Today

Today I woke up and I wasn’t surprised by it for the first time in a while.

I went about the morning routine. I washed up. Brushed my teeth. Even did my hair up. I found the courage to look at myself in the mirror and smile.  Still crooked, still small, still nowhere near as bright as before but it was a smile and I loved it.

Today I stopped what I was doing and made sure I ate something.

A piece of candy. A protein bar. Some jerky. A pouch of applesauce. I made sure to step away from my desk and eat something for a moment before getting back into it. I even made myself take a water break and walk around to stretch my legs.

Today I went to work and allowed myself to daydream.

Not the best thing to do at my desk but I wasn’t engrossed in my work or computers from clock in to clock out. I sat back and let my mind wander to places long forgotten and collecting dust. I let myself sit there and imagine how things would have been different, and how they actually are from a set time in the past. A drastic change filled with uphill battles and numerous scars to bear. I let myself imagine a war and I was victorious at the top of it all, whose name would be sung like a glorious hymn for the ones still fighting and a lament for those who loss.

Today I remembered to stop and take my medicine.

A little alarm every day on the dot to step away and take my daily pills. One at a time now, take it with water and not coffee. Make sure to also stop and eat something with it. Swallow, rinse, repeat until its better. It won’t go away; it never goes away, but it can get better sometimes if I keep to the routine and train myself to respond to the alarm reminder. A Pavlovian effect tried and true, my hand reaching for the bottle at the buzz of my alarm on the dot. Swallow, rinse, repeat until it gets easier.

Today I was told I looked happier. Better. Livelier, and my reflection in the mirror smiled in agreement.

Baby steps were taken to get this far on the path but hearing that this herculean feat is visible to the world was a boost I didn’t know was needed. I thought I had it on my own, scaling up this wall with that weight of a thousand and one thoughts riding my back. Clinging to my skin.  A seductive whisper in my ear of toxic lies masking itself as sweet nothings while it fixes the halo around my neck tighter and tighter. The thoughts are still there, waiting as I build up patchwork armor against that come-hither voice. Still there but with those words from others that weight gets a little lighter and the thoughts grow softer in volume with each step.

Today I replied to a friend’s message and we talked for hours.

We shared silly pictures, talked about new shows and books. Gossiped about this and that, complained about work. We talked memories and makeup, we talked of mutual friends and those the other doesn’t personally know except through word of mouth. We laughed. We even planned to get together for the first time in months to catch up in person. They said they missed me, missed this me and that a lot of people have. I replied that I was one of those who missed ‘me’ as well. We cried. We talked. We laughed.

Today I looked around me and realized I had been neglectful.

There are others who have been hurting, by other mean or by my actions. Their own shoulders slumped under the weight of caring too much and having nothing reciprocated for weeks or months at a time. These are the people who tried to carry me down the path and I did nothing to help ease the burden of that weight bearing down on them until it spilled over to their own backs. Each lie of “I’m fine” or every monotonous “Don’t worry about me” spoken to them no better than a blade stabbing their heart and chipping away at their love and resolve to see me continue down that path.  I still carry my weight on my shoulders of those thoughts that wish to ensnare me again, and while they aren’t as heavy as before maybe I can shoulder theirs as I finally return the favor. Baby steps down the path, one foot in front of the other. That’s it. You got this. I’m proud of you.

Today I got in the car with my family and we drove.

We went to the next town over and had a day to ourselves. We gamed. We shopped for silly things and ate out. It was a day of what I wanted to do and I thought I wanted to just get out of the house. We laughed. We talked. We sang along to the music. The day meant to be for me turned into a day for us, and we planned to do it again the next week.  We went to the city and did it all again. Held hands on the drive home. We went out and had fun for the first time in a while together, and it was exactly what I wanted as much as I needed it.

Today I sat down and listened to my kid talk.

