Tricky Language

Often times, especially lately, Eli says something that I have absolutely no idea where it came from.  Where does he learn these things?  I know I haven't taught him.  The other day we were driving and Eli yells from the back seat "Barrack Obama!"  We said, "what?"  Then he told us Obama was the president.  

Last night we were eating at McDonald's when Eli lets out an audible fart.  He giggles a little then says, "That was a tricky one."  Mark and I couldn't stop laughing about it, but where in the heck did it come from?  

At that same McDonald's, following the fart lead, I took him to the bathroom with our giant portable Diego toilet seat I had been carrying around in my bag all day.  He resisted the toilet and ended up sticking his new show right in the toilet water, right up to the hem of his pants.  I was disgusted, even if the water had not yet been used.  Sick.

Here's a picture of the little stinker looking like he is doing something tricky on the girl next to him.

Potty Pities

A few months back, you might recall that we officially started potty training with Eli. I had high hopes for a quick and easy process but I was immediately disappointed. I didn't know what I was doing and Eli was not interested in leaving his beloved diapers. So, eventually, I let it drop and thought I would pick it up in a few weeks. Now, nearly a year later, I finally bought the book and got serious. We picked a week when Mark was on spring break and we could camp out in my mom's sizeable kitchen for a few days. I figured it could use a urine bath.

Apparently I had underestimated the mammoth task that lay in front of us. The first time Eli peed his pants, right through his mini-sized underwear, he just looked down at the floor puzzled. He kept calling my name and looking at it. He asked what it was and assured me several times that he had not thrown up on the floor. No, I explained to him, you have not thrown up, this is the pee I have to clean out of your diapers every day. The day continued with some accidents and some successes. Then day two. Eli didn't pee for 3 hours straight but once he did (partially on the floor), he went every few minutes. Fantastic fun.

These are not short days. We just sit in a chair for endless hours, hoping for success and reminding Eli every so often that the pee goes in the toilet, not on the floor. Last night Eli woke up twice in the middle of the night, and both times, through his half-asleep mumbles, I realized he was rehashing the day and having a nightmare about potty training. I, myself, was having similar dreams.

Today was similarly frustrating, but had some marked rewards. But at this point, I can't see my toddler leaving his play time or telling me at a store, unprompted, that he has to pee. Instead, he might just pee a little in his pants every day for the rest of his life before he realizes he has to go (this might make an uncomfortable situation at his first job).

We will continue to train, though we want to give up. The price of diapers alone fuels our motivation.

I am including some pictures of the members of our team that are all exhausted. Linda, in a show of support, decided to take a nap on one of Eli's diapers to demonstrate to him that we need to put these diapers to bed! Also, this picture of Mark is not staged. He literally fell asleep on the floor of the living room.

Don't make fun of my kid's skinny legs. He's going to be recruited for the AC Milan Jr. Team some day.


Linda in diaper heaven


Body found on the floor of the living room


Eli singing opera on the toilet


Lorenzo and Linda sharing a moment in the sun

Gas Alert

I guess you could say we had sort of a loose upbringing when it came to bodily functions.  I was not raised in a home where the word "fart" was a cuss or where passing gas was looked down upon.  In a house with three kids, these things were often laughed at and made the "butt" of many jokes.  We didn't find special words like "toot", "fluff", or "flap", instead, we called them like we saw (or heard them), which was fart, or translated in Spanish - pedo.  It was customary that when someone farted, everyone had to acknowledge it with a special hand sign (ask one of us to demonstrate if you are that interested) and the last one to make the sign was tagged as the individual who "ate the fart" (This was more my siblings and cousins rather than my parents).  

Alright, you may be thoroughly shocked by now, but I will continue.  As I grew up, these habits have not lessened, though I do admit, I no longer play the fart-eating game.  I am still quite immature and find great humor in the embarrassing human outputs.  It is extremely difficult for me not to openly laugh when I walk into a bathroom and someone is having a noisy time at it.  Recently, a friend of ours downloaded a fart application on his phone which simulates different types of flatulence.  My sister and I sat at a restaurant for a good 10 minutes laughing uncontrollably and pushing buttons.  No one else seemed to think it was nearly as funny as we did (except you, Kelly).  

