I looked at each other. 

"WHOA," we said, in unison. 

***

Dear Ike,

You are two years old now. You are still everything. You are still perfect. You make me laugh and smile every single day, and you surprise me just as often. There is nothing "another" about you, because you are you. You are the one we didn't even realize we were all waiting for, and I am so happy and grateful to have you in my life, every single day, from now on.

Love,

Mama

Music: "Hold On" by Alabama Shakes

Drama With a Capital I-K-E

SCENE: KITCHEN

 

IKE enters from right. He is four days away from his second birthday. 

 

MAMA stands uselessly to the left. IKE surveys her empty hands with disappointment; she has failed to read his mind and anticipate his every need once again. 

 

IKE: Cawp? Zee? Cawp? 

 

MAMA: Um. Wait. Do I know this one?

 

IKE crosses kitchen and points dramatically at cabinet where cups are kept.

 

IKE: CAWP. 

 

MAMA: Cup! You're thirsty! Okay.

 

IKE bursts into hysterical tears over the agony of having his words understood.

 

MAMA: No! No cry! Look, I will get you a cup.

 

IKE: NO!

 

MAMA: No...cup?

 

IKE interprets her words as "no cup" and shrieks with anguish because MAMA is a terrible cruel cup-withholding monster. 

 

MAMA is confused. She once again offers the cup.

 

IKE: NO! NO NO NO! 

 

IKE crosses his arms and stomps his foot.

 

(SCENE carries on like this for a few minutes until MAMA realizes IKE is simply demanding a different cup than the one in her hand.)

 

MAMA: Cup!

 

IKE: CAWP!

 

MAMA crosses to refrigerator.

 

IKE crosses over to HIGH CHAIR and gives it a kick for no apparent reason. His behavior causes MAMA to stop and stare at him, because seriously?

 

IKE realizes she has stopped closer to the refrigerator's water dispenser than the door handle and promptly has another meltdown.

 

IKE: NO WAWA! NO WAWA! JOOS! 

 

MAMA: Oh my God. Child. Chill.

 

MAMA opens the refrigerator and pulls out both milk and juice, in hopes of giving IKE a sense of control in a world full of emotional beverage-related turmoil.

 

MAMA: Milk or juice?

 

IKE: JOOS!

 

IKE points to the milk. 

 

MAMA puts juice back in the refrigerator.

 

IKE: NOOOOOO! Joos!

 

MAMA takes juice back out, returns milk.

 

IKE: (bursts into tears) NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 

MAMA: (silently, to self) Lord. Have. Mercy.

 

MAMA: (to IKE) Miiiiiilk. Or. Jooooos. 

 

IKE: JOOS!

 

IKE points to the milk. 

 

MAMA puts juice back in the refrigerator; fills cup with milk.

 

IKE cries.

 

IKE sobs.

 

IKE wails.

 

IKE makes the thesaurus weep with exhaustion. 

 

IKE lies down to kick and pound on the floor like the biggest cliché of a temper tantrum you have ever seen. 

 

MAMA sets the cup of milk next to his head and backs away slowly. 

 

IKE pushes the cup away and bangs his head against the floor with a defiant NO, then cries because that hurt. Because no shit that hurt.

 

MAMA leaves the room to go get her camera to document this over-the-top ridiculousness, because she's kind of an asshole but also she kind of earned this one, you know? 

 

SCENE: EPILOGUE; KITCHEN; 15 SECONDS LATER

 

He was fine. He smiled at me and then we cuddled on the couch.

 

 

I think he was just really thirsty. 

Filler

So I took one day off — ONE DAY OFF — to barbecue and visit with friends and binge-watch Arrested Development (ANUSTART) and of course I have been running around like boiling spastic hot ham water all day trying to get caught up on all my various work-y things. 

Well, not running, obviously. Just...sitting at my desk typing V. V. FAST and trying to keep the number of open browser tabs down to a reasonable number. Like 42. Do this thing! Then that thing! Abandon that email mid-sentence to go to some other thing just so you can include the fact that you did that thing in your email, thus making yourself sound all capable and on top of all the things.

