weekends are for validating that i have no idea what i am doing as a mom. i negotiate the seas of motherhood relatively successfully Monday through Friday, mainly because those precious moments i spend with the Punkin are so brief. i've got a schedule; i've got a routine (i've got OCD), so it seems as though i can't completely fail in a couple hours. i am responsible for the morning shift. the time between 6:00 and 8:00 am is spent on breakfast, an occasional book, changing a diaper and out of his jammies and into his school clothes, and singing in the car on the way to school (day care). el Jefe' normally picks up Punkin in the afternoon; they have guy time, we eat dinner as a family, and el Jefe' and i share most of the evening duties. duties, ugh. we have some play time, and read some books, but then there's the teeth brushing and bathing, and filling the humidifier, and getting lunch ready for school the next day ... to me, they seem like chores. again, the responsibility shift is about two hours. i certainly can't fuck up that badly in two hours.
today, i think i fucked up twice, and it was less than a two-hour shift.
Punkin removed his shorts three times this afternoon. i'm doing dishes at the sink (something i do four times a day on the weekends, hurray!), and i hear some scuffling at the patio doors. Punkin is down to his diaper and waving at el Jefe' in the back yard. As he starts working on removing his diaper, i ask if he wants to go potty. he nods, and toddles to the bathroom where his (unused) potty is located. we bought the potty a couple weeks ago, when the pulling down of the pants first started. everything i've read says he's not ready, but el Jefe' is a little anxious, and i figured "what the hell?" i know consistency is a big issue, but who would argue if their kid is potty-trained (oops, potty-learned) at 20 months? Punkin sits on his potty, still in his diaper, with a smile of his face. i take off the diaper, he sits for a nanosecond, and gets up to vacate the bathroom. (oh, i should call it a "powder room", but what the fuck is that?) i realize we have no wipes in relative proximity. failure! failure! at least i convince him to wash his hands. (we bought a step stool and the potty on the same trip to Target.) his diaper was dry.
this happened again, maybe an hour later. i join him in the powder room, and remove his diaper, and he sits on the potty. nothing. el Jefe' sits near the door. i drop my shorts and use the real potty. nothing. Punkin gets up and tries to close the door; of course el Jefe' is in the way. i tell him to move (maybe the kid wants some privacy? only both his parents are in the same room.) nothing. i say "good job", we try to reinstall the diaper, and we commence hand-washing. i really don't think he's ready, but i feel compelled to go with this stage as i've been doing. i'm afraid if we put the potty in a closet until he's two, i'll have missed some magic window of opportunity and the Punkin will go from Pull-Ups to Depends.
then i pull out the tricycle from the garage. it's a hand-me-down from my middle sister with twins (someday i'll come up with a catchy nickname for her, but not today!) ... the other tricycle surely went to another cousin. Punkin loves to point out bicyclists ("by-cla-ca") and especially loves motorcycles ("mo-cla-ca"). the tricycle has been in our garage probably a year? i wanted to get him a helmet first, to get him accustomed to wearing a helmet, but i figured since i was parenting so successfully this weekend, i might as well take the chance. (i won't even go into the story about pulling a Britney Spears, with Punkin on my lap and not in his car seat). he tries to get on the tricycle; his legs get a little crossed, so el Jefe' sits him on the seat. we show him the pedals; we show him the handle bars. said tricycle has a long handle in the back for parents (a Kelty, perhaps?), but Punkin wants to steer and use his feet like a Flinstone-mobile. we made it into the kitchen, when it became very apparent Punkin is still too small. he was trying very hard, but his butt wasn't even on the seat. so, i picked up the tricycle, and took it back to it's parking spot in the garage. oh, the tears! the horror! "my by-cla-ca!"
i didn't even think he liked it. but what do i know?
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