Is it really as funny as we seem to think?  Yes, I believe so.  It seems that my view of gas has passed on to the next generation in my home.  Eli, a bouncing 2-year-old, loudly announces his small explosions, followed by peals of laughter.  Last night Mark filmed the video below, showing Eli's reaction to the fart noise application on his computer.  

Judge us all you want, but we will go down laughing (probably at you and your farts)!

  

Nuttin' But Slang

Today when Eli and I were cruising through the aisles of Target, we happened upon the rows holding all the peanuts, cashews, almonds, etc. We were walking slowly so Eli took notice of the rows and rows of colorful cans. He asked me, "What are those?" I always try to identify things for him so he can improve his vocabulary, which is quite impressive, though I say it myself. Because I didn't have time to name each individual nut, I generalized. "Eli, those are nuts." He furrowed his eyebrows and looked back at the aisle, then back at me. "No Mommy, those aren't nuts," then gesturing toward the crotch of his pants, "these are nuts." He wasn't trying to be funny, just simply correcting his mother. I wasn't sure what the proper response should be so I chose something like this.

"Yes." Pause. "Those are different nuts." I could have expanded on the use of slang and how it isn't always acceptable in social situations, but I left it as it was. I'll let his preschool teacher deal with that... Plus, Eli had already moved on to loudly asking what that guy was doing (when clearly referring to a woman). We had other fires to put out.

Mistaken Identity

Let me preface this story with two statements: first, this is not an exaggeration. And Mark is never as amused as I am by stories that begin with "You'll never guess what happened to me when I went out to ____ looking like crap". He has heard enough of these to wonder at my continued state of disarray and to mourn the loss of his somewhat more put together wife.

Alright, here it is. On Friday, I had several errands to run and not a lot of time to accomplish them. I had to shuffle Eli around in the morning to get him moving and take stock of what we needed to replenish our supply of processed foods. I usually pull on a pair of sweats and zip-up sweatshirt first thing in the morning; it is a really special day if I change out of them before 3pm. I don't have a lot of time to play in front of the mirror before I go out, so I am often found a bit, shall we say sloppy. Now don't think me selfless here. It isn't that I am the poor mother who doesn't have time to shower and never gets to think of herself, but more, "ah who cares" that goes through my head.

So, off I went on Friday, dressed in my sweats with no make-up and a messy ponytail that looked slept in. We ended up at Cub Foods (not the most glamorous of grocery stores). Eli and I filled our cart with ease and felt successful. Then we rolled up to the check-out line. (Let me stop here with an aside. At the grocery store, when one is available, Eli likes the grocery cart that has the race car at the front that he can sit in. This cumbersome cart is very loud and steers like a semi. Everyone always stares at me and I inevitably crash into a few store displays each time I use it.) Back to check-out line... With this giant cart, it is impossible to get in front of the cart to put groceries onto the conveyor, so I had to lean over the bar, deep into the cart to reach the far back corners. This probably caused me to look even more crazy. As the young gentleman started to scan the items, he abruptly stopped and said, "Oh, now is this going to be on the government assistance program?" I must have looked confused. I tried not to sound huffy when I answered "Nope". He scanned a few more and said, "Wait, did you say it was not on the government assistant program?" This time I said clearly, "I am not on government assistance. But thank you."

While I was taken aback by this mistake, the humor of the situation did not escape me. I took a survey of my appearance as I walked away with my groceries. I was in loose fitting sweats, with rumpled hair and toddler that refuses to take off his winter coat even after being in the store for 30 minutes. I had not put on my wedding rings. It is not unreasonable that I was asked this question.

On my way home, I called Mark to tell him and laugh. He didn't laugh as much as I did. Maybe there is something depressing about someone thinking your wife is single and poor. Next week, for Mark's sake, maybe I will put some make-up on with my sweats. Or I will find a Ralph Lauren velour sweat suit from T.J. Maxx. No one could possibly think ill of me that way.