I tooted!

Children are honest, bless their little hearts. We love them for it, but sometimes wish they'd learn the art of the little white lie. Like when you're in line and your child says "That's a Big booty, Mama!", and there's nowhere to hide. If only we could teach our little Honest Abes a little discretion.

My son has a fascination with bodily functions (He's a boy. I'm told, that's what they do). It started innocently enough with a simple inquiry about a smell. After that, it was like everything was an attack on his olfactory sense. In fact, some smells were downright offensive to him.

When we were at home and someone passed gas, my son would ask, "What's that smell?" We would tell him that it's not nice to ask that, but he was nothing if not persistent.

So when we were in public and he smelled something a little off-color, he would ask, "What's that smell?" Again, we tried (naively I might add) to explain to him that it's really not polite to ask what that smell is.

We finally made progress while visiting his grandmother. She did what grandmas do and he, of course asked "What's that smell?" She told him she farted. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Just straightforward.

We told her of the plight that we had been experiencing concerning his animal-like sense of smell, and she did the only logical thing for a mother of grown children to do. She turned it around on him.

We went shopping and my son passed gas, his grandmother playfully asked, "What's that smell?" Without missing a beat, my son replied, "ME!!! I tooted! (giggles)".

He still asks what that smell is because he's a boy. But a wise man once said, "He who smelt it, dealt it."

I'm DONE!!!

Traditions are important. We all have some. Most of them are learned, but there are some that are just innate things we know and keep doing generation to generation. There is one tradition that has stood the test of time in my family.

Back in the eighties when things were more relaxed, we lived in a house that shared a driveway with my grandfather's business where my mother was the receptionist. I was around three and fairly independent so she would put on a recorded VHS (Remember when you could record six fuzzy hours of television and then accidentally tape over all of it?), and turn on the baby monitor.

Disclaimer: When I needed her or got hurt, she always ran to my aid (as demonstrated by the below story). This was in NO WAY child abuse.

There was one particular day which lives in infamy... still. A nice elderly woman came into the shop. She and my mother were discussing business when all of a sudden, "I'm Done!" The lady was surprised and my mother explained to her that I was next door, and the baby monitor was on to "I'M Done!", tell her when I needed anything. "I said I'M DONE!!!" And right now I needed some assistance in the bathroom.

So, the lady told her she better go help me and they giggled about it and she's been telling the story for 20 years.

So now, 20 years later, my son is toilet training and learning how to play pretend (a valuable skill at any age... either skill actually). He really likes to play robots. I was Momicron, he was Calebmus Prime and his daddy was Daddytron.

After the obligatory run through the house yelling "poop poop poop!!", there was silence for a few minutes and then all of a sudden, "WIPE MINE BUTT, DADDYTRON!!!"

So, I told Daddy that he better go help him and we giggled about it and I'll be telling that story for 20 years... much to the chagrin of Calebmus Prime.

Weekend Update- Privacy!!!

Parenting is a rough job. Anyone who has ever had toddlers knows that when they say they have to go, they really have to go, and nothing will get in the way. We try to teach them patience and to not fight, but sometimes it happens anyway. Like when three toddlers have to pee in two bathrooms.

We had our neighbors over and Ally, 3, had to pee, so Caleb, 3, had to pee also. When they ran inside, Alex, 5, of course had to go.

"Do you really have to pee," I asked.

"YES!" was the reply.

Well, who am I to judge.

We went inside to pee. By the time we got to the bathroom, Caleb and Ally both had their pants around their ankles and were pushing each other off the potty both trying to use it while the other was away from it. In the process of arguing over urination rights, Ally had put the potty seat on sideways so that when she sat down, the back of the seat fell into the toilet along with Ally's backside.

Caleb and Alex got sent to bathroom number two for their respective number-ones (numbers-one?). In a few seconds,

"When do I get to pee?" Alex

"Caleb, go pee." Me

"I already did..." Caleb

"Then pull up your pants, Alex, go pee now."

A few more seconds go by and the boys walk out of the bathroom, and Alex, in all of his five-year-old exuberance exclaims, "Finally some PRIVACY!!!"

Wait until he has kids, I've not had privacy in the bathroom in years.

Only Sometimes, Mommy.

Children are a blessing. A crazy, crazy blessing. Some days you can't hug them tight enough and at other times they are destined for a box on the curb labeled "Free to Good Home" or to a family of gypsies.

Being a stay-at-home mom may possibly be the hardest job on Earth. Don't laugh at me calling it a job. You get up at 6 am. You are a chef, maid, chauffer, teacher, aeronautical engineer (paper airplanes), hostage negotiator (stolen toys), and an event coordinator (playgroup anyone?).

If it's such difficult, thankless work, why do you do it? Because, in the midst of all the chaos, in the cyclone that hits your home everyday, there gleam tiny moments of sheer perfection.

Yesterday, my 15-month-old wobbled over to me, climbed up on my lap (they're always taking liberties with my lap), looked me in the eye, said "Mine!" and gave me a hug! How great is that? I've been claimed, which is good since my 3-year-old has informed me that "Mommy, sometimes I love you."

"Only sometimes?" I asked him.

"I love you sometimes," he told me again.

"I love you sometimes too," I agreed. Just wait until those gypsies get here.