Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Potty training

Last week I promised I do a potty training update. Obviously, I haven’t. Because I hate potty training, and just thinking about it once the boys are asleep gives me a massive headache.

Suffice it to say, things aren’t going well.

I’ve talked to lots of people over the past year who led me to believe that “all you have to do is let them run around naked,” and they’ll train in 3 days.

Sounds good, right? Who likes the feel of poop and pee running down their legs?

I’ll tell you who.  Zach, Charlie and Cooper Kahn. 

Holy hell.

Actually, things got a little better around day 8 of potty training. While Cooper is back to diapers full time (and seems happier that way), Charlie and Zach want nothing to do with diapers. Which is good, I guess, but they still are a LONG way from being potty trained. Baby steps, I guess. And then we’ll work on the Coopster.

A quick story to demonstrate the problems I’ve had with potty training (aside from the massive amounts of pee I’ve had to clean from my floors and furniture):

Every Wednesday, I take the boys to Kindermusik (a music class, where musical prodigies shake rattles, ring bells, and bang each other over the heads with drumsticks). This morning, we get to class, everyone takes off their shoes, and we join the music circle. The teacher breaks out the guitar, and the fun begins:

Charlie:    Mama – I gotta go pee pee!
Zach:     I go pee pee too!!
Of course, music class has no bathroom. I grab the key for the bathroom down the hallway. I open the heavy door to the bathroom (which locks itself as soon as it shuts), and Zach runs in (barefoot... we are all barefoot). Charlie runs away, “ No potty, mommy!  I go to music class!”Charlie, get back here!” I shout, while propping up the door that feels like it is made out of iron, so as not to lock Zach in.   Zach whines: “Mommy I go potty!”


So since I can’t just lock Zach in the bathroom, I scoop him up and run back down the hall to Charlie who is now banging on the music door. I crack open the door to the music class, and quickly shove Charlie in. Zach and I then run back down the hallway to the bathroom. And just as I am unlocking the iron door and Zach is running in, pants are going down, I hear the SCREAMING from music class (all the way down the hallway and behind two closed doors). Charlie.

What to do? I ignore it. Zach’s gotta pee.  Cooper'll take care of his little brother.

So I hoist Zach over the potty. He shoots out about a teaspoon of pee (which lands on my pants, not in the toilet).  "I all done! No more pee pee in there!"  We are pulling up his pants when someone unlocks the heavy door… it is another mom in the class, her son, and a screaming Charlie in tow. “He wanted you,” she tells me.

I feel the sweat of mortification dripping down my face, thank her, and shuffle the boys out of the bathroom and back to music class, when suddenly Zach starts to wail. “Mama I need to wash my hands! My hands Mama!!”


Zach runs back down to the bathroom, and I follow, dragging a loudly protesting Charlie.  I would have cried myself, if the whole situation wasn't so freaking ridiculous.

Fifteen minutes after class has begun, we rejoin the music circle, in time to bang tambourines.

After class, I apologized to the teacher for the incident with Charlie. She laughed. She said, “You know, when you guys left, Cooper got really happy. Grinning from ear-to-ear. He kind of seemed happy he was alone!” Good old Cooper. When the going gets tough, Cooper laughs mommy and his brothers.

So that’s kind of been the story of my life the past 2 weeks. I've thought about ditching all efforts, but since Zach and Charlie seem to be making slight progress, I'll keep pushing forward.  And try very hard not to cry.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Wedding Bells!

Greetings from Hell.

Potty-training-bootcamp-for-triplet-boys-who’d-rather-pee-all-over-the-floor-than-stop-playing-for-two-minutes-to-sit-on-a-potty-two-feet-away has kicked my butt so thoroughly, that I’ll have to provide the gory details in the next day or so. I’m just too tired to write much tonight. And it’s only day 3 of what looks like will be a very long journey.

But, I did want to do a quick post that my beautiful sister Rachel and her incredible fiancĂ© Brent tied the knot up in Asheville this weekend. The boys were ringbearers – and two out of three actually performed their duties well! (We won’t talk about Charlie’s behavior. What can I say? He’s Charlie.)

I spent all day Saturday at the salon with my sister and the other bridesmaids – hair, makeup, the works. And when the boys saw me just before the wedding THEY DIDN’T RECOGNIZE ME. (May have been the false eyelashes and the country music singer hair.) Charlie actually ran away from me. After a few minutes, Zach decided I was OK to hug, and he said “Mama… you got your hair cut!!”

Though Charlie was afraid of me, he was completely in awe of my sister. When he saw the beautiful bride, he ran up to her and shouted “Ray Ray – you very handsome!!!”

It was a wonderful day – a day I’ve always dreamed about, for many reasons. I got to walk down the aisle for my little sister, escorted by my perfect little boys and my wonderful husband. It was a fabulous weekend.

And now, I’m in potty training hell… To be continued.

Sunday, May 2, 2010


I'm getting worried.

One of these days I’m going to leave the house wearing a pair of highwaisted, long crotched, elastic waistbanded, tapered at the leg (but full in the bottom), with pockets-the-size-of-quarters, jeans. With a pair of sensible shoes.

And I will think this is acceptable behavior.

See, yesterday I was in the minivan (alone), and I drove past a Chik-fil-a. The cow was out in the front (like usual on weekends) waving his Eat Mor Chicken sign at the passing cars. I slowed down. I started smiling and waving. As though I had never seen such a wonderful creature in my whole life. Suddenly, mid-wave, it occurs to me what was happening. I am alone. I am a 32-year-old woman, and I am excitedly waving at a 6-foot-tall cow. There are no children in this van. This cow is not cool. I am not cool. Somebody please help me.

What made it worse is that when I got into the van a few minutes earlier, I spent the first 4 minutes of the drive singing along to the Wiggles until I realized that oh my God I am singing along to a Wiggles CD, and then quickly turned on NPR. (Which made me just that much cooler.)

When I search for things in my purse, I wind up with graham cracker crumbs under my fingernails. There’s a diaper in my gymbag. I have a coupon binder. I actually like Barney, and I was excited about the bigger role they gave Murray in Sesame Street this season. I carry Lysol Wipes in my purse. I hide sweet potatoes in macaroni and cheese.  I actually heard these words come out of my mouth: You worry about you, Cooper. Don’t you worry about what Zach is doing. You worry about you.

Is this the inevitable downslide I swore would never happen when I was a teenager?  Where is this all going? In a few years will I happily decorate my van with My Kid Is a Honor Student stickers while wearing a cat sweater?   Is this how it starts?

I hope not.  But I've come to terms with my level of coolness.  (Which, admittedly, has never been that high). Now, coolish is definitely good enough.  I own many more pairs of sweat pants than skinny jeans.  I actually do prefer sensible shoes.  But just in case things get out of hand and I trade in my lowrisers for elastic-waist mom jeans which I wear in public, I beg you, please, someone call an intervention.