She talked about school and friends. Talked about her game and how far she was in it. “Can you believe it? I caught a shiny!” I listened to her laugh and vent her frustrations about school work or her Legos as she worked to put them together. I listened to her sing along the best she could in the backseat to my music as we drove to town. I listened to everything she did and learned more about her in that time than I had in months, like her teachers name or the name of her best friend. I listened to her even as I hugged her, and if she heard my crying, she said nothing about it. She just talked about her day like it was nothing.

Today I put down what I was doing and gave a hug.

It never hit me how much I missed it, and how touch starved I made myself over the months. Minimal contact had been an unspoken policy for me but now I give a hug whenever I can. Pull my kid into my lap and hug her close. Lean down to wrap my arms around someone from behind while they sat. Hold my boyfriend close at night and fall asleep easier. It’s a warm weight that acts as a balance for what is already on my shoulders. A warmth that counteracts the numbing chill that has settled in my chest, a fight for dominance to see which will keep my heart going or stop it. I give more hugs these days to keep that chill away.

Today I went about my day with ease.

I woke up with ease. Made sure to eat and take my meds. I talked and I listened, I dreamed and I laughed. I hugged with more love than I had felt in so long as if to make up for lost time. I held hands to help those down the path with me so we didn’t have to face it alone. I sang in the shower, in the car, in line at the checkout. I got out of the house and had fun with my family every other day, a day that went from ‘me’ to ‘us’. I felt love and gave it back with such ferocity and energy it left us all dazed. I felt happier.

I am happier.

Sleepless Thoughts 1

Mental health is a helluva thing to rocever to where you're at least functioning enough to get by day to day. Fuck being friendly. Fuck staying in touch. It's a herculean task in itself to just wake up and find a reason worthwhile to get out of bed. Go about the daily grind. Try to get where you need to be. Rinse. Repeat. Hit the clock, start over. Watching it all go to hell around you because you're this husk of the person you once were stuck wearing a smiling mask that's chipping away with each lie of "I'm fine" when you're only wondering when does it end? When do I get to be me again? Never knowing if it's the next minute, the next day, the next year. Waiting each passing second for that switch to flip and let you be free. No more rinse. No more repeat. The clock keeps going and you're free. You're tired of waiting to be free. You're tired of hiding and lying and wanting it to end.

I'm so damn tired.

Whodunit

It's been a little while since my last post on here. Life has a funny way of getting busy at the drop of a hat. One day you're twiddling your thumbs and stopping to smell the flowers (if I could smell anyways) only to blink and be working two jobs, paying bills, parenting, and adulting in general. I have come to master the art of multitasking by scratching my ass and putting a bra on at the same time. There's no time to do one another separately.  Even now I'm typing this up on my phone at my part time job rather than my computer in the comfort of my home. But this story had to be told while the memory is still fresh.

The setting is a cloudy Saturday morning in a small rural town. The ground is still wet from last night's storm, the air is warm, and the neighborhood pets are barking at whatever dared to get close to their yard. Decent enough of an image to set the scene? Now imagine a very tired 20 something year old getting ready to walk out the door for work, hand on the doorknob as she tells her boyfriend the usual 'love you'  when she opens the front door and something catches her eye. She pauses in telling her boyfriend she would see him after work, blinks to make sure what she thinks she's seeing is there, and finally makes a noise of disgusted surprise at the sight of a severely used prophylactic on the porch. The screen cuts to black and at the last second a message appears:

'Based on a true story'

Yes folks, this is indeed a honest retelling of my unfortunate self coming across a used prophylactic smack dab dead center of my front porch at eight in the morning. After the initial 'what the hell?' moment shared with a now involved boyfriend, we stared at the offensive piece of trash in a myriad of emotions. Confusion at who would do such a thing and when did they do it? Anger that someone had the balls to place their severely used prophylactic on our doorstep (and filled with what I can only assume wasn't yogurt). Horror when it dawned on us that someone was going to have to get rid of it, and that task had fallen on us.

