My Crackbook post this morning:
Today, I honor those who died in buildings,
planes, fields ,and on streets, and those who have suffered the effects
of any and all of it - by holding my head high and living my life every
day. Why honor them this way? Because the attempt to paralyze us can't
be successful. The hatred can't be perpetuated. The lives lost can't be
in vain. The joy mustn't be successfully stolen.
And further proof that life must continue and move forward: My toddler.
We've been working on the potty training thing since Clone went to camp at the end of July. So far there has been measurable success with the #1. It's the #2 that's going to be what drives me to drink. She'll keep her panties dry all day, overnight, while away from home. She won't, however, even admit that her backside is about to lose its contents. So, Mommy gets to be the primary mess cleaner in that regard. If you could hear me speak about it, you would just know the party this is for me. It's a real kegger, that one.
So, the Blur got quiet after dinner, as I was trying to plug the INSANE schedule of: 3 workers, 2 students, and Princess-poops-her-pants into the Cozi online calendar, as P-p-h-p pooped her pants. My husband was amused. Of course he was, he wasn't the one who caught her hiding behind the door that I opened to allow the lovely balmy breeze into the house. So she was carted off to the bathroom to hose her and her Boots-adorned panties off, without benefit of the kind of hosed shower head I need to make it easier on me.
Me: "Seriously, child, this is not nice. You should poop in the potty. Or at least tell me you have to
poop so I can give you a diaper."
Blur: "Boots is not happy"
Me: "I'm not either."
Blur: "Yea, I pooped on Boots."
Me: "uh huh. What are you going to tell me next time you poop."
I've got nothing. Because I know she's right.