Long lost friends

I count myself lucky that I have friends out there, all over the place, and though I haven't talked to many of them in a long time, I know we can pick up where we left off.

Nick is, I hope still, one of those people. We met many residences ago in Madison. He showed up at the college outdoors club where I was a member and threw himself into activities, leadership and friendship. Many of us were beyond the traditional college age, but Nick was smack-dab in the college demographic. I think he was 20 or so when we met, and I think I have seven or so years on him.

But in depth, Nick far exceeded the average 20-year-old, and we connected over climbing. He enlightened me on the weaknesses of sarcasm, which I still think about to this day. He was disarmingly honest to the core. And, I admit that at one point my heart grew a teeny bit soft, leading to one of those girlish crushes. With my boyfriend living overseas (or in exile during that temporary hiatus), I was going through a serial crush phase, and regularly burdened my roommate with painful stories of who I was crushed-out on every six weeks or so. It's a fact that these crushes run their course in six weeks. I wonder whatever happened to Lance? OK, that took more than six weeks. What a tease!

But I digress. Opening my heart and remembering that it's OK to feel love for a friend, including one of the male persuasion, was a valuable learning experience at that particular moment in my life. I also realized that having crushes felt goooood. Even if I never intended to act on them, they were good for the soul and kept the heart fluttering.

Nick visited us in Switzerland, and we had a great time road tripping around the South of France basking in the glory of clipping bolts under the sun. He also witnessed one weird argument over fondue and too much white wine between me and Peter, and probably wished he was just about anywhere else at the time. What are friends for?

We haven't been in touch much since then, but I heard through friends of friends that he ran for mayor of Zion, and was -- according to total strangers -- the hottest candidate on the ballot. (!) Anyway, he dropped this in my inbox recently, and I just wanted to share it. He's living the dream!

Caution: poo and sap ahead

If you can't stomach potty training, best to click the little X in the upper right of your screen now.

After heading home from Target that day, our potty training adventures continued. Sprout embraced pull ups with a never-before-seen enthusiasm mixed with a huge dose of uncertainty. Over that weekend, we spent many hours in our two bathrooms discussing if he was done. Or not done. Or ready to go again. Or using the big potty or the little potty. And wiping, flushing and hand washing. There was the one mega-poo that took 75 wipes, 30 minutes of bathroom sanitizing plus a bath to survive.

But by the next week, he was pretty close to champ status. He raced to the bathroom, exclaiming, "The pee is coming!" with me fast on his heels to help struggle with zippers, buttons, elastic and shirttails. One afternoon his teacher proudly told me he pooed in the pot at school, and I realized there were others invested in this success. And when Sprout cried real tears because he regretfully peed in his pull-up, I thought, "This is really it!"

Last weekend, though, we headed to Vancouver, BC, and I figured all would be lost. Travel would surely derail our progress and lead to automatic regression. This is where I learned not to underestimate the single-minded determination of the ankle-biter crowd.

Though we packed a portable mini-toilet with us for familiarity sake, Sprout gamely used a variety of toilets along the way:

• Two trips to the Honey Buckets at the farm we visited en route to pick a pumpkin.
• The border rest area bathrooms.
• The toilets at the Vancouver Aquarium.
• The toilets in various restaurants including one stall so small at Hamburger Mary's that I had to stand outside it, but block him from view while he did his business.

We haven't changed a poopy diaper in a couple of weeks now, and I must say, the beauty of this exceeds our expectations. Today, we were tested when out for a walk on the Seward Park loop. About 1.5 miles from the start and finish, Sprout announced the coming of the pee. Peter and I glanced bug-eyed at each other. Then Peter calmly lead Sprout to a bush and showed him in hushed tones how boys do it in nature. Sprout was so enthralled by this new development that he lobbied to pee in a different park on the way home.

