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Henry dislikes going to the potty alone. He insists on having someone with him while he’s perched on the porcelain throne. 
I’m not sure why he considers the act of elimination to be a social event. In my experience, group trips to the bathroom were limited to middle school dances.
His urges tend to coincide with this-is-not-convenient-for-mommy-moments. He invariably informs me that he has to go potty when I am up to my elbows in something else (cooking dinner, doing the dishes, digging in the garden, etc.) and would rather not be chanting: “Push it out, push it out, waaay out.”
I realize that this is his way of getting attention, but there comes a time when enough is enough.
“Mommy, come with me,” he begged while doing the pee-pee dance. And I suddenly decided that the Dictator needed to be challenged. “Go ahead,” I said. “You can do it. Go to the bathroom by yourself.”
Thus began the contest of wills.
For half an hour, we were at impasse. He became a sobbing, whining, whirling maelstrom; I became an implacable, inflexible, unyielding element. Henry was going to go potty by himself, even if I saw St. Peter as a consequence. He wound his body into the shower curtain and tugged. I sat on the floor in the hallway with an issue of National Geographic and ground my teeth into nubs.
“You can do it!”
“I caaaaaaan’t!”
“Yes, you can!” (See how I absorbed the election propaganda.)
“I caaaaaaan’t! Help meeeee!”
“If you pee in your pants, you will be wet and Mommy is not going to help you change. Just pull your pants down and sit on the toilet.”
“Nooooooo! I caaaaaan’t! Mommy! Help meeeeee!”
I stared at Mayan ruins.
That’s when the screaming began.
“Henry!” My voice was sharp and I knew it. “Just pull your pants down and sit on the potty! You can do it! I know you can!”
He stopped screaming and faced the wall.
Silence descended. Finally, when I was on the verge of giving in, he flipped up the toilet lid, pulled down his pants and scooted himself onto the potty (sans stool). He peed.
“I did it!!” His eyes were crescents as he beamed with satisfaction.
“I’m so proud of you for doing it all by yourself!”
“I went potty all by myself!”
Thank the good Lord.
We were at my husband’s high school reunion. It’s been twenty years since he made headlines in the local newspaper for wearing sunglasses while giving his commencement speech.
My name tag read Mary [Not My Legal Last Name Because I Felt Strongly About Keeping My Maiden Name]. I smiled blandly at lots of people that I didn’t know and had heard hardly anything about. I shook hands and laughed politely at little jokes. And then it happened.
“So,” she said, “What do you do?”
It’s such an innocuous question. Much like, “How’s it going?” Most times, you don’t expect the respondent to launch into their life story, give you a detailed medical history, or share their actual feelings. What you expect is for the person to say: “Just fine. How are you?”
It’s classic small talk. The response to the question “What do you do?” is to simply give the person the label you’ve accepted and then ask them for their label.
But I didn’t know what to say.
The label I have accepted is not recognized as vernacular much less is it a vocabulary word.
I’m in the midst of a full-blown identity crisis. Dropping the word “Career” from “Woman” has been a daunting adjustment.
A little self-indulgent, self-analysis here … this blog is, for me, like therapy without the group. Writing helps me clarify my thoughts and when I post an excerpt from my life I am instantly gratified with the sense of having accomplished something, however small. It’s as though I’m pretending that raising my kids isn’t gratifying enough, that being entrusted with their lives isn’t responsibility enough, that shaping their characters isn’t the greatest challenge I have ever faced.
It’s as though I am trying to preserve some part of myself under the guise of chronicling my kids’ lives. How very humbling that is to see that in print.
“I, uh, I,” I stammered. “Actually, I, uh, just left my job…” and my words were trampled by someone else who thankfully interrupted our exchange to squeal over how much so-and-so had changed and how good it was to see her.
I felt ashamed of myself. Why didn’t I feel proud about my choice? For the rest of the evening I managed to avoid small talk in this direction and thought about ways that I should have responded when prompted.
Next time someone asks that question I’m going to tell them: “I’m on a semi-permanent sabbatical from my job so that I can try to enjoy the kids I chose to produce.”
Yeah. I’m still working on it.
- Shower less frequently.
I used to shower every day before work because I did not feel that I was fully awake until and unless I sprayed myself with water. Now, if anyone cares that I am bleary eyed and a little stinky, I don’t care. - Handwash the dishes.
Full disclosure: This was not a conscious decision of mine. Our dishwasher is broken. - Talk to my husband rather than mindlessly watch TV.
I occasionally have energy now to do more than say “Going to bed. Don’t wake me. Goodnight.” - Reduced mileage.
Although I am still driving the kids hither and yon, I am not driving the daily trek to my office and back. This saves me from driving an estimated total of 15 miles per week. That’s more than half a gallon of gas! - Mow the lawn myself.
It takes far more energy to nag my husband to do it.
I had one of those moments – oh-so-fleeting – of pure happiness.
I was speeding home from a relaxed all-day barbeque with friends. My husband and the boys were in one car; Nora and I were in the other. We cranked the windows open and Abba’s “Dancing Queen” floated around us. The sun dipped towards the horizon. Rows of newly mown hay perfumed the air. A couple of donkeys and a herd of cows grazed in a field. “This is Vermont,” I thought.
I turned the radio down and caught Nora’s eye in the rearview mirror. “We had a wonderful day today, didn’t we?”
A small smile curved around her thumb. She murmured something.
“What’d you say, honey?” I asked, silently willing my five-year old to validate my unspoken sentiments.
“You’re welcome.” she said, as her eyes closed and her hand fell away from her face. “Thank you for coming.”
OINKtales 
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