Another poopy post

Recently, an acquaintance called me at work in a panic, because the daycare facility they send their daughter to called them to say that if their 3-yr old daughter didn't stop having accidents of the #2 variety by the end of the month, they were going to have to give her slot away to someone on the daycare waiting list. She went on to tell me that she was at wit's end since she'd been trying as hard as a working parent could (you basically only have the weekends for consistant training and then whatever progress you've made tends to be out the window after Monday). Empathetic though I was, I didn't know why I was being called about it - we hardly see or speak to each other regularly - when she told me had read my blog on the topic of potty training back on my MySpace page a while back, and she thought I might be able to give her some advice.

Considering my approach might be deemed by some as potentially life-scarring, the idea that I'm being solicited for advice is pretty comical.

So... to help any other parents out there to literally scare the crap out of their children or to make them hold it in for life, below is a recycled, lazy re-post.

BEWARE THE POO DOCTOR
First of all, I made it pretty clear by the title what we're gonna be discussing here, so save yourself now if you're one of those people that get really grossed out by talking about one of the funniest topics ever no matter what your age, race or gender, and by that I am of course referring to poo.

For the past year and a half I've struggled with the most daunting parenting task which, knock on wood, might finally be coming to an end. I am convinced that far worse than dealing with teen angst or even the big puberty or sex conversation - is trying to convince a 3-year old boy (at least, MY 3-year old boy) to stop shitting himself.

As my mother will be more than happy to point out to any one who will listen, this is called "karma". Admittedly, I have clear memories of standing in the corner of my family room behind my toy basket, red in the face, gripping the basket rim for dear life, and absolutely flat-out denying that I was up to anything. It honestly had very little to do with a reluctance to climb aboard a toilet. I believe it was my little adorable way of asserting my personality traits from an early age –procrastination til the absolute last moment, and sheer laziness.

My little guy, on the other hand, not only seems to have inherited the procrastination gene, but has also gotten so used to bending over couches and coffee tables while standing up, that he simply cannot physically fathom how to "sit down" with his legs dangling and make something happen.

He KNOWS pooping in his pull-ups isn't the thing to be done. You usually know he's done it because he'll climb out from under a table where he was "just hiding", walk over to you like Mr. Bean with his butt shoved out awkwardly and say "Don't say eww, okaaayyyy?"

Being that he was only 3 year old still wearing pull-ups in his daycare class, we decided to step up potty training to the next level. We'd already been sitting him on the toilet for ages, (I cannot tell you how many mornings and evenings have seen me sitting on the bathroom floor for upwards of an hour stroking his back and singing a peppy little "Poo Poo on the Potty" ditty I invented for the occasion), talking about it, reading books about it, etc. Now we needed SOMETHING MORE.

SOMETHING MORE'S WHICH DEFINITELY DID NOT WORK:

Attempt 1 - THE POTTY BOX
I decorated a shoe box with construction paper. On the inside of the box it said:
PEE PEE FOR STICKERS!
POO POO FOR PRIZES!
Inside the box were about a dozen small toys (prizes, i.e., bribery) which I wrapped in SpongeBob Squarepants wrapping paper.
He was alllll about pee pee for stickers. He definitely coveted the prizes, but no way in hell was he gonna poop for them. Eventually to motivate him I started trying to catch him mid-poop and race him to the toilet. Whatever he'd been working on would drop into the toilet and I'd make a big fuss over him and give him a prize.
Unfortunately, rather than motivate him to go on the toilet from the start, he'd just shit himself, try and empty his diaper into the toilet after, and then start unwrapping presents.

Attempt 2 – SHAME AND DISCOMFORT
When Dylan assumed his traditional "poop stance" we'd ask if he needed to go potty. If he said no, we'd let him do what he was doing…but then act like we were dying from disgust. We'd pinch our noses, yell EWWWW! and GROSSS! and then if he came near us say "ewww you pooed in your pants like a baby. Big boys go on the potty!"
He thought this game was hysterical fun, and would run around laughing, pretending to sniff his own butt and shouting "Ewww!"
Someone suggested I make him sit in it for a while. It seemed a little cruel, but it's true he wasn't really suffering any consequences with me changing him right away. So a few mornings I actually brought him to school with a post-breakfast load in his pants. One night I even took him shopping to Target with me when he'd clearly gone in his pants. After we finished shopping (and I'd suffered over an hour almost gagging from the stench) I asked, "How do you like sitting in your poo poo?"
"I like it!" He replied with gusto.
"Noooo you don't. It's yucky. You want your butt to be clean."
"Noooo! I like sitting on my poo. It's my favorite." He cheerfully replied.

