Storytime

Some stories.  In no particular order. 

1.   Joe took G to the park this Sunday.  "I need to go potty!" she announced.  No potty in sight.  Fieldhouse locked.  No worries - voila, a drain in the alley is found!  (Did you know this is the advanced stage of potty training? Training your children to pee into manholes or grates on demand.)  Georgia executed his instructions flawlessly, dropping trou and squatting down.  Little did Joe realize that he had basically set her up to pee directly on to her pants and shoes.  doh!  Poor guy...learned a female plumbing lesson that day.  Gotta work on that angle.  Imagine my surprise to see her returning home pantless, riding in the stroller with daddy's fleece wrapped around her bottom half.    

2.  Speaking of such things, recently I was at someone else's house and saw a product lying around...some kind of pee target for the toilet.  Let's just say it was a thank-God-I-have-girls moment for me, because aim is not something I ever considered having to teach.

3.  I generally don't like the word diva applied to young children, but this story reminds me of actresses accused of only wanting certain brands of bottled water or colors of M&M's in their trailers:  Georgia has repeatedly started wailing and pronouncing at the breakfast table that her sunbutter sandwiches are "NOT HUGE ENOUGH!"  It is very amusing to watch Joe explain, "Well, um, I'm sorry, but that's the biggest bread we've got."   

4.  I flew to St. Louis for business last week.  Weird for me, because I never, and I mean never, have reason to travel for business.  Also weird because I left for work at the regular time, and got home before the girls went to bed, which for someone like me who grew up in the middle of a large state seemed so surreal - that I was able to travel out of state and back during the course of a single work day.  But I digress.  The point of the story is that I had an awesome motherhood moment.  I dragged along the breast pump and used it in a freezing cold bathroom stall at O'Hare.  Which is relevant to this story because it is for that reason that I happen to have thrown an extra blouse into my bag.  Maybe it is the fact that I have been thrown up on no fewer than 17 million times in the last 7 months that led me to believe that something could go wrong with the whole pumping thing that might cause me to need a change of wardrobe.  Everything went as well as could be hoped for in the bathroom stall, but fast forward to the freezing cold plane where I ordered a hot tea (for the first and last time ever while airborne) and then managed to slosh it all over my shirt.  Really, really bad.  (Joe has warned me a thousand times that I am inept at drinking hot beverages.)  So, I deplane after landing, find my boss who had been sitting several rows up from me, and explain to him that, well, I've doused myself beyond recognition, but um, I brought another shirt, so I just need to go change before our meeting.  "Only a mother would think to bring an extra blouse on a business trip," he said, in the most respectful and well-meaning way possible.  So there I was, laughing at myself and feeling like a genius all at the same time.        

5.  Back to the bathroom humor.  I think Georgia's manners are slipping, because she keeps forgetting to say "excuse me" after burping or farting.  In fact, Joe believes she intentionally cranks it up a notch mid-fart to increase the volume once she realizes she's passing gas.  At the dinner table, of course.  This cracks him up to no end; I'm pretty sure it's the highlight of his day.  So anyway, last night at dinner Georgia farts, Joe laughs, and I say, "Sweetie, what do you say?"  And she says, "I'm Daddy's baby girl!"  Oh so true.  So, so true.  Someone please help me.