Almost doesn't count in potty training......

Naomi is potty trained, she really is. She knows where the potty is. She knows what it is for. She knows how to use it, wipe, all that stuff. So why is it so hard to get there?

Is our house really that interesting? The kids whine that there is nothing to do, yet they are so wholly occupied with other things that they apparently cannot take the time to go to the bathroom until the dam has sprung a leak. From ages 2 to 7, the last minute seems to be the order of the day. It is true that in our house, with this particular thing, without the last minute, it might never get done.

Maybe she likes to dance, because nothing brings our the wiggles, hopping, and Michael Jackson impersonations like a call of nature put on hold and forgotten about. Nature can only listen to elevator music for so long before it lets you know that this is one call that cannot be delayed. When we spot her interpretive dance moves we can usher her in, but it seems that like most entertainers she requires an audience. She says she cant turn on the light, or move the stool to the porcelain throne. And maybe she is right, maybe she can't, because if she stops to do anything else other than what she is doing right now, she will go from hip hop to Riverdance.

Its easy to get angry when an "accident" occurs. She is dancing, and doesn't make it. Apparently she has been holding it since her birthday last March, and proceeds to make a lake on the bathroom floor, where it will rush to seep through gaps in the cheap tile singing "Give said the little stream". She has the presence of mind to hike up her nightdress, which doubles as a dancing skirt, but finds herself in a dilemma. Now she is in the middle of the lake, and the tile floor is slick. She takes a step, and goes down, still trying to hold up her skirt to keep it from getting wet. This means by the time she struggles back to her feet, in tears, she is still holding her skirt above her belly, while her shirt, and pants, and socks, and anything else she might be wearing, is thoroughly soaked.

Mom hears her go down. She goes in to see what has transpired, and is faced with two choices....to laugh...or to cry. Naomi is already crying, so the laugh wins out. Off come the clothes, Naomi mops the floor, into the bath. Almost. So close. Maybe next time. (While this draft was old, and far past due, it was worth the publishing)

I dont need to change my socks.......

Kids. Sometimes they change their clothes 10 times a day. Sometimes you have to threaten them with something drastic to make them peel off clothes they have probably had on for a week. Mine truly don't mind if they wear the same clothes day after day, in fact, I think they prefer it.

They are like...boy scouts...always prepared. Wake up in the morning, need to go to school? No problem. I slept in jeans and a T-shirt, away we go. Need to go play in the snow? Lets go! I still have my coat on from when I went to school this morning.

Their clothes invariably get dirty. The mud on their pants I understand. I mean, if you have ever seen my children run you would understand as well. Gideon is like a bobble head on legs, his head flopping from side to side as he runs like a rubber chicken on a treadmill. It looks painful, but his eyes are shining and he has a smile on his face. Its no wonder on occasion he biffs it, he brain must be desperately working overtime trying to figure out why is field of vision oscillates worse than a rowboat in a hurricane, pitching from side to side and in every which direction.

The food on the shirt I understand. For some reason, the concept of napkins does not occur to my children. They will take a bite, and without a moments hesitation, wipe their mouths on their shirt sleeves, collar, or hem. You can have a washcloth right there for them to look at, closer to their hands then the food itself, but the shirt seems to work best. We have hatched a cunning plan to get them to use something else. We will cut their shirts up to use as washcloths, and sew washcloths together to form nice patch shirt for them. Maybe we can just cut a sleeve off a shirt and run it right up their arm over their others clothes?

Samuel sits on the couch, his feet stretching out beyond the realm of the cushion on the left and firmly into the territory of the middle cushion, a patch of real estate highly contested in my home. Carenna occupied the far right cushion, and from her vantage point spied with her eagle, motherly eyes, the socks on his feet.

"Samuel. I think you need to change your socks. They look dirty, and you have probably had them on for more than a day."

Samuel responds with indignation. "I don't need to change my socks, there is no hole in them."

Of course he was right, the socks did not as yet have a hole worn through anywhere. How can we argue the logic? I had a good laugh, and didn't think too much about it until the scene played itself out nearly identically.

"Samuel, you need to change your socks. Go in the bathroom and put them in the wash."

"I don't need to change them. I didn't even pee on them."

And there you have it. It is officially OK to keep your socks on until you have burst their seems or burst your bladder, whichever comes first. These are things they should have taught me in school but never did. Who says all you need to know in life you learn in pre-school?