Too fast

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

Life has never moved as fast as it does now that I have a child. Another school year has passed by and summer is here already. What used to feel like eternity now flashes past before I've even catalogued the year in my brain.

This is true with how I see my friends' kids too. I've finally logged in my mind that Celia is 7 and she is in second grade. But wait she will be 8 in just a few months and just finished second grade to head off to the blissful Mexican Summer retreat with Jamie. How is this possible? Wasn't it just last summer that she was this exuberant three year old with ringlets yelling down to me from her front porch hardly able to contain her giggles from the excitement of my arrival. Now when I see Celia, I get a smile, a shrug and a self-consious "hello" before she runs off to play with Kate, my own exuberant three year old.

I also see Kate maturing too quickly. She's already shown the signs of the "Oh, mom...you're so embarrassing" attitude. This morning she was watching TV waiting for me to get dressed for work. I came around the corner in that sneaky-monster-fingers-menacingly-poised mode of the I'm-gonna-get-you-you-better-run-away game that usually gets her shrieking in excitement. Instead she looked up in the most bored and slightly annoyed expression she could muster and just stared at me. She might as well have given me that teenager tongue cluck before returning her attention to the TV. Ouch. This is the attitude change my kitten experienced in about a week after her first birthday. She went from playing along with my silly antics to scratching the shit out of me to get me to stop. Double ouch.

I'd say Kate has about 1 cat year left before she feels like showing me her claws.

Pink Tulle and Rose Petals From Now On

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

We decided to sign Kate up for Ballet classes this summer. She's expressed some interest in dance ever since seeing the "big" girls at her school perform their tap routines. I finally found a pre-ballet class at City Ballet for 3 year olds that meets on Saturday mornings. The school is in Pacific Beach so these mornings will be a great way for Jon and me to get some exercise running at the beach while Kate tip-toes around for 45 minutes.

Last Saturday we drove down to the school for her to just watch so we could gauge Kate's interest. The moment she saw hangers full of pink tulle she was hooked. The studio was filled with adorable prima ballerinas strutting and flounced their long ponytails about. The little girls started class by running in a circle on their tip-toes with their hands on their hips. They pretended to pick up beautiful flowers with delicate "ballerina fingers." They practiced pretty toes (pointed) and ugly toes (flexed). The added bonus was that the teacher spoke Spanish as much as she spoke English. Ballet and Spanish class in one. Awesome!

After 15 minutes of watching these exercises, Kate started inching her way towards the line of girls wanting to give it a try. That's when I decided to sign her up and get out of dodge before she threw a fit because she couldn't join in.

We went straight out to buy her the required uniform - pastel pink leotard, pastel pink tights and pastel pink ballet slippers - at the Capezio store in the mall. Kate was in girlie heaven with all the frills and tutus and pink stuff hanging about. I was shocked to see that these little leotards ran for $40 plus! We found a few that were 40% off and headed for the fitting room. Her round belly made finding the right leotard a challenge. The proportions were all off. They pulled around the middle while gaping at the leg. I guess they don't outfit many pot-bellied ballerinas in this store.

We finally found one that fit her well, which of course she asked to wear home. I remember what that was like when I was a kid so the obvious answer was yes. We worked our way past the frilly skirts of tulle and rose petals towards the door before she latched onto anything else. She finally bounded out of the store with her unbridled energy. Her arms were extended over her head and she jumped around erratically. A passerby said, "Oh, look at the princess." She yelled back at the top of her lungs as if insulted, "No, I'm a ballerina!" I was inwardly pleased. Ballerinas are lauded for their talent and athleticism, not for being born of the right family or married into it.

Kate then raced ahead of us emulating the tip-toe run she saw hours before. She occasionally jumped and threw her arms above her head before breaking into a sprint. Tip-toe running was a little too slow for her, I think. Everyone we passed, literally everyone, stared and laughed at our round little girl in her pink leotard with red and white striped underwear hanging out the leg. It was a sight to be seen.

I hope she's still excited to go to class tomorrow. Something tells me as soon as I pull the ballet shoes and pink leotard out from my closet (I had to confiscate them so they wouldn't get thrashed before her first class) her inner ballerina will be released once again and it won't be hard to convince her to go.

Someday when I'm older

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

Getting older sucks. Sitting on the floor for too long causes that creaking, aching feeling upon standing. My body has started sagging in places I’d rather it wouldn’t. People have started calling me Ma'am and I no longer get carded. Weekend yardwork has become something to recover from.

But getting older has its advantages too. I’m more comfortable in my own skin (albeit slightly more creased and less elastic skin). I can attend social events alone without anxiety welling up and revealing itself in the red splotches on my chest. Talking to new people is no longer a problem. And eating dinner alone in restaurants doesn’t pose the challenge it once did.

Twenty years ago the thought of dinner alone at a restaurant sent waves of fear rushing over me revealing all my introverted tendencies. I think a person’s view of dining alone divides the introverts from the extroverts. True extroverts would think, ‘what’s the big deal about eating alone?’ True extroverts wouldn’t even consider this an accomplishment. Although spending an entire meal alone not speaking to anyone might be just as challenging to an extrovert. So maybe extroverts and introverts alike feel somewhat uncomfortable about dining in a restaurant alone.

I remember the first time I ate alone at a restaurant just to prove to myself I could. I was 17. I chose a Mexican restaurant near my house in Kansas City (no, Jon, not the one with the powdered day-glo orange cheese). This sit-down joint was also a hot-spot for young, beautiful people to swig margaritas and cold imported beer. I was seated at a two-top facing the bar a mere body length away. Paralyzed from drawing unwanted attention to myself I didn’t ask for a quieter table or even switch to the chair opposite me so I’d have my back to the bar. To make matters slightly more uncomfortable I didn’t think to bring a diversion like reading material. Instead I read the drink menu over and over and over until my food arrived. After shoveling the food into my mouth as fast as humanly possible I hightailed it out the door to the introvert freedom of the car. Whew!

Now that I’m older and more comfortable in my own skin, I’ve gotten much better at dining alone. Recently, I was in DC on business. I stayed in old town Alexandria, which has a cute shopping and restaurant district with ankle-breaking cobblestone sidewalks and that Americana charm. The first night in town I went exploring to find a nice meal to enjoy. Sushi bars are always a good choice for dining solo. The sushi chef can be entertaining to watch and you aren’t segregated to your own table for two in the corner of the room. But I was interested in tasting some local fare. What is typical DC fare anyway? My guess was seafood, which is why I ended up at a Spanish restaurant. Oh well.

