ew.

“I wish there was a robot horse and you could feed it corn on the cob. And on the inside, it would get butter and salt. And when it came out, it wouldn’t be poop, you would just eat it!”

– The Kidling

March 13, 2014

quotes from the loo

Fine, not technically from the loo; rather, from within the loo.

The Kidling: (calling into the living room) Excuse me, Mom?
The Mama: What, Dear?
The Kidling: Can you tell me if this is too much toothpaste?
The Mama: I trust you, Dear.
The Kidling: (incredulously) You do?

Fair question. You know, after this.

things that go **drip** in the night

The Kidling, bless her heart, is way ahead of the curve on virtually everything. Gross motor skills, language acquisition, charming people’s socks off… the list really could go on and on. I’m not going to bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that her list of positive attributes (a sense of humor, good hair…) includes easy toilet training.

That The Kidling is such a quick study is a beautiful and amazing thing; however, it has a downfall. I tend to be blindsided by backsliding. Because of The Kidling’s general pre-eminence and brilliance (and fabulosity and light and…), I forget that she will occasionally have incidents.

Or shall I say, accidents.

The Kidling went through a period a few weeks ago where, several times each week, she had accidents in the middle of the night. No surprise, really, except that it is. Add the 3 a.m. factor to the surprise factor, and The Mama can’t promise a lot in terms of her reaction.

My reaction. Who do I think I am, Bob Dole?

As I was saying. My 3 a.m. brain leaves a lot to be desired. This would be true of anyone, but it is especially true of a dripping wet child who wonders what the heck her mama, The Mama, is thinking. When The Kidling wet the bed one night, I started to get her out of her wet pajamas and moved on to stripping the urine-soaked bed. The Kidling, cold and wet, offered a swift rebuke, “Mo-om! Dry me off first! Persons are more importanter than beds!”

Oops. Stupid 3 a.m. brain…

prevention

You have probably heard this before, but The Mama loves her cruciferous vegetables.

And beans.

And green juices.

Which is all to say that I can be a bit… well… gassy. This should come as no surprise to regular readers. “Flatulence” shows up on my list of commonly used tags. And for good reason! See here and here. It should be a little embarrassing. But whatever. The Mama has a body to take care of. If that means I have to be stinky, so be it.

Yeah. Take that, olfactory glands.

Anyway…  I was particularly fragrant one recent evening (which is saying something), and Alice thought there might be a way for me to prevent some of the stinkiness I was inflicting on The Family.

I am indeed raising an optimist.

First, she commanded me to “Flip over on [my] back!”

The better to contain the stench, my Mama.

Then she had a more lasting solution, “Dad’s going to take a giant step. Like THIS! (stomps) Then it’s going to shoot you out of the house and you’ll toot outside!”

I can get on board with that.

bad form

Sometimes Often, The Kidling is wiser than I wish she were expect. I mean, I am glad she is the most phenomenal human being I have ever encountered and could ever hope to interact with in this lifetime, but seriously. Can’t The Mama get away with something now and then? Case in point: doing odd things in odd places.

As you might have guessed, this wee blog is powered by many strategically placed notebooks. I have been known to make a dash for them in the middle of dinner, frantically yank them from my handbag whilst running errands, and enter near-panic mode when I cannot locate a notebook when genius or hilarity has recently ensued.

Thank goodness for the backs of cash register receipts.

So The Mama thought nothing of  my recent perch for jotting down The Kidling’s most recent flash of brilliance. Until…

Alice: Are you going potty?

The Mama: Yeah.

Alice: While you’re writing!?!

The Mama: Yeah. Isn’t that weird?

Alice: Yeah. And kind of gross.

The Mama: You think?

Alice: Yeah.

A better blogger than I might ask for your input. “What say you, dear readers?” or a similar question to solicit your thoughts on matters related to this particular story. But guess what? I don’t care. Because without frantic scrawling in marker on construction paper, in pencil on gum wrapper, and in the occasionally properly-placed notebook, the book of alice wouldn’t exist.

So there.

And yes, I wash my hands.

an exit strategy

I confess that I am at a loss for how to start this one. The only thing I have for you is this: sometimes I prioritize humor over my personal dignity. With sincerest apologies, I offer today’s story:

Alice was in the mini-room when The Mama was… ahem… tending to her business. Not the stink-neutral variety of business, if you know what I mean. When the… ahem… fragrance hit The Kidling,  The Kidling hit the deck. On her way out of the bathroom, she said, “I know how to escape! Stay low and don’t smell.”

Wiser words were never spoken.

the poopy girl

Sunday afternoon, The Kidling was doing her business. Yes, that business. What, you expected something else from a post titled thus? Silly readers…

As I was saying: business. Upon completing said business, Alice turned to toss a handful toilet paper into the toilet. She bent over, then stopped suddenly, exclaiming, “I almost got my face in it!’*  Ew, right? Well, guess what I said…

“Ew!”

Given that she is no fool, Alice agreed with my assessment of ickiness. She offered, “Yeah, it’s not funny. It’s funny because it didn’t happen. (pauses briefly, thinking) Then I’d be the poopy girl. Walkin’ around town.”

I have nothing more to say.

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* While I did just say that I had nothing more to say, can I just take this opportunity to say THANK GOD there was an “almost” in that sentence? I cower at the thought of what would have happened had her little kidling face actually gotten covered in… well… business.

 

 

duh duh duuuuuuhhhhhhh

That, dear readers, is the sound of danger, horror-movie style. You might recall from Tuesday that The Mama does her best to exercise discretion with regard to the stories I share with the world. You might be thinking, “Huh?!? Christine, then how do you explain The Big Question, Deconstructing Flatulence, 50 Shades of Safe, or Pint-Sized Proboscis-Picking Party? Or Sh*t My Kid Says? Or—”

Fine, so I have a very low threshold for potential embarrassment.

This story was precipitated by one of The Kidling’s most repulsive habits. It involves the toilet, so if this type of thing grosses you out, then please exit this post and go to something a little lighter (like No, She Is Not Always this Sweet).

Okay, back to the toilet. Alice is still working on ensuring a clean bottom post-bowel movement (I am fairly certain that is the least objectionable way to make that statement). Unfortunately, she has come to believe this task falls squarely on my shoulders. After going number two (the second-least objectionable way to talk about poop in a public forum), it begins:

Alice: (calling from the bathroom) Mo-om!

The Mama: Yes, Alice?

Alice: (She shuffles around the corner into the kitchen—or wherever I happen to be—with underwear and pants scrunched around her ankles. Bending over with butt toward The Mama, she grabs her left buttock with her left hand, her right buttock with her right hand and pulls her tiny little butt apart. Then she inquires loudly…) Is my butt clean?!

Then I hustle her back to the bathroom, wipe her butt, wash our hands, and we go about our day. Done.

Now, this just one of those stories I had decided to keep to myself. There is nothing particularly objectionable about it (except, you know, everything) yet it is just gross enough that the She’ll-Be-Pissed-When-She-Grows-Up-o-Meter sounded.

Then, Sunday, we repeated the charming scene you read above. This time, as we washed our hands, Alice had a thought to share with me, and said “You know what, Mom? I don’t want to look in somebody’s butt when I grow up. It’s like a yucky old central.*”

Yep. Me neither, Babe.

In that instant, I decided to ignore the alarm sounding in my head and blog about it.

Sorry Adult Alice. You asked for it.

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* I have no idea what this means. It doesn’t much matter. She included the word “yucky,” so we’ll call it an accurate statement.