Sooooooo ... hi there. How've you been? What's new? Gosh, I haven't seen you in... TWO FREAKING YEARS?That, ladies and germs, is laziness. Nay, toddlerdom. Ok, laziness, too. Much has changed since that last dispatch (which was an also-ran from a column I had written months before — cop-out city), but I'm thinking most of you reading this are either blood relatives or check Facebook now and again, so you know the gist of the Trotter happenings.
In short: a move to the Chicago suburbs, two writing jobs for Greg, part-time employment with some hilarious priests plus a decent freelance career for me, the world's most awesome spring, followed by the world's shittiest spring, a little travel here, a few visitors there, a graying red dog, the growth and development of a most spectacular little girl, and now another wonderful (so far so good) pregnancy.
June's chatty now, and I mean real chatty. She likes to cuddle up next to me on the couch and say, "Mama, let's talk about animals." So we do. She tells me about monkeys, how they live in the jungle and eat bananas, and sometimes get in bathtubs and ride bicycles. Then we move on to cows, how they live in the fields and wear bells. And next is always lions, also living in the jungle and eating bananas. I dare not correct her. Now's not the time for Darwin.
We have given some passing thought to potty training, but are waiting a few more weeks until she shows more signs of readiness. She loves the trappings of the potty— the accessories, the how-to books, the mirage of independence — but not the actual usage itself. Right now, she's just in it for the toilet paper.
About a month ago, Matt and Margarita bequeathed their vast collection of potty paraphernalia to us, much to Junie's delight. As we were transporting the haul from my parents' house, she insisted on holding the Sesame Street-themed junior toilet seat in her lap all the way home. When it wasn't on her lap, she was holding it up to her face and peering through the hole saying, "Mama! Yook! Number zero!" Once again, too cute to correct. I commended her command of the numbers and then said to Greg, under my breath, "Where did she learn about zero? It wasn't from me." Then the little face in the toilet seat in the back chirped, "From TV." Take that, American Academy of Pediatrics.
I had incorrectly assumed, by gauging her interest (see above) and intellect, that she would be drunk with potty power by now. Not quite. She can't "hold it," she doesn't articulate when she needs to go No. 1, and she's not great at removing pants on her own. She will clink her glass and stand on a chair at a restaurant to announce the coming of a turd, but the pee warnings are more elusive. We've had a few instances where she's pantsless on the potty, says "All done!" and stands up, and then pisses or craps (or both) on the floor. Diapers haven't become such a hassle yet, and the thought that she may have inherited my pea-sized bladder and that we could be spending most of the next several years corralled in a public bathroom taking toilet turns isn't propelling me out the door to procure a copy of "Elmo's Potty Book" anytime soon.
And people, let's face it, a child out of diapers means a child getting older. And I ain't cool with that.
But a key factor in my reticence to go full-throne-throttle is the intersection of an increased vocabulary, a bear trap of a memory, and the mechanics of bladder and bowel relief. The questions are going to come, I know they are, and the answers will demand the use of "real" words.
Real words for which I'm not ready.
Everything I've ever read and heard when it comes to toddlers and the anatomy is to just let 'er rip. Be honest. Tell them the correct names for body parts. That horrifying fifth-grade sex-ed class living nightmare of "P" words and "V" words and "A" holes is supposed to be a calming, truthful presence in a 2-year-old's life. I'm calling bullshit. Did those doctors talk to any parents doing real parenting when they decided this was in the child's best interest? The generations of folks who happily grew into sexually repressed adulthood using only terms like "pee pee" and "wee wee"? The kids that we all see shouting "PENIS!" at the top of their lungs during recess just because they can and it feels right? I see what doctors are doing -- take away the shame and you take away the fascination, leading to healthier relationships and improved body image. I get it. I do. But I'm thinking about my daughter whose favorite word is currently "humungous" — a word I can see being especially expressive when paired with "vagina" and belted out during a quiet moment at Christmas Eve Mass.
When it comes down to it, when she does ask, I will tell her the truth. I will explain it to her in real terms. I will look her in the eye and say "nipple." I will not laugh. I WILL NOT LAUGH (the more I say it, the more it becomes an affirmation). I'm pregnant and my rapidly changing physique will only invite more awkward questioning. That and her refusal to let me pee alone.
At least one of us is using the toilet.
And this is the easy part, throwing a couple of names around. When the baby appears? And the whole "how did it get in there? / how does it get out?" double-whammy rears its graphic head? What will I do then? Ohhh Greg...
I love my parents so much, I do, but they will be the first to admit they dropped the ball when it came to this sort of stuff. Hell, they never picked the ball up. My dad still winces when he hears the right names for reproductive organs, and bellows "Why can't they just learn about it on the street, like I did?" when the topic of birds, bees and teaching young kids comes up. And my mom? Well, she did sit me down once to have "the talk" ... only to stand up immediately and scamper out of the room murmuring, "I can't do this. Talk to your sister." I was 19 at the time. True story.
But I can't blame them. Heck, I turned out fine. A little childish when it comes to some topics, a little prone to laughing like Butthead in others, but altogether fine. Is this "real" word thing some grand experiment we'll revisit in 20 years when the psychotherapy community will widely renounce the practice after droves of humorless adults complain that there's really nothing good to laugh at anymore? Will we go back to the "pee pee" days just so kids have something to giddily gasp at? When we lift the "P" word veil, what's left?
Well, there's your deep thought for the afternoon. I have to pee like crazy and June's napping so I've got this time all to myself.
No questions asked.
