Callapidder Days

L. is 2 1/2. Which means that I’m starting to get questions along the lines of, “Is he potty-trained?”

Um…well…no. We haven’t even started.

But unfortunately the truth is, L. is starting to show signs of “readiness.” For example, last week he approached me, giggled, and then informed me that he was going to go into the other room, close his eyes, and poop. And because I’ve been through this process before, I knew what that meant. Yes, he’s hit that stage where he’s aware of what’s going on and can even predict its imminent occurrence.

Which means I have to start thinking about potty-training. Great.

Of course, L. is also showing signs of UN-readiness. One day, he told me he’d like to go sit on the potty. (I suspect he made this decision because I had mentioned in passing that big boys who use the potty have been known to get M&M’s as a treat. M&M’s wield great power in our house.) Not one to pass up an opportunity, and hoping desperately that he had decided to magically train himself over the course of exactly two minutes, I agreed to give it a try.

But alas, he was only on the potty for about one second before he made another decision:

“Uh-oh. UH-OH! No, thank you. No-thank-you-no-thank-you-no-thank-you-no-thank-you!”

I let him get off. So much for instantaneous self-training.

Though we haven’t actually started training yet, I DO talk about potty-training with L.. I tell him that soon he’ll use the potty, just like the rest of us do, because he’s getting to be a big boy. I talk about how nice it will be to not have to pay for wear diapers anymore. He doesn’t seem very impressed.

Last weekend, during a trip to Target, I decided to bite the bullet and purchase some necessary supplies.

“Hey, L.. Should we by a Go, Diego, Go potty seat?”

“Um…nope!”

I put it in the cart anyway. Along with a very nice step stool. Again: L.=not impressed.  In fact, he started yelling, “No! Take it out! No!”

Nevertheless, we made it up to the cashier and actually purchased them.

It’s a first step. But I have to admit, they are still sitting in their Target bag in the back of my car. So clearly, I haven’t made it to the second step yet: bringing the supplies into the house.

Perhaps neither one of us is quite ready to commit to the struggle adventure process ahead of us. But I just keep reminding myself how nice it will be when the potty-training thing is behind us. And then I think about starting the training. And then I decide to just go have a couple more M&M’s, and leave the training for another day.

[Editor's note: This post was started last Tuesday, but I'm just now getting it posted.]

I woke up sore this morning. Sore in expected and unexpected places.

Sore legs — yep, that was to be expected. Sore obliques — a nice feeling, but I didn’t realize they’d feel quite this sore.  And a shooting soreness down my right forearm. Hm… that might be from one of my mishaps.

You see, yesterday, C. and I took Ski Lessons. His first. And my first, too.

Oh, I’d been on skis before. In total: twice. Both times were back in high school, when my friends assured me that they’d “teach” me how to ski. Yeah, right. Here’s what I remember:

Ski Trip #1: I attempted to master the tow-rope, but instead found myself hopelessly tangled up in it, and then deposited onto the snow, face-first. Eventually, I managed to get up the hill, turned around, and pointed back down. With no clue how to control my speed, I zipped through a crowd of people and ended up in a creek bed. Decided to spend the rest of the day drinking hot chocolate.

Ski Trip #2: Went skiing with a boy I had a crush on. He convinced me that “this hill will be fun.” I realized at the top that it was a black diamond, and proceeded to roll. The whole. way. down. That experience ended my skiing career.

Until yesterday, that is. My in-laws gave the grandkids the gift of a quick after-Christmas ski trip for Christmas, and in a fit of holiday delirium adventure, I thought it would be “fun” to take a lesson with C., to try to conquer this ski thing, even though I’m way slightly older than I was during my first two attempts.

My first warning came during the rental process. The helpful ski-renter-guy asked me what size skis I wanted.

“Um, I have no idea. This is my first ski lesson — what does that mean?”

His response: “It means you’ll be falling down a lot.”

Hmph. So much for helpful.

C. and I spent a couple hours with a very nice instructor named Jim. He was patient with us. He didn’t even yell at me when I made the conveyor-belt-carpet-lift thing stop while lots of people were on it.  (No one told me not to put my poles down at the end of it! And honestly — one sign saying “Lift Poles Now” is just not sufficient for new skiers who are too worried about maintaining their balance to be bothered with reading signs.)

And I’m happy to say I didn’t end up in any creek beds and I didn’t roll down any hills. Of course, I also didn’t leave the training slope, but that’s a minor detail. In all, I only fell down once, and that wasn’t my fault. It was that darn conveyor-belt-carpet-lift thing again. As I came to the end, I saw that a large crowd of children was stopped mere feet off the end of the belt. I panicked, worried I would run into them, toppling them like puffy little neon-colored bowling pins.

So instead, I fell down. (I’m all about self-sacrifice.) Thankfully, our instructor was nearby and helped me stand up before anyone could run over my head with their skis.

C. had a good time. He decided not to try the big ski lift that day — we’ll save that adventure for another time. But he did very well for his first time on skis, mastering the “pizza” move, the “reverse pizza” move, the “walk like a duck” move, and the “french fries” move.

I had a good time, too. And while I doubt I’ll ever be a very proficient skier, I can see myself enjoying the sport with the family in brief spurts, followed, of course, by recuperative hot chocolates.

We celebrated C.’s 10th birthday with a big party at our house over the weekend. Lots of fun (along with lots of pizza, lots of cake, and lots of ice cream) was had by all. Even 2-year-old L. was at his best — greeting our guests, running around the yard with cousins, stealing sharing ice cream with his grandmother. He was endearing.

That is, until another 2-year-old — Quin, the son of some friends of ours — discovered the enormous stash of Matchbox cars in the basement. L., to put it mildly, lost it. Screaming, crying, yelling, flopping on the floor: full-fledged fits. It wasn’t that Quin was playing with a car that L. wanted. No, it was simply that sweet Quin had the nerve to like the cars and want to play with them.

It was not a good Mommy moment. Though I know the concept of sharing is one that many toddlers rebel against, I would have preferred that L. continue to be endearing, rather than make me want to stick him in bed and then hide in a closet.

Today, L. and I made a trip to the grocery store. As I was putting him in the shopping cart, he started screaming. He didn’t want to go grocery shopping. Oh great, I thought. Here we go again. I considered donning sunglasses and a baseball hat, perhaps a wig. Maybe a fake mustache. Some kind of disguise in case someone I knew was also picking up cereal and soup.

But, lo and behold, as soon as we were in the store, he turned on the charm. L. enthusiastically greeted all other babies and toddlers with, “HI! Mama — Baby there!! HI!” He graciously tolerated a loooong shopping excursion as I juggled lists and coupons. And he delighted the cashier with repeated “HI”s. Even the lady behind us in line engaged him in conversation, claiming that he was ‘adorable.’

Good Mommy moments.

Parenting a 2-year-old is full of ups and downs. One moment, I’m mortified by his behavior; the next, I’m practically giggling as he charms a grocery-bagger.

The other day, I’d had just about enough, and could not possibly take one more fit, one more yell, one more “NO!” And right then, he turned to me and said in his most adorable and precious voice, “Heeyyyy, Mama.” Then leaned his head against me. I melted.

Consistency is hard, but I know it pays off. The rough days are exhausting, but the sweet moments are priceless. And L. seems to know just when he needs to turn on the delightful…right before I go over the edge from the difficult.

I love that little boy, even on the days he wears me out.