Meanwhile, in real life: AAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPMAHGERD NOTHING IS DONE AND EVERYTHING IS TAKING MORE MINUTES THAN I HAVE MINUTES TO SPEND GAHAGAHAGAHAGAHAGAHAGHAGHHGGH

You should hire me. I am not at all a complete freaking organization nightmare. Am bit of a liar, though.

SEGUE TIME. IT'S A BRIDGE TO NOWHERE.

I have a couple actual things I want to write about, but as it's definitely looking like I will not have time to write about them today, here are some random photos. Random photos! Yes. Classic cop-out. Old-skool style.

Here is Ike changing his baby's diaper:

I am annoyed that I missed the set-up for this, which included him carefully picking out like, four different cloth diapering options before settling on a pocket diaper. That's my boy. 

He asked me to stuff it with a prefold for him and then added a bamboo doubler. 

A solid choice, although I might have gone with a fitted instead of a one-size. This diaper was off that baby's butt by the time they got to the hallway. Adjust the rise, Ike! YOU GOTTA ADJUST THE RISE. 

Next, here is Ike again, about 10 minutes after I told him he couldn't go outside because he didn't have his shoes on, and also it was actually a little chilly out there.

Those are some impressive problem-solving skills, honestly.

Finally, here is Ike doing...something else. 

YUP.

BONUS RANDOM PHOTO: Noah combed his hair all by himself and then demanded that I take a picture of it. 

Lord help us all when this kid gets on Instagram. 

Ultimate Master Baby Crib Check List

WHEN THEY ARE NEWBORNS

1) Crib mattress

2) Persistent feeling of guilt for buying the $40 crib mattress instead of the top-of-the-line $500 organic ulta duo core certified allergen-free ECOGREENFOAM™ crib mattress with internal SIDS alert and solid platinum stitching.

3) Waterproof pad

4) Tight-fitting, organic cotton crib sheet

5) Tight-fitting, organic cotton swaddling blanket

6) No toys

7) No loose blankets

8) LOTS OF VERY LOUD & CONTRADICTORY OPINIONS ABOUT CRIB BUMPERS

9) Baby monitor with motion sensor mat, high-definition video and ambient temperature display

10) Baby who totally won't sleep in the crib anyway, not even for five minutes, hooray!

WHEN THEY ARE TODDLERS:

1) Yup.

The Helpful Games

IN WHICH I POWER-RANK MY CHILDREN IN ORDER OF THEIR GENERAL USEFULNESS AROUND THE HOUSE

ROUND ONE: CLEANING UP TOYS

Okay guys, we need to clean up the Legos. Every single Lego needs to get picked up and put in the blue Lego bag over there. Got it? Go.

EZRA

Sits down, then puts forehead on floor. Sl-o-o-w-ly picks up a single, solitary Lego brick. Scoots belly-down like a slug over to Lego bag. Sits up, stares at ceiling. Holds hand over bag and lets Lego fall through fingers. Lego hits the bag and immediately bounces back out onto floor. Collapses in exhaustion. 

Score: 1/5

NOAH

This is going to take forever. FOREVER. How long is this going to take? FOREVER. I never get to do anything because I have to clean up all the time and also FOREVER. I'm not cleaning those Legos up because I'm still playing with them. And I'm not cleaning those Legos up because even though they are right in front of me I have gone selectively blind. I will clean those Legos up, at least, but only after I've spent 10 minutes complaining about them, which equals approximately three-and-a-half FOREVERS.

Score: 3/5

IKE

Hurls Legos to floor, runs. Has Legos in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND TWO: HAND ME THAT THING

Okay guys, hand me that thing. That thing right in front of you. Right, that thing. 

EZRA

Hands me that thing, immediately and enthusiastically, but knocks over an entire cup of juice in the process.

Score: 3/5

NOAH

What thing? This thing?

Me: NO, WRONG THING. 

What is a thing?

Me: *EXPLAINS THING* 

What does a thing look like?

Me: *DESCRIBES THING; COLOR, PURPOSE, MATERIAL, ETC.*

Where is the thing?

Me: RIGHT THERE, IN FRONT OF YOU.

Oh! Okay. One minute.

*leaves, heads to bathroom, brings back the sink drain stopper*

This thing?

Score: 1/5, for effort

IKE

Hurls thing to floor, runs. Has other thing that I need in mouth, probably.