La Tasca was a lively tapas bar and restaurant. The hostess ushered me to the back near a young couple with an obnoxious three year old. Looks like two-tops and parties with children are banished to the back together. But I had an incredible view of the Raphael Nadal look-alike tending bar and was pleased to see Antonio Banderas would be my server. Things were looking up.

I sat for a moment observing my fellow diners. Besides the young couple with the child, there was a 20-something with what looked to be her parents sharing dessert (birthday celebration, maybe), a group of three women sipping Sangria. Two doughy college girls serving themselves sangria from a pitcher for what might be their third round. Can’t wait to see one of these gals stumble to the bathroom. There was another group of four people - a round and homely white woman in her 30s, an intellectual black man with suede patches at the elbows of his sportcoat, probably in his 40s and two young Indian girls. What brought the four of them together? A scientific conference in town? I didn’t see any name badges hanging from their necks or the give-away bag emblazoned with the latest wonder drug. Then I overheard statements like “…in the Boston office…” and “…expense report…” when they were calculating how to split the bill. Most definitely work acquaintances.

After this quick survey of the room, I pulled out my still much-needed diversion for dining alone. A pen and a notebook. Maybe my waiter will think I’m a food critic and amp up the service or throw in dessert or a glass of wine for free. I worked on maintaining relaxed body language. Open hands, uncrossed arms and legs. Slow, controlled movements. No fidgety feet under the table. Someday maybe I won’t have to consciously adjust my behavior to maintain a look of relaxed comfort. Someday when I’m older I’ll actually be comfortable.

Skin to the Porcelain

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

There is another tie that binds the wenches together. In addition to each of us being professional working moms and red-headed in one form or another, I discovered during our last Wench Night that none* of us uses seat protectors in public restrooms.

[*None meaning of those who were present that particular night.]

Don't ask how this topic surfaced. Actually, I know how it surfaced. I pointedly asked the others. I have noticed in recent years an increasing number of women regularly using toilet seat protectors in public restrooms. For example, I'm amazed at the wide-spread use of seat protectors by the women in my office building. I have yet to pee without hearing the familiar rrrriiiippp, rustle, rustle, rustle of a seat protector being dispensed in the adjacent stall. With one exception. The 73-year old secretary on my floor, like me, refuses to use seat protectors. Maybe she thinks I've made it this long without them so why start now.

Sometimes I feel peer pressure to use seat protectors. I feel guilty if the person next to me knows I place my bare ass on the porcelain. How dirty of me. How irresponsible I am. But then again how sanitary is it to wrestle with a thin piece of paper that irritatingly slides around on the slippery seat only to fall in, off to one side or on the floor? And then you are forced to retrieve the blasted thing once it's soaked up the cooties that have splashed onto the floor and collected near the drain. And what the hell are you supposed to do with that middle section? It's cut as if it should easily pop it out. But the entire thing rips in two should you should attempt it. Are you supposed to leave the middle piece in place? What will happen when the urine stream hits it? Will there be splash-back? Obviously I was never trained to properly use these things.

I had a thought the umpteenth time I heard my stall neighbor furiously arranging a seat protector on the toilet seat. How many of those women do it out of shame or fear of being judged? Do they actually pull the protectors out of the dispenser and scrunch them for a moment before just throwing them into the bowl? I'd like to see the numbers.

There is no solid scientific evidence that diseases are passed thigh to thigh from sitting down on a toilet seat. Bathroom door handles and faucets are a much more legitimate source of germs than the commodes. Especially the spotlessly clean commodes that are regularly sanitized by the crack janitorial staff at my high-end, brand-spanking new office building. I could probably eat my lunch off the seat without getting sick. It's an irrational fear of germs that forces these women to use seat protectors. Like when I was a kid and thought germs were these amazingly agile and quick creatures that would crawl great distances from the end of a stick clear to my hand in the time it took to jab at a dead bird or pile of dog poop.

Seat protectors are as wasteful as wrapping a big mitten of toilet paper around your hand to wipe. I'm tired of feeling shame for not using them. I need a slogan. Humm...well "skin" and "porcelain" definitely rhyme. That's a good place to start. "Go ahead. Put the skin to the porcelain..." I could get the environmentalists to take up my cause. We could come up with a catchy logo and print t-shirts announcing our refusal to use seat protectors. Maybe a talking toilet with the catch phrase, "Slap me some skin!" as our cartoon spokesperson.

Our office has sought to reduce waste in other ways such as the reusable coffee cup, energy-saving lights, sustainable wood for the flooring. Maybe I could get the firm on board. Encourage my office mates to bring their own re-usable potty skins to work. Next thing you know everyone will be washing up and tucking away their personal potty skins in the act of washing their hands. "Porcelain Skins" could be made of that gel material in Dr. Scholl's inserts or iPhone skins. So comfy. No slippage. Easy clean-up. And they fold away into a handy and stylish carrying case. They could even be ribbed for her pleasure.*

[*Note: Dry humping the Porcelain Skin is not an approved use of the device.]

As Jamie so eloquently put it, this could become a movement [pardon the pun]. The sounds of rrriiiippp, rustle, rustle, rustle in the stall next door will eventually become a thing of the past and a shameful reminder of our excesses and disregard for the environment.

en Espanol

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

When Kate was 4 months old and I went back to work we hired our nanny, Maria, to take care of her during the day. Maria is a native Spanish speaker and we encouraged her to speak Spanish to Kate all day, every day. We bought baby books in Spanish. Spanish flash cards. I even spoke to her in Spanish when I could. At least until she started critiquing my accent. "Don't speak Spanish, momma. You're not Nana! [laughter]. I knew my accent was bad, but I didn't know it was laughable.

By the time Kate started preschool last Fall she only spoke the most basic of terms in Spanish - milk:leche, water:agua, mouth:boca, etc. But she understood Spanish nearly as well as she understood English. Kate's preschool does not offer Spanish lessons to kids her age. Although we have encouraged one of the teachers' aids to speak to Kate in Spanish so she will continuing hearing and learning the language, most of what she learned in her first two years has essentially been forgotten.

Recently, Kate has expressed a renewed interest in Spanish. She uses Spanish to prove her point however wrong it may be. For example, we drove down to Mission Beach last weekend. Kate pointed out the window and drew our attention to the lake next to the highway. I told her that it actually is the San Diego river. It was low tide so it looked more like a wetland than a river. But "river" is the proper term for that body of water. She paused a moment and then replied while knowingly nodding, "River is how you say it in Spanish."

