Tuesday, August 14, 2007

When will he ever wipe his own butt!?

Anyone else out there with this problem? My five-year-old still calls me in to the bathroom to wipe his butt after his business is done, and I am just not in the mood anymore. I try all the encouraging, "You can do it yourself, you're a big boy" stuff, and he ends up sitting there whining "Mommmmmeeee! I can't do it. I really need you to come wipe my butt." Over and over, I have no repreive, until I go wipe this little person's poopy behind. Do other kids this age do this, or are they all wiping peacefully in self-sufficient bliss? I feel I am doomed to wipe his butt forever!

Finding me

originally written 8/1/05

What am I doing?
I am a mama of two boys now.
Is this my life now?
Chunky spit ups -
mustard stained diapers
screams and cries of toddler angst
Am I really writing about toddler angst?
What do these kids have to pine over?

My bottom has finally stopped hurting and bleeding.
It was a glorious day when I could stop wearing the torpedo sized maxi pads. Speaking of torpedoes let me tell you about these boobs I now have. 24 hour milk store open for business – non stop supply.

This morning I had to drop my 3 ½ (not 3 as he would tell you) son at preschool. After the baby spit milk chunks all over the car as we were pulling out of the driveway, after a full clothing change and diaper change we made it to the preschool at 9:30. I was secretly looking forward to dropping him off and venturing downtown to my first mama group at Radio Bean coffee shop on Winooski Ave. He of course being 3 ½ (not 3) had other plans. He resisted, begged, pleaded, cried and pulled my leg to take him home. After being told by his teachers and the director that it was best for me to just leave I ran to my car and cried my eyes out. What a horrible mother I thought to myself. How could I just leave my child while all I craved was a cup of decaf, women who understand and a chance to feel “normal” for one hour.

None of that mattered now though as I sat in my car crying about how I had scarred my son for life. Then my cell phone rang and it was the director of the preschool calling to tell me Enzo was fine and in fact was smiling and playing minutes after I had left.

Ahh . . . the life of a 3 ½ (not 3) year old.

Normal? Who was I kidding? Going to a hip coffee shop is no longer normal. I am a mama of two boys now.

This is my new norm.