Porta-Potty

Today, by the suggestion of a fellow mom, I found my myself at a local nursery (not the baby kind) that also has wooden death traps structures for kids to climb on and a petting zoo. As a proud helicopter mom, there was a lot to be concerned about.

The wooden structures were...borrowing a quote from the Russian figure skating coach in The Cutting Edge, "Legano...Illegano...Is grey area." I'm fairly certain the wooden ark didn't pass safety standards and regulations. How Alice didn't get her leg stuck, leaving her body flailing around, suspended between the levels in the ark is beyond me. But, it wasn't the play equipment that worried me.

A stones throw from the play area were the animals. Goats, horses, turkeys, geese, an emu, and a pig. The goats were innnn-sane! Vicious, child-eating goats, and one was loose running amok with the kids. Weaving in and out of the angelic children brave enough to try to feed the caged animals, his head down and his horns right at rib level. Again, I wasn't worried.

I was preoccupied with another matter entirely. We arrived at 11:00. We ate at noon, and by ate I mean whined, cried, and generally threw a tantrum for all to see, temporarily refusing to eat the horrible lunch I packed. And now it was 1:00. My mind was ruminating. It was eminent. Too much time had passed and she had ate and drank. As the saying goes, what goes in must come out. The facility was nice, but it was a fairly bare bones establishment. Public bathrooms were not going to be an option. I saw a line of 4 porta-potties when we walked in. I'm not sure if you've had the pleasure of taking a small child into one of these pristine enclosures, but I'm sure you yourself have been in one. It's never something anyone enjoys doing. I have a friend who, at a camping music festival, didn't shit for 3 days out of porta-pot fear. A decision had to be made, leave now before the urge hits her or pray for the best, knowing the inevitable was coming.

The decision was made for me.

"Mama, I have to go potty." ....wait for it.... "It's poop."

For a moment I contemplated what to do. I could ask her to hold it, but I remember how that turned out when Alice ended up shitting on the side of some back road off I95. I could take her to the car and use the in-case-of-emergencies-handy-dandy-portable-poop-in-a-bag potty. But then my almost 4 year old is pooping in my car in a parking lot. I guess it was time to suck it up and brave the porta-pot.

Armed with a pack of wipes, we walked over. Picking which door to open is sort of like Russian roulette. I chose door number one...mistake. As I opened the door I saw a sight common in the portable toilet sector, a man's back to me as he's standing there peeing. What is it with guys not locking the door? Men! Lock the freaking door! I have no desire to open door after door seeing you and your junk pissing. I said a quick "sorry" and let go off the door, dumbfounded as to why I was apologizing for walking in on him. Thankfully, Alice was in la la land and didn't notice.

Up next, door number 4. I opened the door and ushered Alice inside, laying down the ground rules. "Don't touch anything." I surveyed the scene. It wasn't pretty, but surprisingly, it didn't stink. Pee all over the toilet seat and dribbles on the floor. This was going to be tricky. I pulled her shirt up and tucked it under her chin as I mulled over whether to take her skort completely off or pull it down. All the while, she's talking.

"Mama? What's that? Why is the water blue? Why's there so much blue water? Why's there pee on the seat? What's that in the potty? Watch me, Mama."

"Alice just be still. Stop moving. Pretend your feet are glued to the floor. Don't touch your shoes, please, Alice."

In one fell swoop I pulled Alice's skort down and lifted her into the air. So far, so good. Step one done and minimal contact with urine. Holding her little bum over the potty, I told her to go for it. And go for it she did as pee started to flow. This was where things started to get dicey. She must have had to pee like a race horse cause the pee was flowing with some force and I could hardly see where it was going. Holding her entire body above the potty, I moved her around to aim the pee in the hole. It was trial and error, really. If pee hit the edge or splattered on me, I knew it was time to readjust. Step two done, with a bit more damage. Though, at least this time I was sure who's urine was on my toe. Note to self, remove skort completely next time.

"I don't need to poop, Mama. Poop's not coming," she pleaded.

"Alice, we're in here. You said you had to poop. You're trying." The last thing I wanted was to go through all that for her to demand a bathroom on the way home. Holding her a bit more firmly, I gave her no choice. A bit of grunting and a few pushes later, she was done. I thank the Gods, when the poop fell into the depths of the blue disinfectant it didn't splash back on us. Step three, check.

We were almost in the clear. All we had to do was pull her skort back up and we were home free. This step was definitely harder than I thought it was going to be. As I dropped Alice to her feet, I neglected to hold her flowery skort. I watched as it cascaded down around her Tevas. I saw the dribbles of pee scattered around her feet. I cringed at the thought. As fast as I could, I grabbed her skort and her Rapunzel undies and tugged upward. They got stuck at her knees. See, it was a hot day, things were sweaty. I was forced to drop the skort and work solely on the undies.

"Alice, help me out. Come on. Stop moving around and help me get your undies up. Stop! Your skorts getting in the pee! DO YOU SEE THE PEE?!"

It was obvious. She didn't care about the pee. She was walking around, her skort down around her ankles, skimming the disgusting, feces stained porta-pot floor. Her undies we rolling and sticking, refusing to go in place. I was forced to abandon the porta-pot. I grabbed her, opened the door and procedded to dress her outside. Step four, done. A little more urine and possibly trace amounts of feces rounded out the mission. All in all, a success.

Alice resumed playing like portable toilets were no big thing. And really, they're not. They are disgusting hot beds for germs and probably diseases I can't even name. But, when you've got to go you've got to go. I just worry about what I'm going to do when she's too big for me to hold over the potty and yet too small to hover feet on the floor. Do those kids actually sit their behinds on the porta-potty seat? I shudder at the thought.

