Sunday, January 30, 2005
Captain Underpants
Max announced this morning that he wanted to wear underpants. Underpants are better than diapers, he told me solemnly, because underpants are soft and diapers are scratchy. I confess that I have been plying this idea on Max's maleable young mind for a few days, and it finally took hold.
Max had quite a day in his underpants. He went six for six in the solid waste department, and I was darn proud of him. He was plenty proud, too. Add to that the M&M's that he scored for using the potty, and he was thinking that there was nothing but upside when it came to this toilet business.
There was just one problem. Max couldn't get a handle on fluid dynamics. Every 15 minutes or so, I'd ask Max if he had the urge, and shortly after saying "no," he'd emerge with wet trousers. By 1:00, when Lee came home from work, we'd been through five changes of underpants. There were no more clean slacks for Max to wear, so I was doing laundry as well.
The only thing we'd done all morning was potty stuff. The house was a mess. The bills were unpaid. Nothing fun or creative or stimulating had happened in our house all morning. And I was frazzled and exhausted. In one morning, I morphed from Happy Homemaker to Desperate Housewife.
Lee offered me a reprieve. "Why don't you just decide that after so many wet underpants in one day, it's back to diapers until tomorrow?" "Great! I'm going to choose five changes of underpants. I'll get the diaper." So back into diapers Max went.
For about 15 minutes.
The next time I walked into Max's room, he was running around bare-bottomed, a discarded diaper lying by his bed. "Max, why did you take off your diaper?" "I don't like diapers. They're scratchy!"
Well, he got that much figured out. It was a loooong afternoon.
Evidently, the whole business was not just tiring for me. At 6:15, on the way to dinner, Max fell asleep in the car. Lee carried him into Ninfa's, where he slept face down on the booth beside Lee. After Lee, Reed and I had finished eating, Max regained a groggy consciousness. He leaned heavily against Lee while he ate a few tortillas, dozing between bites.
"He looks so cute," I said.
"You can say that because you're on the other side of the table from him," Lee replied.
Laughing, I anwered, "I can say that because I'm on the other side of the table and I've had a margarita."
Max had quite a day in his underpants. He went six for six in the solid waste department, and I was darn proud of him. He was plenty proud, too. Add to that the M&M's that he scored for using the potty, and he was thinking that there was nothing but upside when it came to this toilet business.
There was just one problem. Max couldn't get a handle on fluid dynamics. Every 15 minutes or so, I'd ask Max if he had the urge, and shortly after saying "no," he'd emerge with wet trousers. By 1:00, when Lee came home from work, we'd been through five changes of underpants. There were no more clean slacks for Max to wear, so I was doing laundry as well.
The only thing we'd done all morning was potty stuff. The house was a mess. The bills were unpaid. Nothing fun or creative or stimulating had happened in our house all morning. And I was frazzled and exhausted. In one morning, I morphed from Happy Homemaker to Desperate Housewife.
Lee offered me a reprieve. "Why don't you just decide that after so many wet underpants in one day, it's back to diapers until tomorrow?" "Great! I'm going to choose five changes of underpants. I'll get the diaper." So back into diapers Max went.
For about 15 minutes.
The next time I walked into Max's room, he was running around bare-bottomed, a discarded diaper lying by his bed. "Max, why did you take off your diaper?" "I don't like diapers. They're scratchy!"
Well, he got that much figured out. It was a loooong afternoon.
Evidently, the whole business was not just tiring for me. At 6:15, on the way to dinner, Max fell asleep in the car. Lee carried him into Ninfa's, where he slept face down on the booth beside Lee. After Lee, Reed and I had finished eating, Max regained a groggy consciousness. He leaned heavily against Lee while he ate a few tortillas, dozing between bites.
"He looks so cute," I said.
"You can say that because you're on the other side of the table from him," Lee replied.
Laughing, I anwered, "I can say that because I'm on the other side of the table and I've had a margarita."
Thursday, January 13, 2005
When I took Max to school, he was 3....
And when I picked him up he was 13.
Last week as Max and I pulled away from the carpool line, I started with my usual round of motherly questions. Because Max is no longer staying for lunch and "nap", I'm particularly interested in knowing how his experience of school may be different this semester. Boy, was I in for a surprise.
What did you do at school today that was fun, Max?
Nothing.
Nothing? Well, who did you play with?
No one.
Really? But you have so many wonderful friends.