"But Katt, what if the storm blew it to your porch last night?" I will admit I had that thought for all of 3 seconds before dismissing it like a call girl after a nice romp in the sack. The condemning piece of evidence against that idea was that the severely used prophylactic was in the dead center of the porch and laid out in such a way that suggests whoever left it did so with a deliberate reason behind it. Now, if it had been askewed or somewhere in the yard I would lean more towards a gust of wind that just happened to be carrying a tied off sack of another man's handmade hand stroked baby making juice. But again, the careful precision of this placement was not from mother nature slinging it at our house with a gleeful laugh... but someone who wanted their brimming and used prophylactic to be the first thing we saw. God forbid we step in it before looking. There wouldn't be enough bleach to clean my foot off. Something like that would be an automatic amputation. Is it an overreaction? Perhaps, but just picture yourself stepping in some random splooge in a bag and then we'll see who's overreacting.

Now I don't want to point fingers, something ingrained into my head early in life... but I had a fairly decent suspicion as to who could have done such an unusual thing. Maybe they got angry for us making a certain call to a certain local authority figure for several occasions of questionable going ons in and outside of their house at dark as balls o'clock. Maybe they knew through whatever means that we may try for another kid eventually and wanted to contribute. The whole "it takes a village" thing. While I'm sure their hearts were in the right place, I can full heartedly say that we do not need outside assistance in baby making now or any time down the line. We especially do not need the help of a Rando putting forth their baby butter like a cat presents its owner a dead mouse or bird. Thanks...but pass.

"But Katt, how do you know it was them?" You may be asking. Honestly I don't know for sure it was them. It could have been a prank from the local high school hoodlums. It could be we were chosen by some superhero vigilante to continue his lineage without wanting to get directly involved.  Imagine a Superman-esque man dressed in spandex with rolls of prophylactic and conception deterrent items in a utility belt wandering the dark streets of a small town. But... my money is still on the fairly new neighbors. That doesn't mean I'm going to pick up the possible key evidence and knock on their door asking them, "Good morning. Is this um... your gently used willy wrapper?"   They'd probably think I was off my rocker asking them something like that!

Not only do I not want to ask them that, but I don't want to touch the thing. Who knows where it's been? It could come to life by some defying act of nature and bite me. It could be a portkey to some underground German sex dungeon of horrifying proportions. It could have a leak! Even if I wore gloves, used tongs, and went to pick it up with a small baggy much like you would with a dog dookie, I'm not touching it.

By now I'm running late for work though, so I sidestepped the ridiculously full prophylactic (I don't know why I chuckle at that word every time) and made it to the car. Did I feel bad about leaving my boyfriend to pick up another man's rubber balloon filled with baby butter? Of course, but work beckoned. And of course I was late by a few minutes. Of course my boss was there wondering where the hell I was. Of course I had to explain that I was stopped by trying to crack the unusual case of the dropped off ding-dong raincoat on my porch.

At least she got a laugh out of it.

Maybe I'll never truly know who left it or their reason behind it. Whether it be the neighbor acting on petty vengeance, a small group of high school deviants laughing about it being "JUST A PRANK BRO!" Maybe it was the hero we don't need or want, Condom Man, wanting someone to carry on his name. All I know is that I have no intention of finding out if they're going to try it again.

Rewind

“Congratulations! You’re going to be a mom!”

Pause. Rewind. Play.

“You’re going to be a mom!”

…come again?

Rewind. Play.

“You’re going to be a mom!”

Pause.

... let’s just be sure I heard you right, Doc. Once more with feeling.

Rewind. Play.

“You’re going to be a-“

Yeah, I heard you right.

Oh boy, let’s just take a deep breath and think this over. Currently I’m staring at a small screen that’s just slightly bigger than a smartphone, completely enamored by the small blob that bears a striking resemblance to a chicken nugget. I’m so caught up with wrapping my head around the news that I don’t notice the lab tech reaching for a small tin square with one hand while grabbing for a wand with her other. Of course I asked what it was, and the poor girl had probably heard it plenty enough and seen her fair share of expecting mother’s faces to calmly open the little package and roll a fucking condom on the wand, never breaking eye contact.