And again in the car tonight we were reviewing the meaning of green light, yellow light, red light. Green light means...."Go!" Good. Red light means...."Stop!" Uh huh. Yellow light means..."Speed up!" Actually, yellow light means caution or to slow down. Again she uses her mastery of the Spanish language to correct me. "In Spanish yellow means speed up." After thinking about it for awhile I decided she might be right.

Terrible Threes

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

I feel we may have entered a new phase now that Kate has turned 3. For the past several weeks she has started testing me and invariably will do the opposite of what I ask. All with a gleam in her eye and a smirk on her face. If year two was “terrible” (which it wasn’t) what will this year be? The year of “let’s push mommy’s buttons until she screams like a crazy person”

Last week Jon had a meeting after work down at the Bahia on Mission Bay. To save him some time I met him at the hotel for the Kate hand-off. It would be a fun, impromptu adventure for Kate and me down by the water. We could frolic in the sand, find a playground, maybe even have a ham b’ger (this is her pronunciation) al fresco to watch the sun set over the water.

First thing after saying good-bye to Jon was that Kate demanded chocolate from yet another birthday goody bag brought home from school. She negotiated like mad to convince me she should eat the chocolate “right now” instead of for dessert. Then, she argued she only wanted to hold the chocolate in her hand to save it for daddy. It’s going to melt, Kate. No, it won’t she replies as its rectangular shape began to resemble more of a half-empty tube of toothpaste. I was feeling a little hungry myself so made a deal with her that if she gave me half she could eat the chocolate. Okay, but I am going to open it. Sticky, brown goo squished out the holes she made in the wrapper. She put the top edge of the wrapper between her teeth and pulled. I grabbed it away from her and carefully opened the rest of the wrapper to let her suck out the chocolate. She handed me the remains of the chocolate toothpaste. “Here you go, mommy!” Thanks and tossed it in the nearest garbage can.

She’s a mess. As she heads for the water I realized she’s only going to get messier. It’s low tide. The mushy sand was kicking up behind her as she raced around. She plopped down on her knees and started digging a hole in the blackish-brown muck. She looked up at me. Her face was now covered with chocolate and black sand. Ugh. I really wish we had gone to the beach instead of the bay. I started thinking about last year’s sewage spills and noticing random trash left behind by the receding water. I didn’t have a single towel to wipe her down before climbing back into my car. Double ugh.

What happened next was purely my issue, not hers. I changed the game-plan. I decided I didn’t want her in the water and would like to go back to the playground where she would avoid getting muddy. Her response was no, I want to play here. Understandable. But then I lay down the “law” that she must start walking and follow me, right now. Instead, she ran the other direction. We weren’t anywhere near the road so I wasn’t exactly concerned for her safety. But she blatantly acted out by doing the exact opposite of what I had just asked her to do. I started walking towards her and realized it’s the chase she’s after. So, I planted my feet and started yelling things down the beach at her. Kate, get over here right now. If you aren’t standing next to me by the time I count down from five we’re going home. Geez, did I really just say that? I sound like such a mom. Five, four…did you hear me? Ugh, I hate the way I sound right now. Can’t I just forget all this and let her be a kid and get messy? Do I really have to keep with this countdown?. Kate, when I get to the number one, you’re finished. Three…two... Man, I really don’t want to leave. The sun is just starting to set. Why didn’t I say she’d get a time-out instead? One.

So, I ran towards her as she made a last dash for the water. I finally snatched hold of her arm while avoiding a tumble into the sand myself. She flopped down in the sand and flattened. I extracted her from the sand risking back injury while picking her up by her waist and tucked her under my left arm. She has this way of putting her arms over her head so there is no armpit under which I can wedge my fingers. So the under-the-arm carrying technique was the only available method. She started flailing with her entire being to get down. I trudged through the sand with my crazy three-year old in tow and saw a few of Jon’s colleagues heading for the meeting at the hotel. Maybe they won’t recognize me with my short hair. We advanced about thirty more feet before I gave up and plopped her down again on the sand. I was so frustrated and upset that I was forced to stand by my threat of taking her home. We’d only been there for 7 minutes max. She, on the other hand, didn’t appear upset at all. She was not crying or pitching a fit. Just wiggling and arguing, but still smiling.

I got her into the car and complained about what a drag it was that she forced me to leave the beach early. Great job, Kate. We were going to have a great time, but you wouldn’t listen to mommy and now we must go home.. Why don’t you listen to me. I turned around at this point to give her my most disappointed look. She replied, “What’s wrong?” as if this was the first she heard of my frustration. I’m upset because you were misbehaving and now we both have to leave the beach early. She smiled at me. I turned around because then I was really pissed and afraid of what I would yell back at her. Instead I just put the car in drive and drove out of the parking lot towards our house.

I opted for the silent treatment on the way home. About three miles into it she started singing in the backseat to a tune resembling a combination of Here We Go ‘round the Mulberry Bush and Down by the Station, “Mommy is mad, mommy is mad, la la la la la la…the mommy song, the mommy song, this is the mommy song…mommy is maaaaaad…(repeat)” I kept staring straight ahead. I suppressed the urge to laugh. Laughter from the backseat. Maybe she saw my face in the rear view mirror. It seems that laying down the law at the beach only hurt me in the end and did nothing to teach her a lesson.

I Can't Stand Myself

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

No, not in the way you'd think. I was just reminded of another grammar misstep that drives me nuts. It's the use of the word myself when me is perfectly appropriate. My poor husband was the latest to strike a nerve with me on this subject. Just like the incorrect (or even correct) use of the verb utilize, I would like myself to slip away into oblivion too. [I'm sure many of you thinking I'm reaching the annoying heights of Richard Lederer when it comes to these stupid grammar entries would like myself, I mean, me to literally slip away into oblivion]

I think people fall into misuse of myself primarily due to nervousness about choosing me as an object in a sentence. Or maybe they are combining me and I together to avoid choosing between the two altogether. Whatever the reason you should know it is actually okay to say me!

sez me

PS. Use of myself is appropriate only when you have used I earlier in the same sentence. As in: "I'm getting pretty tired of these pedantic blog entries myself"

Even Free Range Chickens Have Boundaries

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

Becca recently discovered an intriguing blog http://freerangekids.wordpress.com/. The author, Lenore Skenazy, holds a child rearing philosophy that I aspire to – to a degree.

Ms. Skenazy asks the questions: have you ever let your kid ride a bike to the library? Walk alone to school? Take a bus, solo? If you’ve had these thoughts or even wondered why kids don’t do this anymore, it’s possible you too are raising a Free Range Kid or you yourself are a “Free Ranger” (my term, not hers). Free Rangers believe their kids deserve to grow up free range just like they did - “we did this when we were growing up and lived to tell about it” seems to be their mantra.