All of this makes me realize how quickly life passes and how much joy parenting can bring. On that day when I was cleaning poop off all the bathroom surfaces as well as my son's body, I wasn't super happy. But we had to go through that to get to the other side. He's growing into a curious, confident, skilled, rambunctious little boy right before my eyes. While waiting in a long line at the store on Saturday, Sprout was laughing and singing little songs to entertain us. When we got to the check-out, the cashier said to him, "You're so happy! That makes me happy."

It's hard to convey how much it all makes me happy in ways I never expected.

And what are you going to be for Halloween?

Where can I get a Halle Berry costume?

Sprout had decided he wanted to be a fire fighter for Halloween. Mind you, I would have been happy to escape one more year of holiday making, but when you send a kid to school, these ideas get planted. It's a good reminder that we'll eventually have to deal with video games. My fingers are crossed that saggy pants are out of style soon or at least a punishable felony. His best friend is a girl, but it's strictly platonic. Whew!

After searching for just the right fire fighter costume online, I decided $50 was an absolutely absurd amount of money to spend on a kid costume, even if he would then be outfitted to lend a hand in Southern California.

Today we hit a costume shop. I didn't know that Sprout knew how to shop, but he marched up to displays and started saying, "I want to be this one! No, THIS one. No THIS ONE!" His wee arms were loaded with costumes, his eyes sparkled with possibility. The only fire fighter suits I could find were far too large. But that didn't matter because, there, across the aisle, he spotted a Thomas the Train costume. I saw tunnel vision set in as all other costumes melted away.

This was the one.

It fit and had plenty of room to grow, so I knew he could play with it over the next seven years. The pricetag was $35. Ouch! But I had to concede it was cute and of decent quality, the boy was happy and I could be done with shopping. And, it came with a hat. Score!

While we were waiting in line, a fellow mom told me that the same costume cost less at Target, just a couple of blocks away. Delicately, I negotiated with Sprout to leave this Thomas here so we could get a new! better! (cheaper!) Thomas at Target. But only if we go quick! quick! quick! This is my usual attempt to distract him from whatever meltdown is at hand with the idea that we need to move our bodies fast! and right now! Hey, it works. The boy likes to run.

With just a few moans of "I want THIS Thomas..." we dashed to the car and up the street to Target. I felt mild panic trying to find the Thomas costumes, but there they were. Right below the Bob the Builder costumes.

Well. Now we know that Thomas trumps fire fighters. But Bob the Builder trumps Thomas. All for $12.99. And, it comes with a hard hat. Score!

Yea, but let's just see those ankles. Uh-huh. That's what I thought.

I get swollen feet. Halle Berry gets extra va-va-va-VA-voom. No one ever said life was fair.

It's all in the draping, I tell you.

Happy United Nations Day

And happy birthday to me!

I have a longstanding tradition to get a new pair of shoes for my birthday. I reallllly want a pair of boots, and this seemed to be a perfect time to indulge. However, my feet -- helloooooo down there somewhere! -- are swollen, and my ankles have disappeared entirely into those tree trunks formerly known as my legs. The idea of struggling to try on boots only to feel completely awkward, rotund and, above all, un-birthday-like lead me to Plan B, a new haircut.

For quite a few months, I have been trying to grow it out, putting stock in the idea that a ponytail come baby time would save me. From what, I do not know exactly. Idealism rears its naive head again. But as my hair got longer and less kempt, I decided it was more fun and less potentially regretful to keep it shorter before it got much longer.

Plus, I looked downright haggard! Never one to plan haircuts, I made my appointment yesterday and commenced dreaming up all sorts of creative coifs. But my mind reverberated to a story from The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy, which I shall title DO NOT CUT YOUR HAIR OFF WHEN YOU ARE PREGNANT! Vicki Iovine writes:

This advice may sound like it's out of left field right now, but trust us, there will come a time when you will consider cutting all your hair off. This is never a good idea because a very pregnant woman who wants to cut her hair is not really looking for a new hairdo, he is looking for a new nonpregnant look, and I'm afraid that's too tall an order for a haircut. [...]