Not really the reaction I was looking for. I just didn't know where to go from there.

Finally, one night while I was away my husband in a fit of desperation decided to try the one thing we hadn't – fear. Dylan hates the doctor, so a few times we'd mentioned if he didn't go potty on the toilet we'd have to take him to the doctor and find out why. It didn't really have an effect though. Dave thought maybe if Dylan just had a VISUAL reinforcement he'd be motivated.
So, he pulled out our Dogma DVD, flipped through the scenes and played the scene with the "Shit Demon".


"This is the Poo Doctor, Dylan" Dave told him.
"I don't like the Poo Doctor!" Dylan said.

I was horrified at first that Dave had done this. It didn't really seem like "nurturing parenting", but on the other hand, we were desperate. I thought it could either make or break it.
The next day, Dylan shat himself again. "Oh no Dylan." I said. "You know this means I'll have to call the Poo Doctor."
"But I don't like the Poo Doctor!" Dylan cried.
"I wish you thought of that before you pooped your pants. I'm sorry." I said.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Someone campaigning for a local politician. Dave answered the door.
"Who's that?!!" Dylan said as I cleaned him up, panicked. I could tell who he feared it was just by the look in his eyes.
"Oh no!" I said. "The Poo Doctor – he knows you pooped your pants! He knows when EVERYONE poops their pants!"
"Nooooooooo!" He wept. I gotta say I felt like a piece of shit myself, for tormenting him, but I was invested in making this work. "I will poo poo on the potty forever!" He begged.

"Daddy!" I shouted out towards the front door, "Do not let the Poo Doctor in the house! Dylan said he promises to poop on the potty forever!"
Dave caught on, and came into the room. "I sent the Poo Doctor away. He was very stinky and I didn't want him dirtying up our floors. You're lucky Dylan."

Since then, as wrong as it may be, we've been happily pooping ever after. There is no mention of the Poo Doctor, just happy, joyous toilet turds. This morning, he went to school FINALLY wearing big boy underwear.

"Mommy, I make you very very happy because I go poo poo on the toilet now" he said to me in the car this morning.

Sigh. Stinky and annoying as it may have been, there goes one more piece of being a baby. He's getting so big. And, as he'll proudly boast, "my poop is HUUUUUGE!"

A bird told me.

They say that having a bird poo on you is good luck. But let me tell ya, I should have accumulated quite a bit of luck by now, and I'm pretty sure all I have to show for my encounters are mental scarring and a few dry heaves.

I'm not sure why it keeps happening to me; the odds are pretty slim of getting struck in the first place. Of all the land surface, of all the shiny cars and statues, of all the OTHER people, it's pretty much like winning the world's shittiest lottery. Pun oh so intended.

What I am convinced of, is that each time it has happened, it has been not only intentional on the bird's behalf, but that somehow the bird dropped it's load on me when it knew it would be the most inconvenient, most humiliating, or most disgusting moment to possibly do so. These birds that keep getting me - they are bastards with some sick sense of humor. Actually, to be fair, if I were a bird, I'd be high-fiving them for their creative delivery.

My first (memorable) encounter was at the age of 10 or so. My family and I were leaving the Magic Kingdom and walking back toward our car. The sun was setting, my feet were burning, I was exhausted and just wished SOMEONE would carry me. My parents and sister kept trekking through the parking lot, hurrying to find our car and get into the air conditioning. I dragged my feet and whined and complained, falling farther and farther behind them. When I looked up again, my family were almost out of shouting distance. "Come ON you guys! WAIT UP!" I shouted. As I spoke the words "wait up" I made a palms out gesture, ala 'FOR THE LOVE OF GOD'. At that exact moment, what appeared to be a giant dog turd of impressive size and weight plopped into my hand. And it was juuuuuicy. I looked up to see a flock of flamingos flying away, laughing at me and high-fiving eachother. And I kid you not about calling this poop dog turd-esque. There might as well have been a flying Labrador.