When first reading this introduction, I remembered how growing up I also often rode loose in the back-end of a station wagon, never wore a helmet while riding a bike and was brought home from the hospital held in my mother’s arms in the front seat of a Dodge Charger. Yes I survived, but I’m not sure “we did it and look how we turned out” is the most logical rationale for continuing a particular child rearing philosophy. Free Rangers do clarify, however, that they also believe in children wearing helmets, using car seats and safety belts. They condone safety measures that make sense. But they don’t feel a school age child needs a security detail simply to go outside.

I should say before carrying on that my child is not technically school age. Kate will turn 3 this Thursday. Riding a city bus alone doesn’t actually apply to her even in the minds of the most radical of Free Rangers.

Ms. Skenazy mentions cites several examples of how parenting today has gone overboard. For example, all the baby superstores and parenting magazines inundate us with so many products and so much advice that we feel an incredible sense of pressure as parents to always DO THE RIGHT THING. Every waking and non-waking moment. How can we ever can feel completely satisfied that we are doing a good job? This reminds me of how the whole Schnockered Mom movement got started. Over two years ago I asked my fellow wenches, each of whom was a more experienced mother than myself, whether they regularly read parenting magazines. I wondered whether as a new mother I should be doing more research in mothering. The answer was a resounding “no” that it would only make me feel more inept as a parent and provide added guilt for not buying more, doing more, providing more than I already do. I threw out the Parent magazine mailer the same day.

The point Ms. Skenazy makes regarding overbooking our kids’ childhood with activities, college prep courses, and sports lessons hasn’t really been an issue yet and isn’t something I obsess over. Again, this could be due to Kate’s age. But it’s also because I know through my own interests and adventures I have exposed her in a fun way to a variety of the things one can do in life. We have a piano, guitar and harmonica in our living room. She is welcome to experiment any time she feels like it. We sing songs and listen to music for pleasure. We have dance recitals in her bedroom and impromptu disco night in the middle of the kitchen floor. We attend special events around the city like watching Persian dancers perform while tasting their food in Balboa park. We play soccer in the yard and attend rugby matches to watch daddy run around and bash into other men. We play around with the basketball and pretend we’re actually getting it through the hoop. We butcher the languages of Spanish and German and French just for fun. We look at picture books, study maps, recite colors, the alphabet and shapes. We read and think and talk. It’s part of our daily lives and we don’t need to schedule it.

My husband and I provide an enriching environment for Kate in a fun and easy way. And we recognize the need for down time and vegging out in front of cartoons. There are days after school when she tells me she doesn’t want to talk. So we don’t. There are mornings when she’s grumpy and not so keen on going to school or playing I Spy in the car. So, we turn the music up and don’t say a word. She’s a normal person with moods and needs. Sometimes it involves not thinking, not doing and not interacting. And I’m perfectly okay with this.

Where I falter in my aspirations to be a Free Ranger is with the safety issues of unsupervised play. Since Kate has been in this world we have lived on large, busy streets where cars race from here to there at high speeds. This has made me slightly neurotic about her getting hit by cars. Even cars pulling out of the alley at normal speeds make taking a nice stroll around the block somewhat stressful. I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling hyper-vigilant about cars and busy streets.

Regarding the creepy stranger issues. Again, I have a problem quelling my underlying fears that some stranger will abduct or harm Kate. There are regular occurrences of random crazies roaming around our neighborhood (our new one not so much as our old one, mind you). One sketchy character in our new neighborhood lecherously smiled and whistled at Kate playing naked in the sprinkler this weekend. It could be that he (as anyone else would do) was just laughing at her funny pot-belly sticking out there in all it's glory. But his weather-beaten, homeless look gave it a much more sinister feel. These things make it hard to feel comfortable leaving Kate to play unsupervised in our front yard. So I don’t.

I suffer from the "what ifs" and am trying really hard to suppress these fears. I don't worry about her catching swine flu or meningitis or deadly diseases if she eats without washing her hands or shares a kid's sippy cup at the park. I don’t obsess about potentially chemicals in the water bottles she sips from. I don’t fret about where her peanut butter came from. Traumatic injuries are what keep me awake at night.

The reality is when I was growing up we had boundaries. We weren’t given a carte blanche to roam wherever we pleased. We were warned of the busy streets and for the most part stayed within the boundaries set by our parents. I still remember them to this day – avoid 46th St, Norton Ave., and Chouteau Dr. and don’t even think about making a trip to the K-Mart. We stayed on the quiet streets of our own neighborhood playing with our mates from school.

Maybe that’s one difference between then and now. Now, there aren’t very many quiet streets where we live. Now, kids don’t necessarily know the neighbor kids from school because they’re all being sent to charters or magnets or private schools. It’s a different time and a different place. Another reason why abiding by the “I did it that way when I was a kid and look how I turned out” mantra doesn’t always make the most sense.

Down With Utilize

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

I'd like to interrupt this work day not to relay an endearing conversation I had with my three-year old in the bath tub last night. No, this has a much more selfish purpose - to spread the word and pave the way to eradicate use of the verb, utilize.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary the verb "use" (yooz) means to make use of (some immaterial thing) as a means or instrument; to employ for a certain end or purpose. Utilize is defined as "to make or render useful; to convert to use, turn to account." So the two verbs have distinct meanings. One being to employ objects for the purpose they were intended and the other for an unintended purpose. INCORRECT - I utilized my computer keyboard to type this blog. CORRECT - I utilized my computer keyboard to whack a cockroach in the bathtub.

Most people, however, use the words "use" and "utilize" interchangeably. This drives me nuts. Maybe they think they appear smarter than they actually are by defaulting to "utilize" when they actually mean "use." Maybe they think the word is more sophisticated? I think they sound anything but sophisticated. Silly even.

I have a client in my patent practice who is a successful orthopedic surgeon and MBA. I hold him generally in very high regard. Until today. His revisions to a patent application I drafted were riddled with "utilize." I'm in the habit of revising client writing styles to my own. But seeing "utilize" resulted in a visceral reaction in me to expel it from the paragraph as soon as I saw the word. And further, to lose 30 minutes from my billing day to make sure I spread the word. Use of "utilize" should be eradicated. Not just the inappropriate use of the word. All use entirely.

DOWN WITH UTILIZE!

Who are the sama lama girls, anyway?