To let you know how overwhelming this haircutting urge can be, I provide my own experience. I have always known this prohibition against changing hairstyles in pregnancy, and I was able to withstand the temptation for three whole pregnancies! Then, during my fourth pregnancy, I decided to test the rule. Perhaps I thought it was a stupid rule, or that it didn't apply to me. Who knows what insanity was racing through my brain? So in I went and lopped all my hair off, and never did a human head more resemble a coconut. Trust me, it wasn't a bad haircut. If you are puffy and overtired, there is no haircut in the world that will make you look better.

Sage advice indeed. She reminds us that Mia Farrow's pixie was adorable in Rosemary's Baby because it was a pretend pregnancy. Do not forget this. Do not dismiss the fact that not only is your belly pregnant, but so are your ankles, arms and your face.

Still, I dreamed wistfully of the Posh Spice look or sexy blunt bangs or something short, sassy and asymmetrical. And this is where having a trusted stylist saved my ass. She talked me down from the edge. I was pushing to lop multiple inches, but she wisely said "we" didn't need to do that, which I now interpret to mean If I do what this crazy woman wants, I will lose her as a client. She cut it to the perfect length so as not to accentuate my lumpen baked potato face but rather to pick up my style and return a touch of much-needed cuteness.

No, this haircut won't make me lose a single pound or bring back my ankles, but I left the salon feeling not like a beauty school dropout but like a stylish mama. And that is my birthday gift to me.

Attention Target shoppers, we have a special on sellouts in aisle seven

It's as if he's reading over my shoulder. But he can't read, and he's too short to see over my shoulder.

Last week the topic of potty training came up on my mom discussion group. One wee girl has embraced it, but most of us with boys reported stages from minor successes to absolute refusals even to consider using toilets. The mom with the most success had some positive words to share, including that 2 1/2 might be on the young side for boys.

With that, I decided my lackluster performance as super-mom in the potty training category was perfectly acceptable, and I settled in for another six months of lazing on the job.

But on Friday morning, Sprout snapped me to attention by announcing, "I want some underwear."

Then, he asked if he could use mine. I flapped my maternity tents in the air, temporarily blotting out the sun, and suggested they were maybe too big. Being a logical type, he wanted to call his dad to ask if he could use his. Peter wasn't available but was left with this voicemail:

Hi, it's us. We're calling because Sprout has a question he wants to ask you.
DADDY, CAN I USE YOUR UNDERWEAR?

We'll be saving that recording to play when the first skank girl or boy we don't like tries to take our son away.

At Target, though there was a fine selection of boys underwear, I started feeling quickly out of my element with the various characters that adorn them. Clearing the cobwebs from my brain, I did remember back in the day when this marketing craze swept the fourth grade, just about the time that Cabbage Patch Kids hit the market. UNDERWEAR WITH CHARACTERS ON THEM!

Little boys discussed Incredible Hulk underpants (who is making a resurgence, just like the 30-year cycle of style would predict -- here we come sweater dresses) and girls wore... I don't know what girls were wearing because I only ever got the Hains 3-packs. Flowers? Stripes? Ugh, plain white?

There among the Cars and Spiderman themes was, naturally, a package of Thomas the Train tighties. What joy!

Then we hit the diaper aisle to pick up our first package of "pull ups".

Again, feeling unfairly like a novice mom, I gazed at the wall of dinosaur bones cum petroleum cum diapers. I couldn't help but think that in less prosperous nations, kids run around with nappies of the most minimal kind and figure out pretty quickly that bodily waste can be deposited in a better spot than a swathe of fabric, natural or synthetic, cinched around their waists. But we are beyond all that at this point. Nothing is going to recall the steaming pile of diapers in the landfill with our family's name on it, though maybe I'll be able to buy some cotton-credits to offset it. Some day. Regardless, I'll take that guilt to my grave or to the eventual environmental apocalypse, and continue to bring my own bags to the store and put our food scraps in the yard waste bin.

