The Bladder Whisperer

Here's the deal. I am taking the rest of this week to finish up the winnowing in the kitchen. I'm nearly done, but totally dragging my feet on the last couple of cabinets. I need to wrap this project up, move on to another area, so a self-imposed deadline will be just the thing for giving me the last necessary little shove of motivation. Certainly, by starting on the laundry room and then moving into the kitchen, I started on the heftier end of the proverbial one-bite-at-a-time pachyderm. I've got to tell you, this ol' eleefunt has been a little gamey and pretty tough to chew. But starting where I have sets me up nicely to move on into some less intense, but just as impactful, cleaning up and cleaning out projects (until I start in on The Garage, but let's curb that nausea when we get to it, shall we?). So, Project Kitchen Cleanout ends at 11:59 pm on Saturday February 6, 2010.

Okay, let me stop right here and say that I'm entirely distracted by this picture. I mean, look at that toilet. So shiny. Check out the unstained floor surrounding it. So sanitary. Observe the grout creating the seal between the toilet and the floor. So white. All of this cleanliness in combination...so set up just for a photograph because, really, whose toilet looks this clean? And if you tell me yours does I'll know you're lying, so don't even try it (buster).

I have a confession to make. I've never potty-trained anyone. Yes, I do have an eight-year-old. No, she's not still in diapers (smart alecks). When she was almost three her daddy and I went to Mexico for a week on a mission trip, leaving her in the extremely capable hands of Papa and Tunan. I only requested of them two specific things: one - don't feed her marshmallows all week, and two - don't potty-train her while I'm gone. One week and approximately six-hundred-forty-nine mini marshmallows later, we returned safely home...to our potty-trained firstborn.

First-time mom reaction then: Aw (sniff). I didn't get to help her learn to potty (sniff sniff).
Third-time mom looking back in retrospect: Ah, I didn't have to potty-train her. YAY!

Thanks, Mom. Moving on...

So what happens at the stroke of midnight on Sunday February 7, 2010? The week of "Little Big Man Booty Boot Camp" begins. That's right. He's twenty-eight months old, has a better vocabulary than some teenagers I know (Dude. 'Sup?), and tells me everyday just before he "places" it in his diaper, "Mom, I'm just poopin'". As thoughtful and light and breezy as that may sound, I'd prefer he "just" put it where it goes. A focused agenda to teach Little Big Man to put his money where his mouth is (or his pee and poo where his potty is) will be the order of the day.

I am home after church on Sunday morning and do not have anywhere else I am required to be until Thursday morning at 10:45. Hence, in that concentration of hours Sunday through Thursday, Little Big Man will be given the opportunity to, uh, enjoy the breeze so he can fully tell when it's time to do business (dollars and cents. Dollars he gets, cents he ain't got...insert "no sense" jokes here). At any given moment in those days within the walls of Quaint Cottage I can assure you a diminutive and denuded derriere (oui, oui) will be seen riding a scooter in the kitchen, running football plays in an oversized helmet (picture Rick Moranis in Spaceballs), plopping down to read a book, and, hopefully, learning to ready, aim, and fire into the porcelain throne we adults take for granted every day.

By the by, this afternoon we had a trial run. Dollars were deposited responsibly. Cents, being the smaller monetary denomination, he felt free to frivolously toss about practically anywhere. If I can convince him to combine his dollars and cents and deposit them rightly, a nice new pair of tighty whiteys are his for the taking (although they'll likely have to be plastered with Spidey or Buzz to make the deposits worth it).

So on this coming Sunday, this eight-and-a-half year veteran of Mommydom will commence to convincing the kid commodes are cool ("somebody copped my copper clappers").

Come on, Little Big Man. Make that "change".

(Get it? Ah, nevermind.)