Mrs. Coburn Is a True Jedi

My son, Everett, is a rambunctious four year old, who only sometimes follows directions and occasionally is polite.  So today when I took him in for his kindergarten evaluation, I was very nervous.  Normally I would have just downed a good margarita to take the edge off, but since schools are drug free zones I thought I better not.  I just knew that when Everett was asked his colors, which he knows, he would wildly yell out, "Chicken butt!" or when asked to spell his name, which he also knows, he would take the pencil and use it as a light saber to slice off the kindergarten teacher's hand.

We walked into the school and were greeted by Mrs. Coburn, the kindergarten teacher.  Mrs. Coburn handed me a stack of papers to fill out and took Everett into a classroom to perform the evaluation.  They were gone five agonizing minutes.  How was he doing?  Was he sitting still and following directions?  Or was he attempting to toot on Mrs. Coburn while dog piling her?

Eventually they emerged.  Mrs. Coburn had no noticeable bruises and her hair was still in perfect form.  She told me we had a character on our hands and he was totally ready for kindergarten.  He knew his colors, his letters, some of his sounds and how to spell his name (although it took an entire 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of paper to do so).  But one thing he asked her made her giggle she said.  He asked her who the master was.

Luckily for us, Mrs. Coburn was a Star Wars fan and knew exactly who the master was.  She replied, "Mr. Jenkins is the school's master.  We call him the principal."  Everett left the school so excited for fall when he gets to start kindergarten and meet a real life master.

Later that same day, Karcher, my two year old, informed me that I am a monkey and he is Darth Vader.  I am beginning to wonder if we watch too much TV.

Don't Mess With A Good Thing

It has been two days since daylight savings and I have conclude that whoever came up with this plan to screw with time didn't have any small children around. If they did, they would realize a four year old can't tell time and you never mess with a two year old's schedule.

The next couple of days are sure going to be a test to see how strong willed I am.

Irony

Irony is when you wake up to find the last gallon of milk empty on the kitchen counter, but the liqueur cabinet is stocked with Jose Cuervo, margarita mix and salt... there's even a fresh lime in the fridge.

Do cream and sugar go in a margarita?

Tell me this... Is it proper to have a margarita for breakfast? It's been so long I don't remember the etiquette. Well, if it's ok then this morning would have been the morning.

I was awoken at 6:14 AM to Everett yelling, "I hate you! I hate you, Karcher!"

Then I heard the culprit, Karcher, whack his brother with his baby sister's plastic toy chains.

"I hate you!" Everett cried.

Then Dad entered the situation (I remained hidden in my bed). "Karcher, do you need to go potty? Let's change your training pants."

"No!" Karcher yelled. "Mom do it!" Then there was the thudding of footsteps coming down the hall. I knew my hideout was on the verge of discovery.

Two seconds later a grumpy little face appeared two inches in front of mine. "Mom, I go potty," it demanded. In the background, the baby began to cry.

Good morning. Here we go, again.

The Missing Potty

The other day a fairy visited our house... she came with a purpose and  secretly fulfilled her mission.  No one saw her, but her mission was abruptly realized when my son, Karcher, went to sit on his beloved (yet, defective) Cars 2 training potty.  "Where's my potty?" he yelled and looked around.

My husband and I looked at each other and shook our heads in artificial disbelief.  Where on earth could it be...maybe the trash where it belonged!

The shock of its disappearance soon was relieved when my husband pulled out of no where Grandma's Turtle Toilet Seat (the one my son loves to use when he visits Granny's house and had successfully used numerous times over the weekend).  "How about we use this one?" he asked, then added, "with this."  He pulled out another surprise: Grandma's Special Step Stool.

The missing toilet instantly left Karcher's memory as he jumped for joy.  "Yes!" he yelled and climbed right up, sat down and tinkled away.

Yeah, for Grandma's and their willingness to loan anything out, to dads for coming up with a plan and to the little toilet fairy with the sneaky hands.  Together they almost are as fabulous as a rockin' margarita.

Tackling #2

Last week's pee fest was successful! On Saturday, I heard those precious words I have been longing for, "Mom, I go pee," which was followed by the mad dash to the toilet. I got teary eyed as I hugged him. I told him how wonderful it was that he told me he needed to go pee before just letting lose in his underwear.

That was three days ago and now I long for the days before the "Big Day"... Why you ask? The answer is simple: poopy underwear is way grosser than peed in underwear.

Here we go. Tackling #2. I don't think chocolate, new shoes and a margarita would be enough to ease the situation.

