Happy Birthday, Captain.

For a year of bumps, bruises, tantrums, laughs, tears, travel, toddling, and basic running away from the camera, I present the Captain's 2nd year of life. Happy Birthday, baby.

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Special shoutout to my man, Willy Porter, for Unconditional.

Poops and pail and puppy dog tails.

That's what little Captain's are made of. I don't even know where to start about my shitty afternoon and all the shit that ensued, but I guess I'd best start with the backpack.

Every day when the Captain arrives home from school, I am tasked with the daunting job of emptying the backpack. It's with great trepidation that I pull the baggie from his bad for fear of the contents inside. Will it just be a wet T? Or will it, like today, be 2 pair of totally pooped up underpants?

Now, to me it's a game of what's grosser than gross. You remember the old game. What's gross? A pooped up diaper. What's grosser than gross? Pooped up, hardened, cold underpants. I hate it and I hate cleaning it out. It usually amounts to a stifled gag reflex and a lot of breath holding. Which is how the events of this afternoon transpired.

So while I'm cleaning out the shitty pants, Captain kid decides it's Naked Time. I see the pants and diaper come off and the diaper gets balled on to the floor. But now he's running around the house and his tushy is covered by his t-shirt, so there's really not much I can see. All I know is that my hands are deep in shit and I can't very well chase him in current state. So I finish cleaning out the underpants and grab some bleach and a sponge to disinfect the sink. If anyone out there has a better method I'd appreciate the feedback.

Anyway, seeing as how I'm holding my breath, it somehow escapes my attention that within the balled up diaper is a balled up turd. And even if I had been breathing in the air from the cruded up underpants, naturally shit is a natural mask for the odor of...shit.

So now I finally spot aforementioned turd in the diaper and it dawns on me that he's been running around nude for the last 5 minutes. I don't even know where to start. First stop, swab down the toddler, which he's none too pleased about. Then I run off to assess the damage. But where to start? Thank goodness for Dog, because like pigs sniffing out truffles, she's on the case. I follow her nose and (hopefully) clean up all the skid marks around the living room. But...

Now it dawns on me that I've forgotten about the toddler. So I return to the bathroom and he's picked up the bleached up sponge and is swabbing out the garbage pail (oh thank you Montessori). I clean him up, put away all the cleaning products, and turn around to rinse off the sink. Still with me?

While I'm rinsing the sink it gets quiet. Too quiet. And now I look and he's standing out on the patio holding...a can of cement glue and a power drill. Deviant Dad gets a serious Memo award on that one, I manage to shove the toddler in his crib for some much needed R&R (you know, for me), and now I sit here blogging away and dreaming of being in a nice cozy office next week, away from shit and poop and smart ass toddlers that make me look so goddamn mediocre.

And now...the entertainment portion of our blog. Thank you for reading...

Enter stage right.

Recall months ago when I lost my shift key. Think back...it was May 2007. Lindsay Lohan was not yet in rehab (this time) and Britney Spears was in a downward spiral (oh, wait). For oh these many months I have become an expert left-handed shifter for the sake of clarity, grammar and so that I can make FUCKING EXCLAMATION POINTS1 for your amusement and for the sake of posterity. Honestly, these days I have trouble working on a normal computer with two shift keys. Yup, my computer has gone ghetto. But I do believe these days are over. It's time to grow up and use some of that soon-to-be-earned income for the sake of a new keypad. Why, do you ask? Well, think hard. Could there be something missing in my work with this current keypad? I'll give you a clue. When I was a little girl sitting in Mrs. Smiley's (I swear to you that was her name) 5th grade class we learned a very important lesson about division of thoughts and ideas into separate and distinct paragraphs. Not only does this provide the reader with some clarity it sets the tone of each individual thought and assists the reader by dividing out separate ideas into small blocks of content. Without paragraphs it would make the authors thoughts blurry and difficult for a reader to grasp each idea. If you don't remember about paragraphs and the important role they play in both fiction and non-fiction, feel free to check out this entry in the wikipedia. Now I love my little Captain, but he does have the ability to be trouble. I am also very pleased to announce that we found our Mary Poppins to watch him when I return to work. She's young, she's willing to pick him up from school and she's a mom herself. But Poppins brings her tiny tot, the Captain's new First Mate, along to watch the Captain during the day and I'm afraid to say that this is where the trouble starts. Now Mary Poppins is not sure who savaged my keyboard last night, but it's safe to say that it was either the Captain or his First Mate. I have my suspicions, but as both of them are under the age of 2 and difficult to bring in for questioning, it's just impossible to say. And for that matter, it doesn't really matter who did it, does it? All that matters is that I am once again searching for alternatives to give the reader some clarity and hopefully won't have to wait too long before I get my new keyboard. Otherwise, does anyone really give a shit what Mrs. Smiley taught me?

