potty training and cupcakes

I have a friend who told me she was going to potty train her daughter in only three days. She told me about her plan the night before she was beginning. I decided to wait and see if it worked. 

Three days later I got a victorious text message. So hanging on her every word, I made a little plan and decided to give it a go. Ivar is more than ready, talking about it all the time. I had an eager pupil on my hands. And the thing about three day training is that if it doesn't go well, you're just back in the pack with the longer range trainers. I had nothing to loose.

We began yesterday morning by taking all the diapers in Ivar's room and putting them into Elsie's room. We removed his changing station and I showed him his new Thomas the train underwear. And then we unpacked his cool potty chair.

We had a few accidents and I began learning his cues. By the end of day one we had a double victory in the little potty and I was overjoyed. In the excitement I said to Ivar, "you did such a good job! let's make cupcakes to celebrate!" This sort of flew out of my mouth. It wasn't a bribe, because I hadn't mentioned the cupcakes as a reward. They were only now being brought up because cupcakes are Ivar's love language.

And since it was bedtime when I said it, I told him we'd make the cupcakes in the morning.

But then this morning came and after we had a few accidents I realized that I wasn't in the mood to make cupcakes with a two-year-old. Potty training, it turns out, is parental punishment enough. I didn't need to throw baking with a toddler into the mix.

So I loaded up the kids and we went to the cupcake shop in town. I adore this place. And as I sat there, eating my chocolate truffle cupcake I was very aware that this reward was speaking my love language as well. In fact, I don't think this trip to the cupcake shop had much to do with Ivar. It was for me, the potty trainer.

We've had a few more messes and a few more victories. We won't know how successful our three days have been until tomorrow night. But no matter what the outcome, you may very well find me hanging out at the cupcake shop. Because training is a lot of work.

to market, to market...

Well, I believe a morning like this morning separates the men from the boys. Or at least the carnivores from the herbivores. For sure the hens from the roosters.

Early this morning we took three of our roosters to be processed. Or as we told Ivar, "to a friend's house." I am sad to say goodbye to Almonzo and Hamburgerpoopedonthecarpet. They were awesome roosters and behaved nicely. I was sorry to see them go.

But I wasn't sorry to see Eggs go. Eggs is a bully. I called him jerkface for the last week of his life. He tried to attack me three times so that I started carrying a stick. And as he'd flap his wings towards me, scratching my legs with his talons I had a bawk of my own and screamed, "I am the alpha wolf!!!!"

It's too bad though. If Rory and I were the type who entered birds into illegal cock fights, and if we were looking to make a lot of money fast, I think Eggs would have been our ticket.

So on the menu this week: chicken, Hamburger and Eggs.

I don't know if I'll be able to do it though. Well maybe Eggs. Though Rory said, if his insides reflect his outsides, he is going to taste bad.

the things Ivar says

I just found Ivar laying on his belly on top of all of his foam blocks saying quietly to himself, "I am so amazing. I'm so amazing."

When he thinks the day is getting stale he'll ask me real upbeat, "So what's the plan?"

He loves playing Happy Birthday. He'll put all sorts of treasures in a little box and bring it to me, and I give him a big reaction and he runs off to fill the box with more surprises.

He was playing with blocks and made a cross. He came and found me screaming, "It's Grandpa Paul's church! It's Grandpa Paul's church!" I love that.

Rory's cousin Jon taught Ivar to kiss his forearms and say, "two tickets to the gun show." He whips it out at the most random times and it kills me every time.

I took the kids to pick our first baby tomato for my salad for lunch. I made it a big deal and told Ivar he could carry the baby tomato to the house for me. He cupped it gently in his hands. I picked some sweet peas and checked on the eggplants. When I got to the garage I asked where the tomato was. He replied, "I licked it. It was yucky. So I THROW IT!" Then I went on a pathetic scavenger hunt looking for the baby tomato. I didn't find it. I have a feeling the chickens won the hunt.

grandma's honesty

I got so much feedback from yesterday's post. A few heartfelt phone calls, some kind emails and really thoughtful, nice comments. Thank you. Solidarity is so comforting. And empowering. I'll try to remember this solidarity as get on my hands and knees to remove dried banana paste from the kitchen floor each night. Or every other night. Or once a week. Or maybe I'll just ask Rory to do it.

I think I've written this story before, but I think of it often. Especially when we're on the topic of honesty in motherhood.

I remember my grandma writing in an email once about a hard day in her own mothering. She was at her wits end, with all sorts of laundry to iron and things to do and couldn't see an end to any of it. There was a storm coming across the prairie with wind howling and moving violently through the trees. She said she walked out of the house alone and walked towards that storm and she screamed. She yelled and said everything she wanted to say.

She said she wanted to load the little kids into the car and head to the Black Hills.

She didn't do it, but I remember talking to my cousins at length about how helpful that story was for all of us mothers. Because grandma was remarkable in every single way. She set the bar so high for mothering and home making and church involvement and service to the community. But somehow this story helped put a bit more human into the wondrous woman that was our grandma.

I assume she went back into the house, ironed the clothes and got the kids to bed. And then she went to bed herself and likely prayed for the strength and grace to do it all over again. And I'm glad she did. She has seven remarkable kids as her reward. And her kids raised remarkable kids. And that family really rocked it in the 80's.

on mothering a one and two year old

Oh man. I saw this book at the library, read the title and added it to the stack. I couldn't agree with the title more. I grew up babysitting. I used to call mom's and ask if I could come over and play with their kids. Ha! I worked as a nanny, babysat every day of the summer for families with working mom's. I took kids on bike rides, plane rides and entertained two sweet boys on a tour bus. I babysat all through college, seminary and even while married and living in Montana, I babysat.

So when we first got pregnant I didn't feel a bit apprehensive. I knew babies. I knew toddlers. I knew tantrums and bedtime routines and how to get herds out the door and into the car. I was ready.

But yesterday I called my mom bawling. I told her I just wasn't cut out for this. I have a cold, Elsie is so fussy lately and isn't sleeping. She was up all night the night before and I was running on no sleep. Ivar is testing, always testing. Trying to find every boundary. And yesterday I just couldn't see any relief. This is my every day. My weekends look no different than my weekdays. And it feels like I am on some perpetual crazy cycle of wiping noses and then wiping bottoms and then noses again and bottoms too.

Yesterday I took a phone call with a woman I really wanted to talk with. I had just made mini muffins (from a box) and as I tried to keep my kids quiet enough so I could really contribute to the conversation, I fed my children a dozen mini muffins. A dozen. Twelve! Mini muffins! Just to keep them quiet.

But thankfully, as happens with every day of motherhood, bedtime came and I got a good nights rest in me. And I woke up feeling ready for this day.

It makes me feel so manic, but I am starting to think that maybe motherhood is manic. My patience has never been tried like this before. I am finding my ugliest self inside of me, a sinful girl that I used to be really good at keeping at bay. But she's tired and irritable and impatient and hungry and selfish and sinful. And she's me. I'm trying to come to terms with that...the girl I thought I was, versus the girl I now know I am. Motherhood is a different kind of refiners fire. And I find myself humbled, aware of my weakness and able to see my inability to do it on my own more than ever before.