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

"...these are the sama lama girls. Sama lama girls. Sama lama girls. Gotta cover 'em with a newspaper. Now they are cupcakes. They are at school. Their names are sama lama. They are at the zoo. These are cupcakes. I need to cover them. Oh man! They went into the fire. No more cupcakes. We need a shirt now, but where are the pants. Oh, I peed into my pants. This is pee. Go away pants. I don't like you anymore. Oh, he's going to bite my knees. Go away! Some ramps went up the fire and they ate the cookies up. No monster! You can't eat my feet any more. I have sprinkles..."

[Easvesdropping on Kate taking a bath last night. I've got to record some of this for posterity]

In a Redhead State of Mind

Each wench sent a list of songs in each category for the Schnockered Moms new CD, In a Redhead State of Mind. Place your order now!

New Release, What's That? (Recommended by)

You Know I'm No Good - Amy Winehouse (Natalie)

Time to Pretend - MGMT (Natalie)

Magnificent - U2 (Natalie)

Right as Rain - Adele (Natalie)

O...Saya - A.R. Rahman (Esther)

Over and Over

Closer to Fine - Indigo Girls (Becca)

Kate - Ben Folds 5 (Natalie)

Cecilia - Simon and Garfunkle (Jamie)

Fuzzy Blanket

Stripped - Depeche Mode (Esther)

Annabel - The Duhks (Becca)

Pink Moon - Nick Drake (Becca)

Pictures of You - The Cure (Natalie)

Roads - Portishead (Natalie)

City of New Orleans - Willie Nelson (Jamie)

Makes Me Smile

I will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie (Esther)

If I had a $1,000,000 - Barenaked Ladies (Jamie)

Shut Up and Let Me Go - The Ting Tings (Natalie)

Steal My Kisses - Ben Harper (Jamie)

I Can See Clearly Now - Jimmy Cliff (Esther)

Shake That Money Maker

A little Respect - Erasure (Esther)

Waterloo - ABBA (Jamie, Esther)

Let's Get It Started - Black Eyed Peas (Natalie)

Family Affair - Mary J. Blige (Natalie

Way, Way Up

I Alone - Live (Jamie)

These Are the Days - 10,000 Maniacs (Natalie)

Free Fallin' - Tom Petty (Becca)

Changes - David Bowie (Esther)

Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen (Jamie)

A Random To Do List

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

(and in no particular order)

Be nicer ● Be less cynical ● Be less irritable ● Work hard ● Bill at least 6.5 hours each work day ● Buy clothes that fit ● Throw out clothes that don’t fit ● Change oil every 3000 miles ● Change contacts once a month ● Clean contacts every night ● Clean as I go ● Do more art ● Do the crossword ● Plan more adventures ● Get outside ● Enjoy nature ● Visit the beach ● Avoid the sun from 10 to 4 ● Wear a hat ● Wear sunscreen ● Check moles ● Moisturize ● Avoid chemicals ● Drink red wine ● Don’t drink too much alcohol ● Keep hydrated ● Drink 8 8oz glasses of water ● Water the plants ● Conserve water ● Eat fewer carbs ● Avoid bagels ● Stop at the third piece of pizza ● Eat more vegetables ● Don’t drive when you can walk ● Take the stairs ● Elevate heart rate ● Exercise body ● Do push ups ● Stretch ● Enjoy how body looks ● Brush teeth after meals ● Brush teeth for at least 2 minutes ● Floss ● Visit the dentist ● Do Kegels at stoplights ● Seduce husband ● Have sex with husband ● Look husband in the eye and tell him I love him ● Look people in the eye ● Laugh more ● Smile more ● Set good example for daughter ● Play with daughter ● Read to daughter ● Read for pleasure ● Read to stay abreast of current events ● Reduce ● Reuse ● Recycle ● Spend time with family ● Spend time with friends ● Spend time alone ● Pet the dog ● Call parents ● Call friends ● Write letters ● Spend less time on the computer ● Check four e-mail accounts, friends’ blogs and Facebook…less often ● Sit ergonomically correct ● Stand tall ● Stand up straight ● Put shoulders back ● Tuck tummy in ● Walk with purpose ● Stop biting nails ● Stop pulling out eyebrows ● Stop worrying ● Open mind ● Tell people I love how important they are

Lies, Lies, Lies…Yeah

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

The other morning I caught myself telling Kate not one, but two out-right, bald-faced lies before we even ate breakfast. The first lie was related to my hopes that she will soon give up her beloved nighttime binky. As we snuggled under the sheets that morning I suggested she consider participating in Santa’s Binky Exchange Program. I told her that she could mail all her binkies to Santa at the North Pole. He delivers the used binkies to needy infants all around the world. In exchange, he would bring her a new toy and it’s not even Christmas! How cool is that?! This tall tale sprung from an idea my friend, Kelly, gave me after telling her account of the same type of bargaining with her daughter. They tied all the beloved binks to the end of a string to which the other end were strung several helium-filled balloons. The balloons took the binks up and up and away to heaven or something like that. I don’t recall the details of Kelly’s lie, er…concocted story, but I now know that the balloon to binky ratio is not even close to 1-to-1.

My Kate, however, wasn’t buying the exchange program story. She could really care less about a new toy from Santa in April or poor children around the world in need of binkies. Three year olds aren’t exactly known for their altruistic behaviors or mercenary tendencies, for that matter. The ploy failed - not shocking. But what shocked me was my ability to sling Santa’s name around like he actually existed and his exchange program was a real philanthropic endeavor. I’m not in the habit of lying, but maybe I’m pretty good at it.

Or not. We shuffled downstairs to browse the contents of my forever sparse fridge to find something for breakfast. She spotted the beautifully-colored Easter eggs we had dyed the night before and insisted on eating one. I had planned to hide these eggs in just a few more days for her first Easter egg hunt in the new house. There were only a dozen. I can’t let her eat any before Easter. I had to act fast. Then I heard myself telling my second lie of the morning. Well, you see Kate, we can’t eat these colored eggs because these are for the Easter Bunny. He knows that on Easter morning he should look in our fridge to find the colored eggs. He hides these colored eggs out of our fridge around the yard so that when you wake up Easter morning you can search for them…you know…before you can eat them…and then…. The words just kept spilling out of my mouth, faster, and faster. Could I sound more ridiculous? What did my parents tell us when we were growing up? How did they explain the illogical transition from dying the Easter eggs to an Easter bunny showing up at the house only to hide the very same eggs we just dyed days before? I waited for her trademarked furrowed eyebrow look of skepticism. Instead she just nodded and decided on cereal and milk. It worked! But how? (*Note: It turns out the dyed Easter eggs were for eating any old time. Apparently, the Kansas City Easter Bunny bring chocolate and candy. Good to know.)

