This post concerns matters pertaining to things below the waist. If you are shy, conservative, squeamish or have any little shred of good taste you should just go now and come back tomorrow when I'm better behaved. My grandmother would be so ashamed if she could see me now.
Chapter One: In Which The Husband Installs a New Toilet Seat
We had to replace our toilet seat because I often sit on the closed lid and watch the boys while they are in the bath to ensure they don't kill each other accidentally. Or maybe on purpose. I'm not sure which I'm more worried about.
In any case, the little knobby things on the underside of the lid have been wearing on the seat and rubbed the coating of the seat off so it was embarrassing for people to see. It looked like we had sandpaper skin on our asses and had been sliding around on the seat.
Seeing that we are in ultra-conservative budget mode right now, Rob replaced the seat with a really cheapo press board seat that apparently cannot stand the force of our heavily-weighted posteriors. Or maybe it's the kids standing on it to get into the medicine cabinet and stealing all the Curious George bandaids. Yeah, I'll blame it on the kids. That sounds a lot better than admitting I have a big butt.
Today I noticed the seat is cracking and the last time I went in there it pinched me on the thigh. You know, a naked thigh pinch is one thing, but a naked thigh pinch from your toilet seat is something else entirely different.
So, now I hover over the seat like I'm in some filthy gas station men's room. This should not happen in the comfort of my own home. This is America for heaven's sake!
Chapter Two: In Which the Toddler Forms a Certain Obsession
The Toddler, for some reason, has an obsession with butt cracks. I have no idea why or how this happened, but it's disconcerting. He chases Julius around trying to poke him and laughs, "Booty!"
I'm hoping this means that when he grows up he will be a Proctologist who makes a whole lot of money, because the alternative is just too disturbing.
Chapter Three: In Which We Explain for the 30th Time That Mommy Doesn't Have a Penis
The following conversation took place between Rob and The Toddler during T's diaper changing:
R: You have a very wet diaper!
Rob gets the dry diaper under him.
R: Did you just say penis?
R: Um, yes, that's your penis.
T: Daddy. Penis.
R: Yes, Daddy has a penis.
R: Yes, Julius has a penis.
T: Mommy. Penis.
R: No, Mommy does not have a penis. Mommy has a vagina.
This is not the first time we've had this conversation and for some reason he seems disconcerted by my lack of penis. And sometimes he is quite insistent about it with the scowling and the disbelief. I know as he gets older he will be very relieved, but for now he seems quite indignant about it like we're playing some dirty trick on him.
We didn't have conversations about body parts with our older son until he was probably at least three. Maybe this is what happens when you're the younger kid you become "more informed" earlier. I don't know. What I do know is I'm not really keen on the men in the family sitting around talking about my va-jay-jay like it's the weather or the latest sports scores. Or at all, for that matter.
Chapter Four: In Which I Discover I Can't Tell the Difference Between Poop and Mud
My husband took the children to the baseball field to give me a little break. He's sweet that way. He and Julius practice every day with the catching and throwing and batting. Today while they were practicing, The Toddler amused himself in a nearby mud puddle. About an hour and a half after they had been gone, I got a call that went something like this:
R: Woop... Woop... Woop... calling the Hazmat Team, calling the Hazmat Team. We have a full scale emergency. MOBILIZE! MOBILIZE!
R: Full scale mobilization! We have a hazmat emergency! The package is on the way and is highly toxic. We need the entire team, stat!
W: Okay, the team is mobilizing! We'll be at the door when the package arrives.
In the meantime I run to the bathroom, start a bath, get a towel to cover the floor by the door, get the wipes and then I wait, poised for whatever comes through the door.
Julius burst through the door yelling, "We've smelled the Stench of Discovery!" Right after that I smelled the stench of discovery, too.
What came through the door next was a baby with no clothes on. (He left with clothes on. And shoes.) Now, nothing but a diaper. His father was carrying him by his armpits, fully extended out so there's no possible way the baby could touch him. The baby's pale skin was covered from chest all the way down with brown stuff. Part of it's mud. Part of it's... not mud, but something far more sinister. And smellier. I couldn't tell where the mud stopped and the poop started. It's spring. The temptation to put him in the driveway and use the hose on him was nearly irresistible. Somehow I managed to restrain myself.
About fifteen wet wipes later he was clean enough to get him into the tub. We dunked him good in the soapy water while he gleefully yells, "PENIS! MINE!". Pride starts early, apparently. I'm happy for him, but I'll be far more comfortable when he learns to internalize his pride a little better.
[photo credit: pfaff]