MBA or Bust

Do you that opening scene in Finding Nemo where a presumably kindergarten age Nemo is bouncing all over the anemone chanting First Day of School! over and over again?

OK, now picture me doing the same thing. Because I totally am. Minus the anemone.

I am part of a cohort MBA program which meets one night per week (Thursday night if you're slow on the upkeep). Each semester will include two courses, except the first semester. Meaning my first class starts mid-semester, meaning that my first class starts TODAY! First day of school!

Nate thinks there is something very wrong with me, given how excited I am to go back to school. I don't know what he's talking about. What is wrong with wanting to fill your head with as much knowledge as possible? Nothing. The answer is nothing. In fact, if I could just figure out how to get paid to be a professional student, I would totally spend my life racking up degrees. It would be fabulous!

And, AND, I got to go SCHOOL SUPPLY shopping! Check it out, I've got my books, a brand new tote bag, new pens, new notebook, HIGHLIGHTERS! You guys, life doesn't get any better than this.

To top it all off, I even went shopping for a cool new first day of school outfit. I didn't have anyone to take a picture of me on the front steps this morning, but I did want you to see that I bought a necklace! Yes, I am actually wearing a piece of jewelry today. It is possible hell froze over. Just sayin'.

I run around the building screaming First day of school! today because I'm not drowning in the work that will inevitably follow pursuing this MBA of mine yet. But that's okay, because I know I'll love that too. Even if I don't always have a snazzy new necklace to show off.

First day of school!

Of Milestones and Memories

In about a month, I'll be living in this house:

And my kids will play in this backyard:

And we will eat in this kitchen:

And decorate this playroom:
And given where I've come from in my life, all of these facts make me feel pretty damn good.

And I am not moving. Ever again.

Family of Fairies

The other day, while I was flipping through my Parents magazine, my eye caught the first paragraph of one of the articles because it started something like, "my son, Liam, was 3-1/2 when I figured out how to get him to pick up his toys." Obviously, my interest was piqued.

The author went on to describe how she invented the Pickup Fairy, who would swoop in and take away all of her Liam's toys for one week if he didn't pick them up at night. It seemed to work like a charm for him.

I stewed on this for a few days. My Liam would do little more than half-heartedly toss a toy here and there into his own bin at night, or any other time for that matter, so maybe there was something to this.

Opportunity presented itself a few days later, on a Friday evening, as we were headed home from the store. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Liam, when we get home we're going to need to take a bath.

Liam: I don't wanna! Whine, whine. whine.

Me: Well, Liam, you're going to have to take a bath or (pause) or the Bath Fairy is going to (long pause) um, take away you're bedtime snack!

Liam immediately stopped whining. I watched the wheels turning in his head through the rear view mirror, before he finally said: The Bath Fairy?

Me: Yes. The Bath Fairy is going to take away your bedtime snack if you don't take a bath.

Liam: Oh. OK. I will take a bath.

Me (seizing the opportunity): And Liam, the Pickup Fairy is going to take away your toys for one week if you don't pick them up before bedtime!

At this point Liam started asking a lot of questions. By the time we got home it had been established that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy lived in Wigiland. They are sisters, you see, and they live in a blue house together. They do not fly, but rather they disappear and reappear when they want to go somewhere, like say, my house to take away bedtime snacks or toys for one week.

Liam took his bath, and picked up his toys that night.

While I was shampooing my hair that night, I was congratulating myself on my victory and wondering: how could I parlay this into the dreaded potty training. Oh potty training, a sore subject in my house. Despite fully understanding the concept of using the potty, my son has had absolutely no interest in doing such a thing. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I had pretty much convinced myself that he'd be at least 16 before potty training could even begin.

I contemplated for a while. I didn't want the Potty Fairy to be a negative thing. She couldn't take anything away for not going potty, that would be counterproductive, I was sure. But what if, what if, she just got really happy whenever Liam uses the potty?

Yes! That's it!

First thing Saturday morning I took Liam's diaper off and explained to him that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy had a cousin: The Potty Fairy. (Who, if you must know, lives in a yellow house across the street. In Wigiland.) I told him that the Potty Fairy would just be really, really happy if Liam would go potty in the potty.

He had one accident first thing that morning. I told him that was OK, but next time he should try the potty, and the Potty Fairy would be SO HAPPY!

And that was it, that did the trick. He used the potty for the rest of the day. And the next day. And the following week, he had a few accidents here and there at Grandma's house during the day, but HE WAS USING THE POTTY!

This weekend was the real breakthrough. He doesn't want diapers anymore. He wears big boy underwear, no more looking back. Of course, it may have helped that about midway through the week I informed him that, as an added bonus, once he was completely done with diapers the Potty Fairy would come in the night to take all his diapers away, and would leave cookies behind. I can't be sure, but I think he's just in it for the cookies.

But that, my friends, is how I potty trained my 3 year old in one week. The Potty Fairy and I are new best friends. In fact, I think I'll take her out for a drink sometime soon, she really deserves it for all her hard work.

Down With Poo!

There is a revolution happening, and I'm jumping on board.

It began with an article I read a few weeks ago. It described, in detail, why so many people are no longer pooing. It's the No Poo movement.

I was pretty skeptical at first. It sounds so gross. I was sure it would only make me feel, well, icky. Like so many other people, I'm quite used to pooing at least everyday. Sometimes more.

The article went on to describe how pooing is a relatively new and modern concept, which I really didn't know. It also talked about how not pooing may even be healthier, and included many testimonials from self-described non-pooers who proclaimed how much better it is not to poo. They were very persuasive. They even had pictures.

But there is a downside. There is a period of up to six weeks where your body has to adjust. I have a job to go to everyday, and I wasn't sure if I could just quit pooing cold turkey and still show my face at work everyday. I mean, what would people think?