I’ve come to realize that feeding into her over-exuberant imagination can sometimes be more persuasive than logic. For example, when the ice cream truck drives down our street with its incessant refrain of Do Your Ears Hang Low, Kate runs in the opposite direction yelling “It’s the music van! It’s the music van! Run away, run away!” I only told her it was a truck that drives around playing silly music. She was the one who added the element of suspense and scariness to it. Saves me $5 and some empty calories, so who am I to tell her differently.

But there must be a point when lying (can I call it fibbing?) is not the best way to get Kate to do what I want. It’s like pornography, I know it when I see it. I know when the time is right to teach her that disappointment is a part of life and sometimes the answer is a resounding “No” no matter how hard she whines, coerces, cries and falls into a heap on the floor. For the other times, I’m sticking with my fibs. Like tonight. Kate was concerned about the foxes in her bedroom. “They have big teeth and they BITE!” I think to myself that maybe it’s time to stop playing “Sounds of the wild” on CD while putting her to bed. Crickets and frogs singing is one thing. But the howls of wolves in the night? That might have something to do with these fears of a dog-like menace in her bedroom. I gave her a little hug, smoothed down her dandelion hair and with a smile said, “Wear your socks to bed, Kate. Foxes can’t bite through socks.”

Pushing My Agenda - yet again

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie



I have this habit of steering Kate away from princesses. It's not a conscious thing, but I've started to recognize it for what it is. For example, I encouraged her to be Tinkerbelle at Halloween instead of a victimized princess character from a Disney movie. At least Tinkerbelle has some spunk, thinks for herself and doesn't fantasize about becoming a bride as the end-all-be-all of her existence.

Today at school the kids were to dress up as their favorite book character. Kate's favorite book right now is Cars, but I wasn't sure how to throw together a Lightning McQueen costume in two days. Peter Rabbit is another we've been reading recently. It seemed pretty easy too. Bunny ears - check. Blue jacket - check. Cotton tail - check. Whiskers and rabbit nose makeup - check.

I pulled it all together yesterday and talked it up to get some buy-in from her. She seemed pretty jazzed about it and kept calling me Mr. McGregor. But this morning she of course didn't want to wear her costume. Risking a swift kick to the chops I wrestled with her to pull on a pair of brown pants with a tissue-stuffed sock pinned to the butt. Finally I was given the go-ahead to put the pants on her but only if I promised to take the cottontail off. At least she was still interested in wearing the whiskers and nose make-up. But she kept rubbing her face so the black eyeliner smeared. It was unclear whether the smears were part of the costume or grime missed during last night's bath.


So, no ears and no tail and a black smudged face. No one knew what the heck she was until I handed over the book, Peter Rabbit. At least she let me take the book. There was a point when she wasn't going to let me do that either.

When we arrived at her classroom three of her classmates were dressed up like Tinkerbelle, Snow White and Cinderella. I could almost read Kate's mind as she stared at them twirling around. I could have worn my princess clothes?!? But no, I'm wearing this stupid rabbit costume. Okay, so maybe I'm putting words in her mouth. I still think I'll make it up to her tonight by getting my girl on and having a tea party with some flouncy dress-up clothes.

“Oh, she’s just a mom”

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

Whenever I have an appointment at the salon (which since I’ve reinvented my look with a pixie cut is surprisingly often), I make a special effort to make myself presentable. I try to wear something mildly cute or trendy. Strappy sandals perhaps. I feel compelled to, if not wash, at least style my hair. I do this even though I know 5 minutes after sitting down in the chair my head will be shoved under a nozzle and any semblance of my efforts literally washed down the drain. I put on extra make-up. I darken my eyeliner, apply some extra foundation, maybe some blush. Because if I have to stare at myself in the mirror for the next hour I might as well be pleasant to look at, right? Especially while attempting small talk. Do I really look like that when I talk to people?

I recently had an appointment with my new stylist, Stacey, at her new salon, Ritual. She was the one who chopped off my 12 inch ponytail in January . I didn’t have as much time as I had hoped to ready myself before the appointment. A bit of lipstick on the way up the front steps was about all I could manage. I avoided my reflection in the mirror as I sat down in the chair to explain my needs, wants and abstract desires for my new coif.

A few minutes later it was time to walk over to the sink for a wash. Stacey took my jacket to hang it up on a near-by hook. As she turned I eyed a spot on the back of the jacket that looked for all the world to be a fingerprint-sized smudge of dog poop. I whipped my head back around to avoid meeting Stacey’s eyes. She couldn’t have missed that. How had I missed such an obvious blemish on my jacket? I stared back at myself in the mirror in wonderment only to see a dried snot mark on the shoulder of my t-shirt now revealed that my jacket was hanging on the hook. But poop?! How is this possible? I don’t think even a pair of cute flats and an extra coat of lipstick could distract from this offense.

I remember an old grad school colleague who showed up to our weekly departmental seminar wearing a pair of jeans with a dried poop smudge on the back thigh. He claimed later that his new puppy must have gotten into his laundry that was sitting too close to the dog kennel. Okay, so not only does he fail to look in the mirror before walking out the door, but now he’s confessed he makes a habit of wearing dirty clothes picked up off the floor. The guy was really quite smart and handsome (and gay, unfortunately). But the only thing I will clearly remember about him is that huge poop smudge the shape of Michigan on the back of his beautiful thighs. Will this now be my fate? The girl with poop on her jacket.

After my haircut it was time to get up and reclaim said jacket. As Stacey turned around to grab my jacket from the hook I saw her hesitate. There was a sense of recognition and shared camaraderie in her eyes when she handed me the jacket. She pointed to the smudge. Taking a closer look I noticed the poop smudge had glitter in it. What on earth did Kodi eat? Wait…that’s not poop. It’s mustard-colored glitter paint!

Stacey mentioned how she had the same thing happen. Not wearing a jacket with poo on it, per se. Rather, she’s left the house with stickers on her backside or glitter on her face. She said, “Don’t feel bad. We’re moms. That’s our excuse.” Stickers, tiaras, dried smudges of unknown substances on our clothes in places we’d rather not draw attention. Is being a mom really a valid excuse for looking like a slob? Does our domestic role prevent us from taking that last glance in the mirror before stepping out the door? Probably not. But it does prevent us from doing anything about it. We’re either out of time to change clothes or out of snot-free clothes to change into. Maybe it’s best just not to know about these blemishes and have others make our excuses for us.

The Chicken Pot-Pie Debacle

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

You may remember the lemon cake incident at the 2005 Karpo summer solstice party or the green bean casserole fiasco for Thanksgiving 2008 at the McQuaid’s. Well, it happened again. Let’s just call it the late-night, chicken pot-pie debacle.

