Another potty blog

Another potty blog

50% of the time we live like fugitives around here. This is what occurs to me this morning as I’m tiptoeing down the stairs, carrying my toddler who is (fyi) sitting on my lap while I’m typing this blog. I’m halfway down the stairs, praying he won’t make a sound, when I remember my glasses are upstairs (so I’m legally blind, leaning really close to the screen so I can see this). But I’m halfway out of the cooler and if I turn back now, they’ll find me. Or we’ll wake my daughter up, which might be worse.

So why am I up early this morning, typing, with my son in my lap tearing apart, or eating, important papers. I have the worst password security system ever known to man in that I keep a notebook full of every password and username to every account in my purse and carry it with me wherever I go (yeah, we can talk about that later) and he is literally tearing it apart. I needed a new system anyway. Now I’ve given him a pad of post-its – this worked great with my daughter. She could tear up post-it pads all day long. Nope, dropped it on the floor, just tore my pjs jumping down and is now play with the speakerphone feature on the phone on the floor. Yes, we still have an ‘old-fashioned’ home phone. Full disclosure, we pay for it every month and I don’t know the number. I don’t even have it written down anywhere, not even in my little book of passwords.

NONE of this is why I got out of bed before I had to this morning. It was because I was SUPER excited. I’m looking for what this blog could be, what could set it apart from other blogs, what is it’s ‘thing’ and — but before I get there I have to describe a bit more about my morning. And my life.

We don’t get a lot of sleep around here. Or rather, uninterrupted sleep. I think I could count the number of times I have slept through the night in the past six months on one finger (I can’t think of what to write next. This blog seemed like such a great idea when I was unexpectedly awoken from blissful, blissful slumber needing to avail myself of the toilette (I’m not sure how to say use the bathroom in a way that my mom won’t call me later and say my grandmother is rolling over… you see, we NEVER, EVER say ‘pee’). It does sound rather harsh. I could say tinkle, but I’m guessing I’d lose about 75% of readers immediately).

So I woke up suddenly this morning, and my husband woke up at the same time. There was a tiny bit of light coming through the window and it didn’t seem supernatural which led me to draw the immediate conclusion that I had slept through the night. The house was silent. I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT AND BOTH OF MY KIDS ARE STILL ASLEEP! Wait, both of my kids are still asleep. Why am I awake? My eyes are again closed, hoping that I can nurse this sleepy state back into a gorgeous, luxurious, blissful, blissful sleep for as long as possible when I hear something like a tiny tiny sheep being strangled very quickly somewhere in my house. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THE I&^%^&*$$#F@# FIRE ALARM BATTERY? AGAIN??

I am not in jest when I tell you that the only other night I can remember (which isn’t saying much because I remember very little of the last 4 years) in which I was getting a full night of sleep with no interruptions was ALSO brutally destroyed by a fire alarm battery.

But there is a silver lining to my tale of woe. So I’m lying there, while my husband creeps downstairs with the stealth of a silver fox (a silver fox wearing really heavy shoes or maybe with an ear infection leading to a balance problem – wait, is ‘silver fox’ shorthand for a hot older guy? I’m not trying to imply that he’s older, just trying to imply he’s stealthy and then put him down immediately afterwards) to dismantle the fire alarm (and by dismantle I’m hoping ‘tear it limb from limb’), thinking to myself surely there is an answer to this terrible dilemma. There’s some trick that I don’t know. Most people are not getting woken up by their fire alarm batteries twice in two months. What do they know that I don’t know?

And then it hits me. Sure, most people with a blog have something to share with readers. Resources, tips for saving money, answers to questions. BUT I HAVE QUESTIONS! I can be that blog where I tell you what I don’t know and you tell me what I don’t know! I have questions all the time. I never ever run out of questions. I know I might not like all of the answers, but I’ve thought a bit about online criticism and here’s where I landed: it’s highly unlikely anyone is going to read this blog and criticize me in a way that is extremely different or more cutting than that little voice in my head that is there criticizing me most of the time. Bring it on world, I practice taking abuse daily and I’m ready for you! (That said, you know, I don’t need to test it, I do get plenty of practice so its not, you know, a requirement to be rude to me).

So I’m lying there thinking about being the blog that just asks questions and people can send me answers and my life will improve and I can even share helpful answers with others and suddenly I am super aware of the fact that I need to use the restroom, avail myself of the facilities, spend a penny (as my British mother-in-law would say). Desperately. But I don’t dare move a muscle as both of my kids are still silent (and what? I would rather suffer silently in my bed in pain than wake my precious cherubs?). Then I start wondering if you can do damage to yourself if you really need to use the bathroom (we’re just talking about #1 here) and you hold it for a long, long time. Does that mess with your internal organs? THEN I remember that there’s really not much more that can be done to my internal organs than has already been done.

Ok millennials (how in the hell do you spell that? I need to spend more time reading on Linked In), I really do not want to alienate you or 90% of other potential readers. But this is where I am so, you know, its up to you. I have had two kids. My internal organs have been stretched out, squished, literally ripped from my body and put onto an operating table and then sort of squished back in. And I know this for a fact because I had a c-section and my husband watched the whole thing. He saw my guts on the table and he saw them squishing them all back in. And those are the terms he uses – it’s like one of the doctors took both of their arms, picked all of the organs up off the table like a pile of leaves and just dropped them back in the cavity, kind of pushed it down to make it all level and then sewed it up – and by it, I mean me. I don’t want to gross anyone out, but that happened. As a note to millennials, don’t let your husband watch your c-section. (You know, I have a lot of wisdom to impart to you guys, so maybe stick around for more gems like this.)

So, fire alarm battery wakes me up, have to urinate, hear son gurgling to himself, tell husband I have an amazing idea for a blog, he tells me to grab son and head downstairs to write it. Um, I’m sorry honey, grab son and write – I believe this is an oxymoron – or paradox – not sure about the difference. So I grab son, realize I don’t have glasses, come downstairs and device upon which I was planning to write has no batteries, have to bring son to ‘office’ (glorified closet) desk and see beginning for sanitized rendering of that tale. So here I am.

You know, I set out with the intention NOT to write a mommy blog. I have read some great mom bloggers, but I didn’t want that to be my thing and I’m not sure anyone can do that better than the Honest Toddler (will insert link shortly). But I’m a mom. And I’m pretty lucky in that most of the time I’m with my kids (and also lucky that sometimes I don’t have to be). So most of the funny things that occur to me (if the things that occur to me are funny) have something to do with who I am. Which is a mom. Also, apparently, a lot of the funny things that occur to me have to do with the potty. So maybe I’ll just be a potty blog that asks a lot of questions.

Ps. Fgbcvfc cv (obviously one of my children got hold of the computer while I was making breakfast). My daughter just came in here to tell me that she has prickles on her leg just like [√ç∫b stet] me. Let me break this down for you – it means she associates me with having long hairs on my legs that are spiky. Warms a mother’s heart.

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