Mikey is finally getting back on track with his bathroom habits! He’s still scared to poop, but he’s been brave and “muscled” through. It’s a tough lesson to “feel the fear and do it anyway;” it’s good preparation for life, though. So much of life is doing things we are afraid of, but we have to do them anyway because the alternative is even scarier, and the payoff is infinitely better. I see a lighter, happier energy about him, too.
Pierce on the other hand, kept me busy yesterday. The kid is so darn funny—and clumsy. The first half of the day was pretty lazy, but as the say worn on, I figured I better get some of the things done that a housewife is expected to do. Lord knows there was a significant amount of vacuuming and dusting waiting for me, and the amount of fingerprints on the glass doors had me convinced our house had been magically transported to San Francisco when the fog was coming in.
I got busy… Like a tornado of efficiency! However, there was another tornado in the vicinity; an F-3, I’m assuming giving the path of its destruction. Even my clean up had clean up. Anyway, I was vacuuming the black area rug in the living room that hides a multitude of sins except crumbs and lint, and I thought I heard some whimpering tears sobbing their way closer. Pierce had been playing in Michael’s bedroom where all the toys are, and apparently hurt himself—imagine that! He cried his way down the hall to where I was, and when I asked him what happened, he crumpled up into “child’s pose” in his pathetic, surrendering-to-his-bad-luck, way. He’s at the age where he will tell me “hurt”; then I’ll ask him to point to where it hurts, and usually he will tell me or show me. This time it was his cheek below his left eye. Great, more bruises… I didn’t see anything at first and then slowly over the next 30 minutes a purplish-red mark appeared. I think he must have walked into the corner of something, or thrown a toy in the air that had a hard corner, and, true to his clutzy nature, it came right back down into to his face. None-the-less, he recovered quickly and was ready to get back to business after some hugs and consoling from me.
We went our separate ways, again. Donning our tornado personas, he went back to pulling every toy out of the closet and I went back to cleaning them all up, hopefully faster than he could take them out! A little while later, I’ve moved on to dusting, and I hear “help, help!” (more like “hep!”) I quickly run off to find the source of the distress call, and I find Pierce fully clothed, sitting on the toilet with his legs folded up under his chin, bum practically down in the hole where everything that is flushed exits the house, and trying to pull himself out of this predicament with little result. As I rescue him (laughing,) I find his clothes wet, (naturally) so I stripped him right then and there. Hey! Here’s an opportunity! Let’s try potty training. We sat on the toilet (with help). We sat on the potty chair. We tried standing and aiming, and then finally a pull-up. You will be happy to know that the pull-up worked great! Great…
After giving up, I got him dressed in dry clothes and kisses, and off he went frolicking and dancing into the hall where he promptly tripped over his own feet and fell straight down bumping his face, AGAIN! Really? Really…Again? The only thing good that comes from these incidents (accidents, I guess) are lots of hugs and kisses. I wasn’t sure what he bumped this time—teeth, nose, forehead? There was no bloody mouth or nose, thank heavens, but eventually the red mark appeared in the center of his forehead to the right of the giant yellowish/green knots from last week’s tussle with the entertainment center. I swear, he really is becoming Frankenstein—slowly but surely he is making his face green, and we will most assuredly need bolts to hold it on his shoulders if he doesn’t learn how to walk!