“It’s going to give us a clearer image of the fetus. Now, this may feel a little uncomfortable-“

Fast forward. Fast forward.

Pause.

Families and eventually friends have been told, emotions of all kinds brought to light over the news. Most good. Some bad. A few that are surprisingly cautious and wary. The first month or two are kind to everyone, especially me… but I wonder when I’ll start to show?

Fast forward.

Pause.

The answer is three months. I’m already starting to notice a little bump around the middle, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. I’m ‘glowing’ as some say, but that might just be the lack of sleep I get on top of the bouts of nausea throughout the day. I hope it doesn’t turn into full on morning sickness.

Fast forward.

Pause.

I’m now waking up on the dot at five in the damn morning to vomit. Baby items are being looked for far and wide, skinny jeans are put to rest in favor of stretchy sweats and billowy shirts. Gone are the sweet snack cakes I love so dearly, replaced with nothing but fruits and veggies. Gone are the hamburgers, the chicken tenders, the pork chops, and tacos. I am starting to believe I am carrying the next Richard Simmons. I think I want to rewind and go back to when this pregnancy thing was nice to me.

Fast forward.

Pause.

Wait, that wasn’t right. I want to go back, not forward. Now I can’t see my damn feet without leaning forward! I have to lift this extra twenty pounds around my middle to take a piss. My memory is going to shit and  I feel like I’m carrying around a butterball turkey in my stomach at this point. My boobs are now preventing me from wearing those cute shirts that I just bought, my memory is going to shit, and don’t get me started on my back. This whole ‘growing big like a whale and not eating anything sweet’ thing sucks, I’m going back to the start if I can remember where the hell that rewind button is...

Fast forward.

Pause.

No, no, no! Why am I up at two in the damn morning?! Why does my stomach hurt so much? Oh shit, something is wrong with the baby. I need to call the doctor. I need to call mom. I should have gotten the anesthesiologist’s number because holy shit does this hurt. What do I do? What the hell is going on? Is… is it time already? But I haven’t even gotten to enjoy this ride! It’s gone by too fast! I want a damn refund because—

Fast forward.

The nurse who is standing at the foot of the bed is looking to see if the head is breached. There’s a comment about there being ‘a lot of hair’ and everyone in the room laughs. The grandmother’s to be laugh. The aunts laugh. The father to be laughs. Everyone… but me. Oh don’t mind me, lady! I just have a fucking needle shoved in my back, can’t move my legs of my own volition, and currently have my best friend sitting front row to watch the show. (Seriously, out of all the places in the room you could have gone, you get the spot that has a direct view of the mess?) The nurse tries to backpedal and say it’s the baby’s head that has all the hair, but that’s just the same as trying to put a damn band-aid on a damn crack in the road and call it good. If I could feel my legs I would get out of this bed and-

Fast forward.

There’s the head doctor sitting between my legs, reminding me of a little league coach catching a ball the pitcher throws their way. It’s almost funny to laugh at, current circumstances be damned. She gives the order to push and for a fraction of a second I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m… I’m scared. I’m not fucking ready for this. Hell, I've never been ready for this. I've been putting on a front for the past nine months, pretending to be excited and happy about becoming a mom when I'm really scared. No, I'm fucking terrified. I can't do this, I want to go back to the start. I want to-

“Push!”

Fast forward.

The first week goes by smoothly. She’s so damn tiny that I’m always afraid that I’ll drop her or hold her wrong if I’m not actively paying attention all the time. I’m getting used to the awkwardness that comes with breast feeding and diaper changes and swaddling, although I’m sure I birthed a fucking magician with how quickly and seamlessly she is able to get out of the confined blanket just after I wrap her up. She’s quiet, alert, and has this curious gleam to her blue eyes, and she’s perfect just the way she is-

Fast forward.