Each of the wenches has her talents. Each of the wenches also has her shortcomings. Becca’s is her inability to civilly stay up past her bedtime or comfortably allow someone into her personal space. Jamie’s is her inability to tolerate repetitive noises or provide a colleague with verbal kudos. Sarah’s is her inclination to attempt the epitome of perfection. Esther’s…well…Esther may actually not have any shortcomings. Mine is cooking.

I’m literally the only one of the wenches that doesn’t enjoy and/or know how to cook. All the others cook for “fun.” Their kitchens are filled with grown-up cooking gadgets like silicone spatulas, oil misters, garlic peelers, and god-forbid, aprons. They might fill some free time on a random Saturday by cooking lasagna, baking sugar cookies or distilling their own lemoncello.

Most people who know me have heard about my (mis)adventures in cooking. Adventures because they usually involve, at a minimum, three excursions to the grocery store. Tonight, I didn’t make three trips to the store (although I probably should have). Tonight, it was more like a three-pot adventure. Let me walk you through the late-night, chicken pot-pie debacle 2009.

Why a three-pot adventure? Because I used three pots where only one was necessary. I have issues selecting the right pot for the job. Maybe it’s because I don’t read ahead in the recipe. You’d think I could eye-ball it while reading the ingredients – 1.5 lb of chicken, 10 oz peas, 4 carrots, 2 onions, 2 cups milk….yep, I’ll need a slightly bigger pot than say the little pot I use to froth milk for my morning latte.

I made my way through the “heart healthy” chicken pot-pie recipe, adding more and more ingredients into my sorely inadequate sauce pan. Why didn’t they TELL me I’d need a huge pasta pot to fit all this stuff in there?! By the end I had to resort to jabbing the peas and carrots with a wooden spoon (as opposed to actually mixing the simmering ingredients together). The little sauce pan did as much as she could to keep the chicken and milk and peas and carrots and onions from overflowing to extinguish the blue flame yet a fifth time. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

No, she can’t. It was time to switch out to a stronger, more powerful locomotive. I attempted to heave the contents of the sauce pan into a bigger (although cold) sauce pan. My arms were shaking and my wrist was about to give out (blast these fancy Calphalons), but I managed to make the transfer. Ahh…. Okay, so where were we? Oh shit. Did I add the wine?

I was supposed to add dry white wine and wait a few minutes until the wine evaporates. Seems like a bit of a waste anyway. Oh well. Maybe I’ll just drink that cup of wine instead. Gives me an excuse to open the bottle at…is it really 11:00 pm?! I’m staying up this late to make a chicken pot pie? Who is this person and where did she hide the flour sifter that has imprisoned the real Natalie? I’m going to kick the shit out of this apron-wearing impostor!

Next, I pulled the herbs out of the fridge. Did I really buy baby dill instead of thyme? This is another shortcoming of mine – buying ingredients that are almost right. Actually, this shortcoming is Jon’s. Mine is trusting him to do the grocery shopping. I’d like to blame this one on Jon, but I do vaguely remember hearing my own voice say “I need dill.” Now, why in the hell would I ask him to buy dill when my shopping list clearly says “fresh thyme?” Real Simple magazine tries to make it…well…really simple for us schmucks who have kitchen handicaps. Not simple enough, I suppose. I think this is the root of my kitchen issues. I can’t follow directions because I can't remember what I’ve just read. Maybe it’s the wine.

Pouring the somewhat mixed mixture into my shallow baking dish, I realize I have once again misjudged the size dish I would need. Another transfer. My pie crust is just never going to fit over this gargantuan crevasse. Maybe if I had bought the pie crust that wasn’t already rolled out into an aluminum pan I’d have at least an ice cube's chance in hell of sealing the crust on the dish. I laugh out loud when I read the next step “cut vents into the crust after sealing the edges.” Vents? Ha! Seal? Ha, Ha!

I open my circa 1967 oven breathing 400 degree heat all over my kitchen and pop onto the rack the final baking dish containing this blasted chicken pot-pie. Things are looking up. The oven door didn’t fall off. I set the timer (a timer that has mysteriously stopped beeping to alert ill-fated cooks that their dishes might be ready to come out of the oven). Geez, I hope I don’t space out when 40 minutes gets to zero.

Meanwhile, it’s past midnight, and I remember that I’m supposed to bring vanilla wafer cookies for Kate’s preschool sock-hop tomorrow afternoon. Who the hell am I and what have I done with my former self?

Better question…how long has this timer been at zero?

Oh sh…

Into The Moszna

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

One of our own has left us to begin a new life with her family in San Francisco. Our ginger fivesome is now down to a mere quartet (or trio if you now categorize Esther as a blond, which I don't). Let's just say the person responsible for coming up with our moniker "wenches went wild" is no longer with us to join in our monthly evening of debauchery. Or so we thought.

Last night, we remaining wenches skyped Sarah during wench night. I learned the hard way that "skyped" sounds a little more socially cool than "videoconferenced." A co-worker asked me on my way out the door hey! where are the girls were heading for girls' night out? As the words parted from my lips "..we're staying home to have a videoconference because..." I witnessed the recoil and confusion in my co-worker's face and knew how lame it sounded. Kicking myself on the way down the stairs I thought man, I should have said 'we're skyping our friend from Dublin...' Either way it doesn't really sound much like a fun wenches went wild. But it was! And despite the challenges of the evening.

There was the simple challenge of getting connected (...oh...it's jamiesuekelly without spaces...) and adjusting the lighting in the room so that we weren't just glowing teeth in the night. Then, there was the issue of the three of us forced to sit shoulder to shoulder at the dining room table in order to be in full view. I've never held a conversation with someone sitting quite so close to me. I found myself having trouble making full eye contact and instead staring at my neighbor's eyelashes or a wrinkle near her left ear as she described the fall-out from cash-strapped California refusing to pay her company for any services for the next 10 weeks. But I digress. Point is there were some personal space issues to overcome. At least for one of us. We'll put Becca on an end next time.

There were some potential eavesdropping issues too. We kept our topics of discussion to a tame PG-13 (at least for the first 30 minutes) for the benefit of Jamie's daughter "sleeping" just down the hall. Similarly, Jamie's wench-worthy sat "working" in the next room while we raucously discussed the pros and cons of my new wetnurse weight-loss program or which Wench Camp event we're going to plan first.

Although it was only a laptop with Sarah's head and smiling face staring back at us (actually mostly down and to the left) it truly felt like she was sitting across the table joking along and sipping drinks. We all acted silly and goofed with the web cam as if we were 12 years old. Tears streamed down from the corners of our eyes while we engaged in stomach-wrenching laughter. About what, you ask? Well...we will keep that one far, far into the moszna.

