Firstly, I'm not much of a cleaner. My mother...she can clean. But me, not so much. This is not to say that I don't strive to be a cleaner or that I am not disgusted by myself sometimes; horrified to find my son drawing in the dust that has accumulated on our TV stand. Yes I sweep daily. I scrub counter tops a multitude of times a day and change bed linens weekly. I can't leave the house with dirty dishes in the sink. Yet a deep clean is hard to come by in my house.
Getting Gillian to do the work for meThe other day I decided to try to keep on top of my cleaning, while not actually cleaning. I bought one of those tablets you drop in the toilet tank, a blue do-dad that keeps your bowl fresh no matter how many times your kids forget to flush it. But it's not a perfect system. Unfortunately the dog has now, after 14 years, decided to start drinking out of the toilet. And drinking blue toilet water surely can't be good for her health. There have also been sporadic incidents of back splash, which now leaves the offending fanny speckled with blue. And a blue speckled fanny can't be good for anyone's health.
However, had I known how much the blue toilet water would freak my kids out, I would have gotten one a lot sooner! It has been so much fun watching, as one after the other they have run screaming from the bathroom to alert me to the holy-crap-there's-something-wrong-with-the-toilet-water blue toilet water. Sadly the panic, coupled with excitement and shock, was short lived for the older two. Eventually they got it. The real joy has come every single time my three year old flushes the toilet and announces with great pride that she's flushed the blue water down. Every. Single. Time. For the past week and a half. Some things never get old...blue toilet water is one of them.
On Potty Training an already Potty Trained Child:
Gillian was fully potty trained by 22 months old. She went at potty training with astonishing determination. And she did it. Honestly I feel as though I had nothing to do with her success. She donned her big girl panties and has been off and running ever since. She just turned three, and therefore has been off and running with this thing for a good long while now. Yet, I find myself currently locked in an increasingly frustrating battle of wills with her.
Today she ran downstairs after trying to get her own bathing suit on and announced that she'd peed on her hand. I asked how and she said she was trying to pee on the rug and got her hand instead. I was completely baffled. I asked her to show me where she had peed on the rug, and she dutifully took my hand and brought me to her room, promptly announcing that she was just kidding. She hadn't, in fact, peed on the rug. I have no idea how she managed to pee on her hand. Just her hand.
Several times in the past couple of weeks she has had accidents. In the bathroom. While arguing with me about who is going to put her on the potty. Usually she decides that she needs to go when I have my head in the dryer, or am applying sunscreen, or mixing a drink. Usually I am just annoyed that she needs me to do something for her that I know she is more than capable of doing herself. So I argue. I yell from the bottom of the stairs to lift the seat, drop her drawers and hop on. She wants me to turn on the light. Yet she would stand in the bathroom and play with the light switch for hours if I let her. She wants me to lift her onto the potty when she's got the climbing skills of a mountain goat.
If only she were more like her brother...This is one phase that I just need to wait out, I know it will pass. That doesn't make it any less frustrating or any more endearing. I keep telling her that she can't go to preschool (in 16 days) if she won't just get on the potty. But she knows I'm bluffing...there's no way in hell my baby isn't getting out of my hair for six hours a week!
For several and various reasons I hardly ever insert myself into politics. However, if I ever had to drive cross-country, I know with all certainty that the most logical place to stick my miserable dog would be in his crate. On the roof of the car. In fact my children, if we ever have to drive cross-country, (or anywhere for that matter,) should consider themselves lucky if I don't entertain the idea of putting them in a crate. On the roof of the car.
The dog in question, when he was cute!
So all of this amounts to probably just a tid. Or a bit.