Wait, what? When did this happen? When did she start crawling? When did I miss this? I can’t look away for a second without her scooting along on the floor, eager to explore new areas she couldn’t before. No longer is she glued to my hip. I don’t think I like this. She’s getting too big too-

Fast forward.

Hold on, now she’s walking? When the hell?! I feel like I just barely blinked and she’s getting around so easily and without me. She’s growing up too quickly. I want to go back to the days where she could fit in the nook of my arm. I want to go back to the days where she looked to me for everything. I want to go back!

…where’s the damn rewind?

Fast forward.

Dammit, stop! She’s getting her teeth and getting her first haircut and actually fucking speaking. Where is the little baby I was just holding? Where did the toothless grins and milk drunk expressions go? Where did that little bundle of warmth and love go to? When did she turn into this mobile, laughing little girl? Where the hell is that rewind button? It was just here I swear it was. I just want to go back-

Fast forward.

I refuse to believe she’s already three. There’s no way in hell this child is getting that old. I need to find that rewind button, now. She’s just a little baby! I can’t let her go to daycare by herself! What if she needs me! What if I’m not there for her? What if I’m not there for the next milestone? What if I’m-

Fast forward.

Just fucking stop already! She’s getting too big too damn fast, and I can’t keep up with this. I need that rewind button, please! I was just holding the sleeping newborn in my arms just yesterday, so when the hell did she become this big? This assertive and decisive of things? This… independent? When did she decide she didn’t need mommy to tuck her in at night? When did she want to take the initiative to bathe herself? Where did she learn to say ‘I can do it’? Where the hell did that rewind button disappear to? 

 Where did my baby go?

Dirty Little Secrets

There are some dirty secrets about having a kid that no one shares with you. From the mother of one or more kids who has experience under her belt to the nurse who first informs you that ‘Congrats! Now you have an excuse for shoving all that food in your face and packing on the weight!’ they all withhold pieces of information that, while seemingly unimportant at the time, would have been nice to know about before and even after childbirth.

What are these secrets I keep bitching about? Well, let’s break this down into two separate categories: the ‘not-so secret’ secrets, and the actual secrets. Sounds easy to remember, right?

Not-So Secrets

·         You will more than likely piss or shit yourself during the joyous few moments of actually pushing a kid out. You may think you won’t- and you may be one of those few who are lucky enough to somehow not- but there’s a big chance you will. This is apparently normal and the nurses on hand have seen it enough times to become desensitized, so this gives you a false sense of relaxation knowing you’ve resorted to your five year old tendency of wetting the bed. Only this time you have an excuse. Good for you.

·         There will be blood. What the hell do you expect? You’re pushing out a human fucking being from a small hole that at most has only had to deal with bits of your uterus falling out once a month. You are going to tear and it’s going to suck later on down the road during those frequent bathroom breaks. Thankfully, the staff has come prepared and gives you this seasons new design of mesh panties, antiseptic spray (with pain reliever thank fuck) and a small plastic bottle that you use to clean your torn and extremely sore self after every little piss. This is going to be tedious on one hand, a constant cycle of ‘piss-spritz-pat dry-antiseptic’. Rinse and repeat for the next couple of weeks or until you think you’re capable of taking a leak without causing damage.

·         On the same note, you’re going to want to invest in some pads. None of those dainty pieces of shit that you might be accustomed to, oh no. You’re going to want to get the long, overstuffed granny pads to go right along with those granny mesh panties. Remember the ones you got from the school nurse or the school machine? Those are about to become your best friend until you stop bleeding out of your ripped hole. You’re going to look like you’re packing something in your pants, but who the fuck cares? You just pushed out a kid. And don’t even think about reaching for those tampons. Just think of those as nuclear waste or some shit and push them to the back of the cabinet.

·         You’re still going to be eating for two. Breastfeeding is one of the most natural and wonderful bonding experiences a mom can have with a newborn. It’s also one of the most draining a new mom deals with- literally. Whether you pump it out by the baby bottle or let the little sucker get it direct from the source, you’re going to be burning those calories left and right. So use the excuse that you’re eating for two when you reach for that second mini-snack or something. Just remember baby isn’t going to be magically draining that baby fat away, so re-learn some self-control the closer you get to weaning.

