Huffington Post

No Time to Pee

Okay, raise of hands, who will admit that they wait until their significant other is home from work so they can poop in privacy?

How many of us dutifully fill our water bottles with the daily recommended 64oz only to completely avoid hydrating during the day because you dread being trailed by an entourage every time the urge to pee strikes.

Now, just the mommies? How many would admit that if changing your pad/tampon were an Olympic sport, the speed of which you make the change would qualify you for a Silver, maybe even a Gold?

I certainly did not experience these issues when I was a working mom in the corporate world. Sure, there were some similarities: you couldn’t always pee when you wanted, pooping was held off until you got home, and your lunch break was a frenzy of eating with one hand, responding to personal texts and voicemails with the other hand, and potty time was an exercise in speed and efficiency, not unlike the small, oh so tiny, window of me time when you finally get all the kids asleep for naptime.

Recently, working from home, and caring for other children as well as my own, pooping and peeing has entered a new level of potty hell. Not only do I have my own children screaming with a heart-stopping intensity of a horror movie actress, “MOMMY!” when they realize I am not in their immediate presence, but I also have 2-3 other toddlers wanting to know where that woman with the yummy Goldfish crackers has gone. 

Most parents have the experience of dragging their diaper-clad little one into the bathroom. We all are under this illusion that if they watch us on a potty that they will suddenly be overwhelmed with the urge to tear-off their diaper and poop on the potty, too. It is all fine and dandy the first and second years, but sometime around age three or so, it becomes this creepy little voyeuristic adventure where their eyes follow every motion, movement, and wipe. And, that’s when your sudden desire for privacy kicks in — sure, you have been walking around them naked since birth, popping out the boobies when they are hungry, showering with them when there are just not enough wipes to clean up that poop explosion, occasionally catching mommy and daddy in an embrace — but the pooping and peeing sightseeing ride is shrieking to a halt.

These days…*cue the Mission Impossible theme music*…it is all cloak and daggers. “Hey, kids! Look at that large pile of Goldfish over there!”, “I think I hear someone knocking at the front door?”, “Who wants to watch Frozen?”.

These distractions will usually give me 30 seconds on the clock — and I make it work with a little determination and a lot of mental preparedness — and double-checking to ensure the path is clear of Legos

Do I cut corners? Sure! I leave the bathroom door open for ease of entry and exiting. I wash my hands in the kitchen sink where I can oversee the children noshing on the last few Goldfish like zombies grasping at entrails of a fresh body. I don’t wear pants that require a belt.

In and out of the bathroom. Thirty seconds or less. Who knew parenthood would make potty time such an adventure?

Originally posted in Huffington Post 11/11/2016


You Don’t Need Money to Be Civilized

Today, as I stood behind the elementary school waiting for the Kindergarten teachers to emerge from the back door with our children, I passively listened to a young mother talking on her cell phone. She talked loudly, and with much drama, it was hard not to tune in on her conversation. And then…f-bombs started dropping. I quickly scanned the other parents waiting, but before I could register any disdain on the faces in the crowd, the door opened and the lines of Kindergarteners started filing outside.

I gathered my little one and walked away.

However, hours later, I was still bothered by the young mother and her f-bombs.

Am I a perfect parent? Hell, no! I sneak sweets and hide ice cream treats so I don’t have to share. I yell often. And, I spend too much time on my laptop when I should be making precious memories.

However, when I am in public, whether I am with my children or not, I am respectful, considerate, and mindful of others.

We live in a lower economic section of town. Our elementary is a Title 1 school. The neighborhood, proud and respectable, is poor. But, being poor is not an excuse for acting poorly. The two are not a compulsory cause and effect.

So, why did this woman think it was okay to stand outside an elementary school, in a crowd of parents and grandparents from our community, and obtrusively use inappropriate language?

I don’t know the answer, but I do know it doesn’t cost a thing to be a decent human being.

Originally posted January 2017

Huffington Post

Where Did the Stork Go?

I was preparing lunch for the kids when I heard agonizing moans and grunts coming from the other room. I dashed to the toy room and found my four-year old lying on her back, knees up, legs spread, holding her belly and her three-year old friend kneeling between her legs, saying in a gentle, assuring voice, “I can see the baby, it’s coming, just one more push…”

*Record scratch* Huh?!?

What the HELL happened to the stork?

Once upon a time, little children were told that a friendly stork delivered babies to the doorstep of young parents in a basket. This popular and widespread belief among children was no different than their complete trust in our vivid tales of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. And it was easy for children to blindly play along with the story of the stork. I mean, they believed a portly man slid down a chimney once a year to give them presents, and that a large bunny (maybe suffering some horrible hare hormonal-imbalance?) broke into their house and hid colorful eggs. So a large bird delivering newborn siblings made perfect sense, and it kept their innocence in check just a little bit longer.

However, sometime around the end of the 20th century, parents were told it was no longer acceptable to give toddlers cutesy names for their genitalia. As the mandate spread throughout the land in TV, movies, and popular publications, parents removed “Mr. Winkie” and “Miss Pee-Pee” from their vocabularies and coached their wee ones to pronounce “vagina” and “penis” with accuracy and precise enunciation.

And when our inquisitive toddlers asked us what a vagina is for, THE WORLD RESPONDED: “That’s where babies come from!”

Thus ended the legend of the stork.

But, wait!

My husband and I are old school. When our daughters were forming their first words, we did not pull out the genitalia flashcards with detailed diagrams and the bold, block letters, VAGINA and PENIS. We use cutesy names for their lady parts.

So, the question remains: How did my four-year old know that a baby was coming out of her vagina?

In my humble opinion, it was that damn decree that insisted parents use anatomically correct verbiage. It started a domino effect. FIRST, we gave permission for babies to speak like adults. THEN we gave permission for media and entertainment to discuss vaginas and penises without censure. AND THEN the inter-webs became popular and vaginas and penises were popping up everywhere!

Today, it seems that nothing is secret; nothing is private. We are a world obsessed with “reality.” My four-year old didn’t need me to tell her that a baby came from her vagina. She was educated by the “real” world.

Innocence lost.

Parents can keep their creepy elf on the shelf that spies on children and diminishes any notion of privacy. Or, the renewed St. Patrick’s Eve shenanigans I have heard of in recent years where a leprechaun leaves a mess in the home and gold coins for the children.

I miss the naiveté of children.

I mourn the stork.

Originally posted in Huffington Post on November 30, 2015 as Where Did the Stork Go?