[Concerned with this unusual report, I turned around to study Max's face. He was grinning.]
Which of your teachers did you enjoy?
No teachers.
No teachers? Well, who watched you while you were at school?
No one.
Max, I don't believe you. What did you do on the playground?
Nothing.
What kind of art did you make?
No art.
Which tricylce did you ride?
The fastest one.
[Ah-ha! A chink in his stoic armor! That must have been some tricycle ride!]
What puzzles did you play with?
No puzzles.
What kind of dress-up clothes did you use?
No dress-up clothes.
What books did you read?
No books.
What did you learn at chapel?
Nothing.
What songs did you sing?
No songs.
What did you do in the M&M (music and motor) room?
Nothing.
Hmmm. That's interesting, Max.
Mommy, now you're supposed to say, "I don't believe me."
Evidently, Max doesn't believe himself either.
Last week as Max and I pulled away from the carpool line, I started with my usual round of motherly questions. Because Max is no longer staying for lunch and "nap", I'm particularly interested in knowing how his experience of school may be different this semester. Boy, was I in for a surprise.
What did you do at school today that was fun, Max?
Nothing.
Nothing? Well, who did you play with?
No one.
Really? But you have so many wonderful friends.
[Concerned with this unusual report, I turned around to study Max's face. He was grinning.]
Which of your teachers did you enjoy?
No teachers.
No teachers? Well, who watched you while you were at school?
No one.
Max, I don't believe you. What did you do on the playground?
Nothing.
What kind of art did you make?
No art.
Which tricylce did you ride?
The fastest one.
[Ah-ha! A chink in his stoic armor! That must have been some tricycle ride!]
What puzzles did you play with?
No puzzles.
What kind of dress-up clothes did you use?
No dress-up clothes.
What books did you read?
No books.
What did you learn at chapel?
Nothing.
What songs did you sing?
No songs.
What did you do in the M&M (music and motor) room?
Nothing.
Hmmm. That's interesting, Max.
Mommy, now you're supposed to say, "I don't believe me."
Evidently, Max doesn't believe himself either.
Monday, January 03, 2005
You can't always get what you want....
I look forward to taking Max shopping with me with about as much enthusiasm as having liver and onions for dinner. I can rationalize this in two ways: (1) I get finished in half the time, and (2) I want to keep Max's list of unfulfilled wishes as short as possible.
On those unfortunate days when Max does come along, I can guarantee that almost everything he asks for will be unacceptable to me. If I allowed myself to dwell on it, I might realize how pitiful his small, outstretched hand looks as he gropes helplessly at the cookies, chips and sweets that I pass without breaking stride. When he asks for a forbidden treat, I have a standard reply. My voice registering all the astonishment I can muster, I exclaim, "Why, Max! We can't take that home. It doesn't belong to us!" Of course, this explanation leaves out a lot of salient information, like the fact that we could actually pay for those things and then they would be ours. But contrary to the prevailing view on Madison Avenue, Max has no business being a member of the consuming public. Period.
In spite of my efforts, it is dawning on Max that he can at least try bargaining for the things we pass in stores. Shopping for groceries today, Max asked if he could have a piece of chocolate, and I refused. He begged for pretzels, and I refused. He pleaded for candy, and I refused. As we passed through the bakery, he whined for a cake. I refused yet again, and that's when Max started to sing:
“I miss Babee! I miss Babee!”
On those unfortunate days when Max does come along, I can guarantee that almost everything he asks for will be unacceptable to me. If I allowed myself to dwell on it, I might realize how pitiful his small, outstretched hand looks as he gropes helplessly at the cookies, chips and sweets that I pass without breaking stride. When he asks for a forbidden treat, I have a standard reply. My voice registering all the astonishment I can muster, I exclaim, "Why, Max! We can't take that home. It doesn't belong to us!" Of course, this explanation leaves out a lot of salient information, like the fact that we could actually pay for those things and then they would be ours. But contrary to the prevailing view on Madison Avenue, Max has no business being a member of the consuming public. Period.
In spite of my efforts, it is dawning on Max that he can at least try bargaining for the things we pass in stores. Shopping for groceries today, Max asked if he could have a piece of chocolate, and I refused. He begged for pretzels, and I refused. He pleaded for candy, and I refused. As we passed through the bakery, he whined for a cake. I refused yet again, and that's when Max started to sing:
“I miss Babee! I miss Babee!”
