First Kaia takes on a new hobby of ripping off her soiled diapers while still in her crib, painting with a hue I don’t even want to describe. Later, while contemplating why her Color Wonder markers won’t show up on the walls, she notifies me immediately when she “drops a deuce” (oh, Jason, how you changed my poop dialogue forever) in her diaper again. She obliges me by doing a STOP-DROP-AND…, splaying out her body ready for a diaper change.
And I’ve yet to muster up the follow-through to really make a true attempt at potty-training.
All my life I’ve plagued by this disease, never able to pick up the proverbial ball lying in my court and run with it/volley it/kick the shit outta it. And this is why I’m perplexed lately.
I don’t know what the catalyst really needs to be in order for me to start a regimen of potty training, or binky-weaning, or a switcheroo to a toddler bed, or decent effort to re-introduce greens, or regular tooth-brushing for Kaia. Is this some twisted and deeply psychological sign that I’m not giving her the space and tools to really grow up and have a taste of independence? Am I really the ultra-lazy sloth – and thus the terrible mother – I think I am?
It’s why the flour that Kaia spilled on the kitchen floor this morning is still there swirled with tips of tiny fingers and fresh with patterns of a measuring cup pressed into it. It’s why dirty diapers litter the bar top and crumbs remain smudged into the cracks of the sofa. It is why I shuffle past one of Kaia’s masterpieces scribbled with crayon on my walls every day and say “I need to clean those”. And don’t. At least I can say that the catalyst for these offenses has been identified and it’s called: Company.
Please don’t knock on my door today.
All I can think of is the old red-neck routine that starts with “Here’s your sign…” And now I’m the recipient of said sign. And its message is scrawled across a piece of cardboard from a box that’s been sitting in my office – opened and empty – for months. Taking up space. Being stepped on. Gathering dust balls.
My life reeks of half-assedness and is saturated with the stench of constipated habits. It longs for one of those thoughtfully followed schedules, laminated and stuck up on my fridge, overseeing my life (the one I created once still remains on my computer, filed under RIDICULOUS!). It pines for lists – completed and checked off. It wants to be inundated with the perfume of routine and the sweet taste of motivation. I need an overhaul, an extreme makeover, a resdesign. My mama life needs to be pimped, MTV-style.
But instead I am left feeling more Punk’d than Pimp’d. And cute litle sneaky Ashton is nowhere in sight.
Mamas, can you share with me what your catalysts have been in regards to things like potty-training and binky-weaning? I am a proponent in child-led potty training and have thus far not tried to actively prompt her to use the potty (save for a few opportune times in which she was not having it). But methinks the above scenarios are screaming for intervention of some sort. Because I can only deal with the tea tree oil and scrubbing crib rails for so long.