Score: 0/5

ROUND THREE: OH LAWDY IT'S A JUICE SPILL

Okay guys, someone's spilled some juice. What do you do?

EZRA 

Is totally the one who spilled the juice. Will totally sit there and do nothing (while sitting in bonus puddle of maple syrup that will also go unnoticed and undealt-with). When asked what they teach him at that fancy-pants Montessori school that he and a good deal of our money go to everyday, will respond by getting a towel and throwing it sort-of in the direction of the spill. Will then tap towel with foot before recoiling in sticky disgust and return to his syrup-covered seat.

Score: 1/5

NOAH

Ezra spilled his juice Ezra spilled his juice Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice Mom it's going everywhere oh no Mom Mom Mom Ezra spilled his juice it's on the floor now too Mom Mom Mom Mom.

Score: 1/5, mostly for the Amy Poehler impression

IKE

Hurls spill-proof sippy cup to the floor, because THAT'S how you don't spill juice, bitches. Not sure what your damage is.

Score: 1/5

ROUND FOUR: THROW THIS OUT

Okay guys, we've cleaned up the juice spill with some paper towels. Please throw them out.

EZRA

Gets immediately and irrationally attached to Mister Paper Towel Wad. Mister Paper Towel Wad is later found in his backback/lunchbox/"house"/bed, covered in ants.

Score: 0/5

NOAH

After a five-minute lecture about the environment and whether or not we can reuse Mister Paper Towel Wad, followed by another five minutes of anxiety over whether or not Mister Paper Towel Wad would be recyled as another paper towel specifically and not something different, I give up and throw Mister Fucking Paper Towel Wad into the trash myself, then lie about sending him upstate to live on a nice big paper towel farm. 

Score: 0/5

IKE

Happily and joyfully throws it out. Because throwing things out is his FAVORITE. Things that he also threw out today include a perfectly serviceable sippy cup, my good nail file, Legos, four unopened cans of tuna fish and our voter registration forms.

Score: 4/5

ROUND FIVE: PUT YO SHOES ON

Okay guys, it's time to go. Put yo shoes on.

EZRA

Okay! 

*gets sneakers, puts them on*

No, these are for Friday, when I am a grown-up.

*takes sneakers off, puts Crocs on*

No, it is raining today. 

*takes Crocs off, puts rainboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS NOT RAINING.

*takes rainboots off, puts snowboots on*

Me: PLEASE NOTE THAT IT IS 70 DEGR- AW FUCK IT. GOOD JOB, EZ!

Score: 5/5

NOAH

Where are my shoes where are my shoes I can't find my shoes where did I leave my shoes oh no my shoes are gone FOREVER and I will never find them FOREVER AGAIN I'm just not going anywhere ever and

*trips over shoes sitting in plain sight, in middle of living room floor*

Oh hey I found them Mom!

Me: GOOD JOB, NOAH!

Score: 5/5

IKE

Shhz? Shhz! Shhz shhz go bye car shhz! 

*actually goes and gets his shhz, tries valiantly to put them on himself before bringing them to me*

Hawp? Shhz? Mama? Mama hawp shhz?

Score: 5/5, because ADORABLE 

RESULTS:

10 points each out of a possible 25. Three-way tie. Overall usefulness around the house still woefully subpar, but hey, at least they are all super-cute. 

Napkins As Roses & Turd Rocks On Tables...

Happy Day-After-Mother's Day! What? Totally a thing. Do you have any idea how much extra it costs to have a blog entry delivered on a Sunday rather than a weekday? Such a racket, and I will not be a part of it. Same warmed-over content, different day, is what I always say. 

I slept in until 10 a.m. yesterday. Ten ay effing em. I slept in so long I had at least three dreams that involved me waking up and getting out of bed, only to actually wake up about 10 minutes later, fuzzy and coccoon-y. And then I would roll over and go back to sleep. I'd foreseen what getting up and out of bed was like, and frankly it seemed pretty overrated. 

Later (much later, almost embarassingly later) we took the boys out to lunch. Ezra brought along a rock that he claimed was a dinosaur fossil; it looked exactly like a fist-sized turd. Noah became entranced with the restaurant's fancy folded napkins and spent the entire meal asking me if he could take one home; I said no; our waitress said yes; we are now the proud owners of a syrup-covered napkin still tightly rolled into a rosette shape that I am not allowed to wash.