This incident is particularly ingrained on my mind because of what came next:

I ran, screaming, toward my parents (it turns out having a hefty flamingo turd land in your hand delivers quite the energy boost even when in the throws of heat stroke). When my parents surveyed the "package" in my hands they were understandably confused. When I explained it came from a flamingo fly-by, my horrified mother turned my hand over, ridding it of 90% of the poo, AND THEN WRAPPED MY HAND IN A SANDWICH BAG. I had to keep my hot, sweaty, poop-tainted hand in a freakin GLAD ziplock ALL THE WAY HOME, until we were around soap and water.

Flash forward to a couple years ago. My husband and I took our son to Indiana Dunes for his first beach experience. We had a great, picture-perfect day.

picture-perfect evidence of said picture-perfect day, taken mere moments before the offense.

Of course the only problem with the beach is there's sand everywhere. That, and the lake most definitely contains dead body juices, a paranoia I thought was one that I alone had until I recently discovered otherwise.

As the sun began to set on our day and we began getting ready for the drive back home, I decided it was time for my sand-cleansing dip. This basically consists of carefully wading into the lake...just far enough in so that you're not rinsing off all the sand with churning sand-water, and not so far that you might touch something dead or feel that sickening part of the lake shelf where it suddenly disappears underfoot. Essentially, I see this portion of the day as trading in my fear of dead body juices for the elimination of feeling ass sand the entire way home.

The sand rinsed from my hair, my body, and fist fulls of unexplainable small rocks emptied from my bathing suit, I carefully exited the lake, carefully walking so as not to kick sand back up onto my wet legs, and then I stood there, air drying, not touching anything, so that I could re-enter the car clean (dead body juice particles notwithstanding.) The air-drying took a while. It's a delicate dance, what with folding towels, picking up babies, and staying clear of my dachshund who not only obsessively digs from the moment we arrive until we leave, but who also eats so much of the sand that she literally poops sand castles for days.

You know what's coming. All things gathered, all things clean and dry, as we made our way back to the car a flock of dozens of beach-trash-eating seagulls flew up all around me like a tornado and RAINED THEIR POO UPON ME. I was PEPPERED with poo. Poo that was from the dirty sea-pigeons, who no doubt had spent the day feasting on dead fish, litter in the local Super KMart parking lot, and a dead body somewhere in the lake. They flew away, laughing and high-fiving each other.

What came next was almost equally as bad. I had to strip and take a shower in the Indiana Dunes public bathroom. It's dark, it's unexplainably slimy underfoot, and there's always a really awkward moment when you walk in and find yourself standing in close proximity with a totally nude person standing under a meager pee-trickle from a pool-style shower. I WAS THAT AWKWARD NAKED WOMAN. And now I understand why those people seem so oblivious and non-caring about their blatant nudity: how awkward would it be to make eye contact with anyone walking in trying to use the toilet and try to explain how you landed in this position? Best to just keep your head down and scrub.

Last year, after a day at Sea World in Orlando, FL, we began making our way back toward the parking lot after the end-of-night fireworks display. I guess it should have felt all too familiar and foreboding: the aching feat, the exhaustion, the heat stroke... But believe me, what was about to happen was the last thing on my mind. For one, I guess I didn't think being shat on by a bird really happened around midnight. I kind of would have thought they were all sleeping by then. Unless, I guess, they were kept up by say, a giant fireworks display of massive and epic proportions. As we shuffled along in our place in the sea of moving people, a flash of white appeared before my eyes and splashed all over the ground in front of me. It was as if there was someone perched in the palm tree above me dumping out a gallon of white paint. I wasn't hit by the initial dump - it was the splash back that got me. The height from which it fell produced an impressive bounce...and bounce onto me. I shrieked, I stopped, I shrieked some more, and as the dozens of tourists surrounding me realized why my feet, legs, skirt, and shirt were all splattered in white goo, they began TAKING PICTURES. Le sigh. I can't really blame them, since I might have done the same.

I never saw the offending bird, but it was obviously tropical, super huge, and laughing and high-fiving it's friends. I had to sit in traffic in the car for over an hour until I could clean myself off with something more substantial than a napkin. At least no one covered me in a GLAD bag.