I’m sure I skimmed over a few things, but it’s been three years since I’ve gone through any of this so bear with me.  Now that we got past the first stage, let’s move on to the one everyone has been waiting for.

Actual Secrets

·         Those nice nurses from before are about to make you squirm. Minutes after pushing out a kid, you’re going to be left exhausted beyond all reason and look like you just got back from a night at the bar with your friends. You may even look like you got the shit knocked out of you, which in a sense you sort of did. All you’re going to want is to rest for a bit and try to wrap your head around the fact that you just pushed out a fucking watermelon from a lemon-sized hole. Those nurses are going to come in- or at least one of them- and congratulate you on your successful endeavor of childbirth.

And then they’re going to practically use your poor deflated stomach as an example of how to properly knead dough.  

It’s going to knock the wind out of you and it’s going to make you want to punch the nearest thing (husbands and boyfriends are advised to keep their distance at this time for safety concerns) and you’re going to be faintly reminded of how period pains felt before you became a baby making machine for nine months. Once done, the nurse will leave and come back every other hour or so to knead your uterus back into shape. Just think of it as a deep tissue massage that you never want again.

·         Your ass is going to be traumatized for about a week or more. This is going to be expected as you have fucking birthed a kid from a hole that is just a thin perineum away. Trips to the bathroom for anything other than the tedious task of taking a piss will be out of the question. That bowl of beans you had for lunch? It’s not going anywhere. That fruit salad you scarfed down? Sorry buddy, that’s going to settle down in your gut for a bit. Your ass is going to be so scared of letting anything slip out, you won’t even be able to pass gas. It sucks and no amount of laxatives or anything will help alleviate some of that discomfort, but once you’re finally able to coax your poor ass that no, there won’t be anything as big as a baby coming out of your body, that next trip to the toilet is going to be the best fucking feeling you will experience in years. There will be an angelic choir in the distance singing Halle-fucking-lujah as you take your first dump in a week or more.

·         There is going to be A LOT of blood. We touched base on this in the previous segment, but there’s just not enough time in the world to explain how much there is. You’re going to feel like you’re getting slammed with your first period in months- which you technically are I suppose- but the pain that it brings is going to be horrendous. Not to mention that providing your little bundle of joy with that homemade mommy-baby booby milk is going to help speed up the process of shrinking your uterus back to normal size. (Having PTSD flashbacks to the nurses making fucking pretzels of your sagging stomach is a normal thing.) The ‘flow’ is going to get lighter as the days go on, so think of it as just another period or something.

Now there is a fine line between the normal allotted amount of blood that is passed and the amount that raises suspicions that ‘Hey I think something might be fucking wrong with my lady bits’, and should be closely monitored. The first day in the hospital the nurses are going to monitor how much pee you’re able to pass without a catheter and how much of it is bloody. All of which is just so much fun.

Again, I’m probably skipping over some things that went on but again, it’s been about three years since I popped my Little Monster out and I have no intentions of going through that shit any time in the foreseeable future. So my questions to any mom reading are:

What little secrets did you learn after childbirth that no one seemed to tell you about? Do those that go through c-sections experience something similar or different in the first days of giving birth? 

Parenting a Little Monster 101: Potty Training

It's one of the most trying times for most first time parents to go through. Some are blessed with fast learning kids who easily use the toilet after a few times. Others- myself included- may want to pull their hair out during the ordeal. There's tears from both parent and child (more so from the prior) and by the end of the day there's a puddle of piss in the floor you don't find until you take a step in it with your socks on.

Yes, I'm talking about potty training.