At the end of the meal I emerged from the restroom to see a half-dozen waitstaff hovering around Ike's highchair and I ran over, all OMG WHAT DID HE DO NOW, and a waiter adorably thought I was concerned that he was hurt, when in fact that hadn't even crossed my mind. I just assumed he'd made a spectacular mess of some kind. 

(He'd dumped an entire cup of milk on himself and the floor. The mess was indeed, spectacular.) 

As we left, an older couple looked at me with a mixture of bemused pity. "Happy Mother's Day," the guy practically guffawed as I corraled my turd-rock-hauling preschooler, my napkin-obsessed first grader and my milk-soggened toddler out the door. I laughed and thanked him anyway, because the meal really had been about 78% more successful than anticipated; also I'd had two mimosas and seriously did not give a shit about any of the shit. 

Besides, like I can stay even mildly annoyed at this face.

Too Soon, Man

Okay, everybody, time for some math.

Ike was JUST born. Right? Maybe five, six months ago, tops. Maybe not even that long. Point is, I brought him home from the hospital YESTERDAY and now my calendar is telling that his second birthday is less than four weeks away. Whuuuut.

THINGS BABY IKE WON'T DO ANYMORE:

1. Sit in a high chair

2. Take a nap, ever

3. Stay inside with me while the big kids are outside playing

4. Eat ice cream (brain freeze related reasons, long story)

5. Tolerate my attempts to thwart potty training

(Humblebrag, ahoy! Right? Am worst.)

He started asking to use the potty about a month ago. I have been KIND OF going along with it, albeit super inconsistently and grudgingly, because GUUHHHHH.

That horrid in-between stage — where they aren't really ready to leave the house sans diaper but you don't want to backtrack, so either you never leave the house for a week or two, or you spend the entire outing terrified, while saying "DO YOU HAVE TO GO POTTY DO YOU HAVE TO GO POTTY" every 30 seconds like a deranged parrot and then the kid STILL pees all over the floor at Target because he is a lying liar, he SO TOTALLY HAD TO GO POTTY — yeah, that stage. I am not ready to deal with that stage again. 

I've potty trained two children already and I know the secret that nobody wants to tell you: It's completely overrated.

A potty-trained toddler is not a genius nor proof that you are amazeballs at parenting. A potty-trained toddler is a liability and a goddamned menace. A ticking pee bomb just waiting to have an accident or to demand access a potty at the precise moment where you have absolutely no access to a potty. (This moment usually happens about five minutes after you DID have access to a potty and offered it repeatedly, only to be turned down because no, I no hafta to go potty.)

(LIAR! Stop with all of your lies!)

So right now the potty remains an occasional nighttime novelty act. I almost feel guilty about my lack of follow-through, since I'm sure we could seal the deal pretty quickly so if I just...cared more? Stuck with it? Did much of anything about it? 

Because of the older boys (and I dunno, OUR LIVES), I simply can't keep Ike and I holed up at home for very long. Even the 24-hour "Toilet Training in Less Than a Day" approach feels like a massive scheduling commitment (and commitment is not something I excel at right now; see: Overrated, Completely). Every day, there's somewhere to be or go. So every day, I put him in a diaper because we haven't practiced enough to take it to the next level. Maybe tomorrow we can practice some more. Or the next day. But by then Ike's been wearing diapers for a few straight days and although he still WANTS to use the potty he's backtracked on what is actually supposed to HAPPEN on the potty. So we start all over again, half-assing it all the way. 

And then, of course, there's the part where he's my baby. My last little baby who is not even two years old yet — four weeks! I still have four weeks! — but who is hellbent on growing up as fast as he possibly can and leaving everything baby-related behind. For the first time in almost eight years, my house won't have a high chair or a crib or baby gates. No changing table or diapers. That's a Matrix-style "Whoa" moment, right there. 

(Yes, it will completely serve me right if this window of opportunity slams closed in my face and we're stuck with diapers for another three years, or something.)

(But at least nobody will pee on my couch in the meantime.)