My last story, and most recent, by now you've also guessed has to do with getting crapped on. This spring a robin built a nest near my back deck in the elbow of my drain spout. I was actually really into it, because up until this point, robins, sparrows, and other cute birds hadn't crapped on me. I thought maybe it was strictly tropical or water-bird related. I watched in awe as it's 4 babies eventually hatched, and as she ran back and forth dozens of times in a day to feed them. Last Saturday afternoon, I sat on my back deck taking a break from working in the garden to talk on the phone with my mother-in-law, who had called long-distance from Wales. As we chatted, I watched the mama robin fly back and forth from it's nest to the phone wire at the end of my yard. Then, it seemed to fly straight at me. It happened like it was in slow motion. I didn't miss a beat of the conversation with my mother-in-law, but definitely noted "wow, that bird's coming in pretty low", followed by "wow, that's a huge amount of shit dropping from that bird" followed closely by the horrible realization that that huge amount of shit was actually AIMED at me and dropped in a line from the bottom of my shirt, up my chest, up my neck, ON MY LIPS AS I WAS SPEAKING ON THE PHONE, and on up into my hair. I screamed, but it was kind of a weird sound, as I was trying to freeze my lips and keep them away from my teeth. It kind of sounded like Sloth from Goonies. The bird returned, laughing, to it's babies, whom all high-fived their mom. I must add that while I was at least at home and able to get into the shower, the most horrific detail (besides the lips) is that it was so....warm.

I wish these were the only poop incidents I was involved in... unfortunately there are others, but there somewhat more casual poops.

I conclude with the fact that this week, I saved a baby dove that was being pecked to death by a blue jay outside my office window. I'm hoping it grows up and becomes a sort of guardian-protector that wards off enemy fire. Having a sidekick dove would be an awesome conversation piece, and we'd high five whenever it pooped on my enemies.

A Message to My Followers

Yes... both of you.

I just love calling you followers. I think that's the best part of blogger by far.
I've always wanted a collection of followers, even if they're only two, and even if they're not really following me. Just being able to refer to someone as my follower rules. I haven't found a way to drop it into every-day context yet, or, bring you up somehow at the bar, but... it'll come.

I just wanted you to know, since you're probably so totally worried about me or at least worried that I've given up on blogging (I know, I'm sorry for such a scare, calm your pretty little heads), that I just happen to be very busy and important right now and haven't had the time.

But I can't wait to tell you all about stuff. I'll be back yo. There is much to discuss.

Til then, try to keep your spirits up. And let's not kid ourselves, we're not in exclusive relationships. I see you're other people's followers as well. I just choose to ignore that bit and call you my own, ok? Just nod, like a good little follower.

Menace II Society...or at least the Homewood Public Works Department

You might not want to be here. You might be somehow linked to me and deemed dangerous. Just thought I'd warn you.

Because ladies and gentlemen, you are at the blog site of a real troublemaker. A threat to the greater public. A menace to society. Someone who has *almost* been charged with... misdemeanor criminal misconduct.

But, in the end, wasn't.

Actually, the policeman was quite friendly and we parted ways shaking hands, but, he probably just shook my hand because I am ONE CRAZY UNPREDICTABLE MENACING BITCH and he was totally scared of me.

And so our story begins...

Soooooo I kind of was late paying my water bill. It's not that I didn't have it, or anything. It's just that, when it arrived in the mail, I was in the process of attempting to move and get things looking clean and clutter-free. So rather than paying it, I just stacked it to look aesthetically pleasing to the eye, to deal with another day. Somewhere, between that fateful day and the due-date, it got misplaced and fell out of my head entirely. On Monday when I sat down to open mail and pay bills, I had the angry scarlet letter from the Village, stating that if I didn't pay it like REALLY REALLY SOON they were going to shut off my water. I left work 15mn early to be sure to get my check in before the office closed for the day. Crisis averted.

But not.

On Wednesday, my husband Dave, who has been working night shifts this week, came home bleary-eyed and cranky to a shut-off notice hanging on our front door. Our check was neatly paper clipped to it with a note saying that since our payment was late, they would only accept cash. If cash was not in hand by 11 a.m. on Thursday, our water would be shut off. Dave called the village and left a message complaining (since they clearly had no problem using one of our checks to pay for vehicle stickers the same day, and since I'd have to take off work to deliver the cash during their hours).

When I got home from work, I saw the notice, and, not knowing Dave had called them since he was sleeping, called the Village to complain as well. I explained that I understood their policy but thought they were being a little exceedingly difficult about the whole thing, and asked them not to turn off my water before I could get the cash to them first thing in the morning. I may have ranted on a little, dished out a little sass, but I was super polite.

Thursday morning I ran to the bank, got to the Village Hall, and explained my situation at the front desk. Everything was going fine, until the receptionist took a look at my name on my account. Her lips pursed, her eyebrows furled, and her eyes peered at me all squinty-like with that look that shouts "I'm totally judging you right now."