So I stewed on the idea for a week or so. I'd decided that this No Poo thing just wasn't for me. I couldn't just give it up, I was far too used to my daily regime. But, it lingered and lingered until finally I decided to jump on board.

Rather than just giving it up completely, I decided to ween myself off poo. Last week I thought I'd just poo every other day. Just to see how it goes. And, although it made me quite uncomfortable, it was tolerable.

This week I'm moving to pooing every two days. Today is my first "day two" of no poo, and although I'm a little embarrassed, it's still fairly tolerable. I know it will get better with time.

I'm hoping it won't take too long for my hair to adjust to no more shampoo. I plan on washing with some baking soda and apple cider vinegar. I'm convinced that this is the solution to my frizz problem. Shampooing only strips oil out of hair, and then the scalp adjusts to compensate, and it's a vicious cycle. But once the oil level in my hair evens out, it will be SO worth the effort, I am sure.

Wait. What kind of poo did you think I was talking about?

If you're interested in the article, you can find it here.

Late Night Shenanigans

Ever wonder how many times someone can repeat the same sentence, over and over, until you're broken?

I don't. Not anymore.

Because last night, for an agonizing three hours (according to my husband, I lost all track of space and time) I heard the phrase "I wanna go down-tares." Over, and over, and over again.

It started out like it always does, well at least like it has the last three nights. Liam goes to bed fine, out like a light before we can even leave the room. He sleeps peacefully until around 12:30am, and then we hear his sweet whimper coming from the door outside his room. He's standing there calling for mommy, waiting for a response.

Nate usually springs out of bed first. But that does no good, Liam was clear on this, he wanted mommy. I drag myself out of bed, and begin the hopeful negotiation.

"I wanna go down-tares," he'll say.

"Now Liam," I will always respond. "Do you remember what mommy and daddy said? We said that when you wake up in the night, and it's still night-night time, you have to go back to bed."

I'm going to clarify for you, that response does not work. It is a desperate attempt, on my part, to diffuse a situation before it becomes a tantrum. But, the moment the words escape my lips, it's all over. The tantrum begins, and there is no going back.

This is the point where, on previous occasions, I give in. It's late, I'm only half awake, and I know that if we go downstairs and watch five minutes of whatever on TV, Liam will willingly go back to bed. This is the easy way out, in the moment. But you can guess what happens over time. It becomes a habit. Clearly.

So last night, I dug my heels in the ground. We were not going downstairs. I didn't care what it took.

I tried some cool negotiations before the tantrum really revved up. I used that often called-upon line noted above. I tried to reason. I tried to be stern. But it didn't work. So, I put Liam in bed (if you can call it that, he'd popped back up again before I could straighten myself out), and took my spot on the floor, in front of the door. I turned off the light, and did not respond to the repeated cry, the desperate attempt to go downstairs.

When the cry started to lull, I started to throw in alternatives, "Liam, if you get in bed right now, we can read the hide-and-seek book."

"No, that's dangerous," he cried.

"How about the Llama Llama book?"

"That's dangerous, too."

"Oh My, Oh My Dinosaurs?"

Sniff, "dangerous."

And the repeated demand that we make our way downstairs resumed. I hung my head, and stayed silent through it again. For a while. And then I tried my tactics again, "Hey Liam, how about if we go fill up your elephant (his humidifier) together."

"OK, dat sounds like a greeeat idea," he responded, finally distracted from his incessant request.

"OK, we'll go fill up your elephant, and when we get back, we'll get back in bed and go night-night!" I chimed in.

"NO!" The word molded into a cry as, you guessed it, "I wanna go down-tares," followed.

Again, I rested my head against the back of the door and waited, patiently. At one point, I asked Liam if he'd bring a blanket over for mommy, because I was cold. He suggested that there are blankets downstairs (that kid is too smart for his own good).

I asked him to set a good example for Quin by going back to bed. Didn't work.

I told him Grandma and Grandpa sure would be happy if he went back to bed. Didn't work.

I told him I would be so proud if he went back to bed. Didn't work.

I tried to tell him that Monkey (his favorite stuffed animal) was talking to me, and told me he was tired and wanted to go back to bed. And, shockingly, that didn't work either.

Finally, I suggested we get a toy out of his closet that he could play with in bed. He thought that was a great idea, as well, and we went to his closet. Unfortunately, none of the previously boxed up toys in the closet did it for him either, except for a small red wagon resting on a shelf which, of course, he insisted he take downstairs.

At this point, I gave up. Time to tag in another player. It was Daddy's turn. I crawled into bed and listened over the monitor as Daddy tried many of the same ploys I did. He threw in ideas about how getting lots of sleep could help Liam throw better snowballs (such a Daddy thing to say), and also tried the pleading method, "Liam, everyone else is asleep, we're all tired, we should go night-night."

Finally, about 45 minutes after I tagged out, Liam was back in bed, peacefully. At some point, he just gave up. He asked Daddy to read him a book, which Nate did despite not having his glasses on (an impressive feat), and then he crawled into bed.

It was 3:30am when Nate crawled back into bed. I hadn't looked at the clock when the episode began, so I asked him what time Liam woke up. He responded with 12:30am. My jaw fell. It was like I lived in some alternate universe for two hours where time didn't exist, reason was null and void, standard fall-backs to get your kid to comply were total failures. The need to go downstairs was paramount and unyielding.

I'll tell you this much, my kid is nothing if not strong willed. I wonder where he got that from? (Please note the sarcasm in my words.) But maybe, just maybe, he figured out last night that he won't get what he wants, so he may as well just give up before he begins. I'm holding on to a shred of hope here, people, don't dash it for me.