At this moment, I had to distinguish the difference between Luvs, Pampers and Huggie training pants. Because store brand? I think not.

Sprout leapt to my rescue, making the decision himself: "I want the pink ones!"

He pointed the to the pink Huggies adorned with Cinderella and various other Disney princesses. OMG. A million thoughts ran through my head, including: I thought I would only have to vanquish perky-nosed princesses if I had a girl!

Weakly, I asked, "Are you sure? What about the blue ones? They have, uh, Cars! on them. And, um... I think the pink ones are for girls, and the blue ones are for boys."

Yes, right there, in Target on Friday, I sold out. I let cultural expectations override my belief that it doesn't really matter if a boy wants to wear a tutu or a girl wants to... Actually, do girls have problems in these areas? Girls can wear pants, have short hair, play with trucks and wear all the blue she wants well into adulthood without anyone batting an eyelash. However, the moment a boy wants to wear pink diapers, society rears it's narrow-minded head to smash him, and his mom, back into conformity.

Thankfully, I had a head-spinning WTF moment, back-pedaled and threw the pink princess pull-ups into our cart. What the hell. They were going to be poop receptacles, after all, and what better way to express what I really felt about Disney merchandising. A few aisles later, I realized that we had size 4-5, much too large for Sprout, so we wheeled back to the wall of diapers to trade them in.

And right there, in Target on Friday, Sprout sold out. He insisted on the blue Car-themed pull-ups. I tried to foist the pink princess ones on him, but he was having none of that. Blue or nothing.

Society: 1
Us: 0

New topic

We failed again last night. Cries of, "I want my binky!!" filled the house at bedtime.

We will reconvene this effort at a later date.

Math class is cancelled

5 a.m.

Cries of "I want my binky!" filled the house.

Will we have the courage to try again tonight?

Overachiving at two and a half

We're on pins and needles. Sprout hit the sack 90 minutes ago. WITHOUT THE BINKY.

This is sudden and serious. A few weeks ago, I tried to broker a trade: the binky for a Cranky the Crane. But I had given up, thinking this fickle (as he should be) child hadn't really understood the concept of no more binky. Ever. Figuring it would all blow up in my face, and I'd have to ante up Cranky and a new set of binkies, I didn't press the issue.

Then tonight, somehow the conversation moved into how Big Boys don't sleep with binkies in the Shooting Star room. As of September, Sprout's new class is called Shooting Stars. He's not a Tadpole anymore, and he admires the Wombats up ahead, but he is quite happy to be a Shooting Star. And no, Shooting Stars do not use binkies to take naps at school. Because they don't need to.

Oh really?

Pete asked him if he might think about taking a nap at home with out a binky... could Sprout do that?

"I can."

We glanced nervously at each other. Should we pursue this logic? Pete posed the question if you can nap without a binky at home, can you go to bed-byes without a binky?

"I can."

"Okay.... How do you want to do this? Should I go upstairs and take it out of your bed?"

"Sure."

And so I did. Then, I slunk away to make a phone call leaving Pete to put Sprout to bed. After being on the phone for an hour, I forgot about it. It's not like I was going through binky withdrawal. Then when I left our bedroom, I saw the binky resting on the hall shelf, Sprout now tucked into bed, binky-free. And he appeared to be sleeping.

"Either we did an amazing sell job or this is just the lull before the storm. Did that boy really go to bed without a binky?"

"Not only that, he also took a pee in the potty."

Potty training and ditching the binky all in one evening? I'm blown away.

We're going to start on fractions tomorrow.

My mother is psycho.

I just need to get that out there. Today, I will rehydrate and pray to all that is warm and good that this condition is caused by a recessive female gene that has skipped my generation and will not repeat itself in the next generation because I'M HAVING BOYS.

Pray for me. Sacrifice things. Don't step on cracks.