Orange Day in Hell

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

I think I'm coming down with the flu. I woke up this morning feeling really miserable. Full of aches and pains and chills and hot flashes. The aches and pains could be due to the recent revival of my exercise routine. The chills and hot flashes could be due to the Santa Ana wind conditions that mysteriously feel hot and cold simultaneously. Let's just say I felt like shit.

Mornings have become a mad dash to feed and clothe my rambunctious (and slightly grumpy) 2 year old and myself in 45 minutes flat. It's always a struggle whether I feel well or not. Either she doesn't want to eat what I made her for breakfast, or complains that my cereal is her cereal, or licks the peanut butter off my piece of toast or she drags her sleeve through the milk onto the floor or she runs away and hides behind the curtain while I attempt to dress her, or she throws her legs over her head followed by judo kicks at my forhead while trying to slip on her socks and shoes. You get the point. Mornings are a struggle.

On and on it went this morning. I tried to appeal to her sensitive side. Would you please be more helpful today, mommy just doesn't feel well...please, please.... Nope, didn't work. After managing to feed and dress her and even remembering to bring the half gallon of orange sherbet for "Orange Day" at her preschool, I hear her call out from the bedroom that she's peed her pants. I run into the other room yelling "No!...." She was wearing the one and only orange outfit she owns. It can't have pee all over it!! Luckily, she hadn't released the pee just yet and I was able to get her clothes off in time to use the potty.

Afterwards, she starts washing her hands. As usual she used too much soap and is scrubbing up her entire arm past the elbow like a surgeon. Everything is getting more wet and soapy and slippery. I manage to wipe her down and am ready to snap the crotch in her overalls. I lean over and get the first snap. Three more to go. My head is pounding, my back is aching, I'm about to collapse into a feverish heap on the floor from the effort. At which point she snaps her head up and butts into my jaw catching my tongue between my molars. I literally couldn't take it anymore and started bawling in the bathroom. The sobs just kept coming even though I could see in her eyes she was really afraid of what she was witnessing. She starts rubbing my arm and asking "You okay, Mommy? You okay?" Which just sends me further into a sobbing mess.

When I've finally gotten a hold of myself I realize my daughter now has lost it. She starts crying. Big tears roll down her scrunched up, reddening face. We're hugging and crying and making complete fools out of ourselves. I decided that this called for a little sneak of the orange sherbet. We both enjoyed a spoonful of the cold, sweet goodness. We gathered ourselves and our things and headed off to preschool.

A few refrains of The Wheels on the Bus and things were back to normal. Except that I still felt like shit.

Outted By The Mouths of Babes

- By Schnockered Mom Jamie

Hi. My name is Jamie and I use alcohol to relax. I first recognized this to be the case about five years ago when my 2-year-old Celia outted me.

I stormed into the house after a long day of client wrangling, invoice chasing and general loathing of my fellow humans. I bypassed the chipper chatter in the kitchen between Celia and Maria and b-lined for the couch. Once prone I belted out a great sigh, closed my eyes and sank in to the cushions. A moment later the distinctive thump of Celia’s feet travelled across the dining room and she was at my side quietly assessing the situation. She lay one pudgy little palm on my arm and said, “you seet on the couch?” I had to giggle at her Mexican accent which I fully encouraged by replying, “Yes baby, mama needs a keess. I had a rough day.” She leaned in and pressed a delicious pucker on my lips and then moved away. Fortified by her kiss, I opened one eye to see what she was up to next. She took three steps toward the dining room pointing to the hutch. With empathy unmatched in her age group, she looked back at me and said, “Mama, you need Leeker?”

Adventures in Potty Training

- By Schnockered Mom Natalie

We've experienced a bit of a breakthrough with Kate recently in her toilet training. She finally pooped. In the toilet. Actually, multiple times. And actually, toilet training is a tad strong for the approach we've used. We ask her occasionally if she needs to use the toilet and have invited her to watch what we're doing. We've provided her with the essential tools. Meaning, a step-stool, a donut for the toilet and some reading material.

But that's about the extent of her training. She hasn't been all too interested and frankly, neither have we. We can go hours and hours without worrying about what her plumbing is up to and it suits us just fine. Once the diapers are gone, it's big girl panties and accidents for the next year. We'll have to remember to ask when she needs to use the toilet. We'll be making more frequent trips to public restrooms and not always in time. We'll lug around the portable potty in the car for those roadside emergencies. Makes keeping her in diapers just that much more appealing. Our approach has been to let her lead the way. The turning point, however, was when she witnessed another little kid her same age use the toilet. She tried for herself the very next day.

Now that we've made it over that initial hump, things are moving along just fine. Her dexterity isn't what it should be for easy removal of her own clothes or proper wiping. There's the occasional streak mark on the donut following her dismount. Or the occasional dingleberry hanging on for dear life. [As an aside, she quickly learned and started using the term, "dingleberry". And I can see why she'd want to use the word, dingleberry. It's a very cute word, dingleberry is. Just try it. You won't be able to stop saying dingleberry.]

This morning, however, was something new. I had 20 minutes left to get the two of us fed, changed, and out the door before the start of preschool. With breakfast finished, we were making good time. Then, she asked to use the toilet. My first thought was to ignore the request and just continue dressing her so we could make it on time. She tends to dawdle and make toilet paper wedding dresses while sitting on the potty. But I can't refuse her the opportunity to try just to save 15 minutes in preschool. It's not like she's missing AP English or risking getting detention for skipping shop class. This is preschool we're talking about. It's all carpet squares and popsicle sticks.

I plop her down on the donut, hand her some reading material and head back to my own bathroom to quickly wash up and put my contacts in before she starts calling out to me that she's finished (usually less than 12 seconds). Contacts out, face washed, "MOMMY! MOMMY!" I look across the hallway and see her pointing towards the ground where the book had fallen in front of the toilet. I walk over to help her with the book and realize she wasn't pointing at the book. She was pointing at something else. Because I wasn't wearing my glasses and my vision is about 20/400 all I saw was a small dark blur next to the book-like blur I thought she was asking for. I lean down about a nose-length away from the small dark blur. It looked like the immature pine cone she picked up during our walk the night before. But then I catch a whiff. No, it's a turd.

"I dropped that" Do you mean the book? What's the poop doing on the floor? "I dropped that poop." Do you mean you pooped on the floor? "Um, yes." After a short discussion about why we only poop in the toilet and not on the floor, I leaned down with a tissue this time and picked up the pine cone. It's only going to get messier, isn't it?