Moss Is Cool, Right?

I'm a bit odd, quirky even. I'm the first to admit. I'll never be one of those people, convinced she's normal when everyone around her thinks otherwise.

Take, for example, my newest oddity, I'm giddy about moss. Right. Moss. Just simple moss. I'm like, smile ear to ear, do a little dance excited about moss. I don't even know why. I'm really so very weird. Normal people are delighted when they see puppies or roses, but moss is what gets me off.

Proudly, I have passed the love to my daughter. She takes great pleasure in pointing moss out on our dog walks. She's got the eye, that one. She can spot it a block away, hidden in a crack on the sidewalk. She'll stop whatever she's doing to talk about it. Alice was skipping enthusiastically when I took her and Hatta on a mission to steal moss from a nearby hiking trail.

I know, who steals moss? Who even wants moss? Aren't most people trying to kill it? All very normal questions, but I've already admitted I'm not completely normal.

Living in a city rowhome, my front yard is small and flanked by insanely large ginkgo trees. It's shaded, very shaded. Grass barely grows. For two years I have tried growing a lush lawn that would make the neighbors jealous to no avail. This year, I'm embracing my individualism and going against the grain. I'm growing a moss lawn.

I flirted with the idea after a three day rain spell this spring when moss began growing in a low spot in the middle of the yard and in between nearby sidewalk cracks. I wondered what the kind neighbor, who mows everyone's lawn, would think when he got to mine. Would he be stumped or incredibly thankful to have one less yard to mow? I fantasized what passersby would think when they saw moss in place of grass, "Wow! She's a genius to think out of the box. Look at them finding such an easy solution to an unsightly lawn. And so green and plush!" In my head, it's all accolades.


Reality...

Not nearly as impressive as in my mind.

I'm pretty sure I know what people think when they walk past my house, "What in the world is this plot of dirt supposed to be? Why does that silly girl keep watering the dirt?" I'm not concerned. I'm sure by next year my little plot of dirt moss will be the talk of the neighborhood. I will be a point of reference. "Go pass the house with the moss lawn..." People will be jealous of my no water, no mow, soft, vibrant yard.

I'll still be quirky, and my lawn will be impressive.

I'm Not Judging, Really I'm Not

Dearest Mom of the 7 year old boy I nearly brawled with at the pool,

I want to take a moment and let you know your son was dropping it like it's hot, the f-bomb that it. I'm sure you're not aware of it, being the awesome mom you are. Obviosly, he didn't learn it at home since you would never use such profanity in front of him, rather from that pricey private school you send him to. I thought you ought to know what your money is buying you. For the reasonable price of 20K a year, your son has learned to curse like a sailor in front of 3 year olds. I've heard other mom's in your position use soap or hot sauce in the mouth to fix such problems.

I saw your dear, sweet boy run to you to tattle on me after I embarrassed him in front of all his friends. I'd like to express my apologies. Normally I'm not the type to meddle in other's parenting, but since you were preoccupied with your fourth cocktail of the morning, I thought I'd do you a favor and shut your kid up. I don't want my little girl exposed to such vulgarity at such a young age, and, really, when she learns it I'd like it to be from me.

I was going to confront you in person regarding this matter. But, just as I was about to, your little angel slipped from your sunscreen covered hand and cannonballed into the pool. You seemed to have your hands full trying to order him out of the pool, threatening time out. When you finally waded into the pool to fetch your delinquent, I figured it was best just to let you handle the matter you were currently dealing with. No need to overwhelm you before your fifth drink.

Again, my sincerest apologies,

Nelly

P.S.

I'm not judging you. If your child was my son, I'd likely be drunk before noon, too.




***I'm not condoning hot sauce or soap as behavior modification. But, hey, soap seemed to work for Ralphie's mom. I'm also not endorsing drinking before noon. Even though Mimosas are packed full of vitamin C. On second thought, maybe soap and pre-noon binging should be a case by case decision.

There Will Be Cake

A very important birthday is coming up in a few weeks. No, not mine...Alice's. She's turning 4.

What the what!? When did that happen? How is it even possible that she's almost 4 all ready?

Anyway. Any mother knows a birthday and a party go hand in hand. It's expected. People start asking about the impending party weeks, even months in advance.

Suffice it to say, I'm actively planning a birthday party. Except, I'm not. Let me elaborate, I'm having a party for Alice, but I'm not actively doing anything about it. It's refreshing!

The previous years, I have found the party planning to be exhausting, daunting really. I'd create lists and lists within lists, spreadsheets even. I was worried about having enough food, too much food, and foods to feed my picky eater. I'd lose sleep thinking about the entertainment planned for the party. Will the little kids be entertained and the big kids engaged at the same time? What about the adults? At a 2 year old's party, you tend to have a fair amount of adults. Then, there are the party favors. What do I give that kids will enjoy and isn't going to be broken or thrown in the trash the next day? You'd think I was planning Kendal Jenner's sweet 16 party, and frankly, that may have been less stressful.

Something happened this year. Something clicked. Maybe it's my attempt to be more carefree and easy going. Maybe I'm figuring this mom thing out, finally. I don't know. I do know I haven't made one list, not even a mental note in preparation for this party. I didn't send out invitations. I told a few people the date and time, and I finally got around to send out an evite yesterday. I'm not allowing this birthday party to stress me out. Kids will attend. They will have fun. There will be cake. And isn't that all that really matters anyway?