Pottygate update.

I know I don't normally post so quickly. Hell, usually I like to wait a good 2 weeks to get my readers fully alienated from my life, but we had a breakthrough. After lunch, the Captain stripped down once more and headed for the potty. This time he asked for Cheerios, which made me think, wow, he wants a snack. This must mean he's committed. The Kid hops on the toilet and I run off to get Cheerios. When I return, believe it or not, he's sitting on the toilet and yes he's doing it. Pee's flying everywhere and even a drop or two got in the bowl.

All hail mighty Dog, though. Just like the good doormat she is, she walks over to the toilet and laps up the urine. Good dog. Woof.

Naked ambition.

Sigh...


Alright, I am very excited and pleased to report that Captain Kid asked me to take off his clothes and diaper, ran into the bathroom, and for the very first time (for me) decided to sit on the toilet. We had a wonderful half hour in the bathroom. He hopped on, he hopped off. He flushed the toilet. He flushed it again. And again. He put paper in the toilet until I put the paper away. We talked. We laughed. It was better than Cats, better than Les Miz.


But when the Captain goes for something, it doesn't just stop there. And so began the hour-and-a-half of nakedness and a few frightening moments of tushy to rug contact. It seems that he's tried the naturist thing and decided he's "into it." Every time I tried to get him dressed again he peeled off all his clothes and diaper. Which is all well and good when he's sitting on the potty, but a little frightening when he's running about, blowing in the breeze. And since he's figured out how to get naked...let's face it, I've lost.


Does it make me a terrible parent that I'm not eager to get piss and shit on my furniture? We do have mostly hardwood floors, but with all the grooves and crevasses I'm not certain how a cleanup operation would go. It sucks bad enough when Dog pukes. I do understand why people wait so long to potty train, because dealing with the prospect of piss and shit all over the place is none-to-appetizing. But we are already down the dark path and of course his school is to thank for the progress.


The question is, how do I keep him on the potty in his al natural state? Is there some incentive or coercion that I'm missing out there? Hmmm...

Emily Post, eat your heart out...with a dull spoon.

Last weekend the G'parents threw the Captain a little birthday partay on account of his upcoming 2nd birthday. It was fun, though he was more interested in playing in the swing than anything else and I daresay he was afraid of his birthday cake. No, really, he swatted at it, got a handful of icing, and then was horrified at the idea of eating it.

So being that I am returning to the workforce in less than 2 weeks, I decided to be on top of things and get my thank you notes out immediately, seeing as how I'm notoriously mediocre at sending out thank you notes. I pull apart Deviant Dad's still yet-to-be unpacked office, find thank you cards, address labels and...10 thank you notes for the Captain's BIRTH 2 years ago that I handed to Deviant Dad to be addressed, which, obviously, are still waiting to be addressed.

The whole thing was just so sad. They were filled out and stamped as of 2 postage price changes ago. So now I'm faced with the prospect of sending 10 sheepish mea culpas out to various friends and family. Yes, I know what you are going to say, why not make the Dad do it? Ummm, please reference previous paragraph for more information on why that's never going to happen!!!

And as a sidebar, Captain Kid's speech is developing by leaps and bounds. Baby's first swear word? Bastard. Awww. Thank you Fat Bastard for making it happen.