The Tale of Three Toilets

Yesterday left me feeling totally defeated in the potty training department. I would like to report that today was more triumphant, but that would be lying. So I'm here to report that today went exactly like yesterday, which means I smell like urine and so does more of my carpet.

Rather than focusing on something I cannot control (where my son puts his urine), I am focusing on something I can control - shopping (unless there is a good sale, then control is not realistic).   The desire to shop is a result of some major potty training equipment failures!

Our first potty, bought for child #1, was a practical purchase. No characters smiling at you and it didn't require batteries. However, that's where it's practicality ended. We soon discovered the splash gaurd was totally insufficient and every time my son peed, it was like a geyser shooting across the room.   It had to go!

Our second potty had a taller splash guard and an encouraging Elmo on it. A week after its Christmas debut (yes, my son asked Santa to bring him a potty) we had a throw up incident that changed Elmo's native language to French. Despite not being able to understand Elmo, it manages to do the job for child #1.

Then came child #2. He was not impressed by French speaking Elmo, so a third potty was purchased and, sticking with tradition, Santa brought it as well. This one was a flashy Cars 2 potty with a gear shifter and revving engine sounds. It's flaw was discovered shortly after it arrived when there was a flood of urine flowing underneath it every time it was used. Nothing like pee soaked floorboards to make a house smell spring fresh.

Even though my standards of what is sanitary have drastically changed recently, another new potty is a life or death situation and if it wasn't 7:30 pm, I would be on my way to Walmart.

My advice is skip the training potty altogether and go straight for the liqueur cabinet. A little tequila might help sterilize the situation, limes smell better than ammonia and after a few gulps from a cactus glass this might actually be tolerable.

The Big Day

Today was the day. The big day. The day of reckoning. It was "say good bye to Pull Ups and hello to big boy underwear" day.

I spent the entire day following around a blonde wearing nothing but smirking cartoon characters on his bum. At first there were many triumphant moments with hugs, cheers and high fives. But slowly those moments transitioned into moments of defeat with soiled carpet, stained underwear and tired tears.

After 9 agonizing hours of bearing down, grunting and whining the two year old declared, "It's not working." With the smell of ammonia burned in my nostrils, I agreed.

So in the end we reached an epiphany...we had an entire box of Pull Ups in the closet we hated to waste, therefor... Maybe we will give it another attempt when he is twenty-one, so we could ease the process with fruity concoctions.

Who Ya Talking To?

Recently, my son had a sleepover with his cousin, Paisley.  As Paisley was getting ready to climb into bed, she stopped to say her nightly prayers.  While she conversed with her maker, my son walked into the room.  He was confused.  This was a sight foreign to him.

In our house, we liken religion unto Star Wars.  There are good guys and there are bad guys.  We want to be the good guys because they get to fly the Millennium Falcon.

So when Everett heard Paisley talking, he became concerned.  "Who's she talking to?" he yelled and began dancing around trying to get a better look, "Is someone in there?"  He busted into the room, ready to take down the intruder.

Not knowing how this all fit into our Star Wars scenario, I began looking for my stash of tiny pink umbrellas.  If I couldn't have my margarita, at least I could decorate the house as if I had.

Like Mother Like Son

I find it ironic that my son chooses to look like this on a daily basis.  This is also exactly what I look like after a five year margarita hiatus.  I think the world would be a much better place if neither one of us looked this way.

The Smell in the Vacuum

Back in the early days of going solo, without a margarita, good decisions were hard to come by. Consequences of my actions weren't always apparent.

For example: About two years ago my son zombied into our bedroom complaining he didn't feel well. Before I could grab my glasses from the bedside table, throw up was projecting across the room. My husband managed to calm him, change his pajamas and get him settled back down, which left me to attempt to rectify the situation on the carpet.

While attempting to not gag, I picked up the major chunks. I then used carpet cleaner to eliminate any salmon colored stains. Despite my best 3 AM efforts, there were still small chunks burrowed in the fibers. Finally, I threw a hail Mary and grabbed the vacuum.

In hindsight I can see where I went wrong... I reached for the vacuum instead of a margarita and now every time I use it, the aroma of that night's events come back to haunt me.

FOR SALE: Slightly used vacuum.

I am Lord Helmet

Tonight as I was sweetly hugging my kids good night, Everett, my four year old, said, "Mom, your hair looks like Darth Vader."

Is this a good thing? I wondered and hoped. He does love Star Wars, but no matter how I tried to justify it... It basically meant I had helmet hair. This was definitely a margarita moment and my only option was to lick a stale lime from the fridge, which in no way made it ok.