It's not something I thought I would ever have so much trouble with at the notion of raising a child. I was in a naive state of mind thinking that 'well if I have a kid we'll just take it nice and easy' and picture an almost 50's housewife scenario that included all Stepford wives' smile and the such. Nowadays I sit on the edge of the tub with my hair a fucking mess wondering where the hell I went wrong with this part of child rearing as my 2 year old swings her legs off the side of the toilet.

After weeks of getting practically nowhere with things, I decided to just let Little Monster roam around the house butt naked. At first, she wasn't sure what to do. She even pointed to the training pants with a look my way as if to say 'what the fuck I need something to cover my ass Cap'. After convincing her to leave the sanctity of the bathroom, she immediately lifted her shirt over her head and raced off to show her dad that mommy was, in fact, out of her damn mind. A brief and frustrating conversation with him later, I set an alarm for every 15 minutes and gave Little Monster cup after cup of juice.

I was starting to think that maybe I had lost my mind as I watched Little Monster run around the living room, seeming to enjoy this new liberation from training pants. Her dad kept casting uneasy glances towards kid as if expecting her to either piss herself or shit on the floor like an untrained pup... but then the fucking clouds parted and a miracle happened. Little Monster came to a full stop and started to shift around awkwardly, her hand tugging at her shirt and her little brows furrowed. And then she said a single word that made any doubt for my mental state disappear:

"Poop."

I usher her to the bathroom quickly, almost feeling like a fucking escort or bodyguard for a big wig. Maybe we were finally about to get somewhere with this mess. Maybe I had unlocked some sort of potty training secret like the Indiana Jones of parenting. It was a fucking miracle indeed that we made it to the toilet just in time for her to let it out, and as unusual as it is to say, I was incredibly proud of that dump. Potty training was going to be a breeze! What the hell was I so frustrated about? Several more successful trips to the potty afterwards and I was getting more and more confident that Little Monster may even be fully trained by Mother's Day (note to self: figure out when that is) when her dad stepped in.

"Going as frequent as she is can't be good for her."

"It's working." She was doing fine; there were no accidents since I let her run around the house with her ass bared, but he wouldn't let up.

"At least put some training underwear on her." He just couldn't stand letting her run around without anything on below the waist. Hell, we were at home and no one was around. Let her be free! Let her have fun and shit! It's not hurting anything! But he was persistent and wouldn't listen to me (nothing surprising there honestly) so I put her in a pair. She seemed to take to them fairly well, but wouldn't you fucking know it?

She pisses herself not five minutes after I put them on her.

One short bath and a fresh pair of training underwear later (again, her dad just did not want to listen to me about letting her go naked) we sat her down and told her to say something if she needs to go to the potty. That's something I've had to constantly remind myself during this mess: always take the time to explain to the kid that it's time to grow up and be a big kid, and always TRY to maintain a calm and collective head about it.

See what I did there? It's a task that's easier said than done, and I'll shamelessly admit that I have on occasion had to leave the room because I was just at my wits end with potty training (amongst other things).

Little Monster went about doing her thing, consisting of creating chaos and mayhem in her path. Only this time around, she would stop every so often and look down at her feet to see a dark wet mess spreading beneath her. Of course she would piss herself the instant I put her in underwear. Of course I wouldn't notice it until it was too late to take her to the toilet. Of fucking course I wouldn't find a piss spot until I stepped in it with my sock wearing foot. By the end of the evening, I handed her dad a pull up and had to have him put her to bed.

Maybe potty training isn't meant to be something that's easy. Maybe it's something that tests a parents patience and endurance and willpower. Maybe it's just something that's preparing us for what lies ahead with school and puberty and relationships and shit. Maybe I've yet to really crack the code to potty training a stubborn little shit. There's a lot of 'maybes' and 'what ifs' when it comes to parenting, and I think we're just scratching the surface with this speed bump of a challenge.

First Post via Kindle

Well this is different. Not sure why I bought this app (and for that matter why is it that WordPress is free but I have to dish out .99 for blogger?) but I'm hoping that with this impulse buy I'll be able to post more often for all of my 1 follower to skim through.

Happy trails folks.