I continued my kill her with kindness approach but I got no warmth in return. Odd.

I ran home again to meet a contractor who was supposed to arrive to mudjack my front porch. (Which somehow sounds dirty and involves injecting concrete in to a hole.) I had just gotten out of my car and was making chit-chat with my neighbor when a squad car pulled up in my driveway like a bat out of hell.

He got out of the cruiser with his hand on his walkie talkie holster like he was ready to draw it and aim it at me. "Mrs. Parry? I need to speak with you privately, please."

Even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I went all cold and sweaty and immediately felt like I used to being called to the Principal's office. Or that one time I got arrested for trying to buy pot in Ford Heights, even though it turned out to be mint leaves.

The policeman, who I embarrassingly note is the same guy who's been called to my house for a party that was too loud, a fireworks incident, and a "controlled burn" brush-fire incident, (ok it sounds like we're maniacs but I swear we're not!!!), informs me that he's here to talk to myself and my husband about a complaint made against us.

By the clerk at the Village of Homewood Public Works.

She, apparently, felt really threatened since we both called her, and since I also came in this morning (albeit to pay the bill.) She was really "freaked out" that I knew her name and used it on the message I left for her (it said her name on the voicemail as well as on the shutoff notice) and in this day in age of people bursting through doors wielding guns she just didn't feel safe without having us given a stern warning to have no further contact with her.

SERIOUSLY? SEEEEERIOUSLY?

Ok, I know what you're thinking. This makes no sense. Surely we had to be complete psychopaths on the messages we left to warrant this kind of reaction. I wish I could tell you that were true, because it would make my brain hurt way less than it does now from trying to wrap it around this situation.

Granted, my husband is British. And I suppose anything he says could be misconstrued as smarmy, insulting, or villain-like, just because of his accent. I get that.

Also, if I'm going to be fair and fully disclose everything, apparently he used the words "bloody hell" and "shite". But...a visit from the police? A warning?

The officer, had me call Dave on his cell phone so he could extend the warning to him as well. Apparently, the clerk graciously decided to let us slide rather than attempt to press charges. (Yes, seriously.) In all fairness, he seemed pretty embarrassed to be standing there. Like he should be wearing an "I graduated the academy and all I got was this lousy voicemail complaint" tshirt.

Or maybe that was just fear on his face. Because this here crazy bitch warrants police action. I am a....

(and I think the best part of this entire blog is my awesome photoshopping. hahahahaah.)

Awkardest of all awkward - the first post.

I used to post the odd blog on MySpace from time to time. Somehow, posting the occasional random story I felt was worthy of sharing felt less... ***LOOK AT ME!!!*** than starting an actual blog. But keeping a blog there would require people (including myself) actually participating in MySpace these days, and I'm pretty sure the only people left there are bands, 15 year-olds, and Eastern Europeans. I could be wrong*.
*Don't tell me if I am though, cuz I'm spread out way too thin, what with actual work, checking people's Facebook statuses, their uploaded photos, and silently loving the glorious fact that the mean girl in junior high has really ugly babies to add one more thing back into my schedule of internet procrastination.

Are there rules of etiquette for a first blog? Like, do I outline what you should expect from me?

Well here's the thing. It's all a bit hazy at the moment, and I'm counting on it taking shape as I go forward. It will either do that or lay abandoned for a year until I don't remember my password. I see that seems to be a common problem amongst bloggers, since every URL title I tried to come up with seemed to already be taken by someone who had never actually posted a blog or been back to their site since coming up with a title.

What I do know is, I don't pretend to be interesting enough to have lots of things that people will want to read about. But interesting things do tend to HAPPEN to or at least be observed by me. Since junior high, people have told me I should write a book. True to my slacker form, I'll just settle for a blog instead.

Also, feel free to leave lots of comments, but I'm totally going to delete the bad ones, just like on YouTube where the occasional obnoxious kid who speaks in text lingo tells me that I'm a horrible mother because I have a video of my son throwing a temper tantrum and me laughing at him. Either I delete your crappy comment, or we will argue until I force you to like me. Just pretending it never happened will be a lot more comfortable for both of us.

Finally, I can't say I don't foresee offending people. If you're one of them, sorry bout it. But if you cool off and step away from the situation, I'm sure that you'll realize you kinda deserved it.