My Commie Daughters

To instill in our kids the idea of sharing, I have the mantra, "There's no mine. Only ours," and "Everybody shares everything." It all started because we got tired of hearing the girls fight over who gets to play with a toy. There's no reason to fight over a single toy when they're sitting in a pile of toys right in front of a toy box! I know all kids fight over toys, but this was getting crazy and we decided to nip this in the bud.

When we see or hear the girls fighting over a toy and deem it a silly argument, we usually take the toy and no one gets to play with it for a while. Over the last month or so I've taken that one step farther. When I've seen them fight over a toy, I've made them follow me to the kitchen and watch me throw it away. Most of the time what they fight over is play jewelry (plastic bead necklaces, bracelets...). The arguments greatly decreased both in frequency and intensity. They're catching on. Last week they had another argument and I decided it was time to take things yet one step farther. I stopped the fight and made them follow me to the kitchen and then made them both hold the toy and put it in the trash can themselves. I think it really sunk in. Not only do they not get to play with the toy, but they don't get to play with it ever again.

A few days later I heard them fighting over a toy in their room. I listened to hear how this would end. Imagine my feeling when I heard one of them (I couldn't tell if it was Abigail or Elise) say, "Shh. Ok, ok. You can play with it now. I'll play with it later." YES!

Then a few days later we went to the doctor's office and were reading books in the waiting room. When it was time for us to go see the doctor, without saying anything, both girls jumped off my lap and said to each other, "Let's put our books back so the other little girls can read them." YES!

I have good little Commie daughters.

Isn't that how we're all called to be anyway? Everybody shares everything.

Baby Food

Each week we get an update from an online forum telling us what size our growing baby is and what the new developments are for the week (growing liver, kidneys are developing, eye lids are forming, etc). As for the size, we're told things like "Your baby is about 2cm long and weighs about 1oz. That's about the size of a blueberry."

The dilemma I've found myself in is thinking, "Hmm, I haven't had blueberries in a while. I think I'll go get some blueberries." But then when I get the blueberries home I can't not think about eating my unborn daughter when I snack on the berries (or apples, or grapefruit, or cantaloupe, or whatever the food of the week is).

This week's notice says, "The baby is approximately 15.7 inches long and weighs almost 3 pounds (about the size of a head of cabbage)." I'm not at all tempted to go gnaw on a head of cabbage. This week the baby is safe.

Funny Phrases

At this time I'd like to share a list of phrases that, four years ago, I couldn't imagine myself saying:

* Girls, stop riding the barn!
* Hey, why'd you flush a whole role of toilet paper?
* No, don't eat the dog food!
* No, I don't want to eat the dog food either.
* You want ketchup on your ice cream? No.
* Would y'all please just stop licking stuff?
* Ok, what I really need from you girls is to just be quiet and let me clean your poop off the wall in peace.
* Time to eat. Get the rocks and sticks out of your diapers.
* Don't bonk your sister on the head with the stick. Or the flashlight. Or the remote. Or the vacuum attachment. You know what? Just sit down on the floor and don't move.
* No, BOGO doesn't want to wear a party dress.
* Don't play with poop. Yours or any other.
* Don't poke BOGO's pocket. (see an earlier post for this whole story)
* Don't pee on me.
* Don't put toys in the speaker hole. (I have a collection of toys retrieved from the sub-woofer that I'm not giving back)
* No, the cable guy does not want to see your panties.
* Yes, I wear big girl panties too. (trying to encourage them to wear their panties instead of diapers)
* Yes, that's my tail. (see an earlier post for this whole story)
* Don't poke the purple pigs.
* Don't leave your sandwich in the van.
* Stop painting the floor with your spit.
* It's a one-seater. Only one of you can sit on the toilet at a time.
* No, thanks. I don't need help in the potty. I'm good.
* Please don't lick the grill.

Big girl panties.

I make a big deal when the girls use the toilet. It's the little victories that really make a difference in the girls' lives. I wouldn't want their little girl feelings to shrivel up and dry out. There are a few rewards for using the toilet. Sometimes they get stickers, other times they get chocolate milk, but the one reward that they both like more than stickers and chocolate milk is getting to wear big girl panties.

Papi, me peed in the potty.

Say it the right way, Abigail.

Papi, me peed in the potty.

That's great, sweetheart, but it's, "I peed in the potty."

(Looking up at me with proud eyes)
Oh, good job, Papi. Are you wearing big girl panties?

I didn't have the fight in me to explain the grammar to her so I just left it alone. I'm certain she believes in her heart that I wear big girl panties.

Pig Roast '01

It was my first summer away from my parents and my roommate and I were determined to make it a good one. We had the idea to have a house party for the Fourth of July. The Fourth was a work day that year so we had to plan some prep beforehand. I woke up early the day before (I think it was a Thursday) and headed to the Clemson University Swine and Bovine Department where I met the man who would sell me my first pig. I drove a 1983 Toyota Corolla wagon back then and just planned on transporting the pig back to the house in the back of it. I threw some dirty laundry in the back and covered that with plastic bags so the pig wouldn't get my car dirty. I wasn't aware of the gross anatomy of the pig. It turns out that the pig's "pocket" (see the post about BOGO's pocket to understand that reference) is directly under the tail and it's contents exits horizontally before falling. All this meant that as I was driving down the highway to drop the pig off at the house before going to work, the pig was backing against the inside of my car smearing it's excrement all over the place. It smelled so bad that I remember passing a dead skunk and sticking my head out the window thinking, "Ah, fresh air!"

We killed the pig, put it on a spit, and roasted it all day and had a great Great GREAT house party.

Fast forward about 2 months.

Remember all those clothes I put in the back of my car under the plastic bags for the pig to have a comfy ride? I didn't. I forgot all about them after I got the pig home and bagged the clothes and put the bags in the shed. I noticed that some of my clothes were missing and even asked my roommate if he had borrowed them because I hadn't seen them in a while. He said he didn't know about them and then I remembered - they were in a big trash bag in the shed because they had pig poop on them. The next day I went to the shed to get my clothes and take them to the laundromat. I slowly opened the bag and took a hesitant whiff and, to my surprise, it wasn't too bad. It was still pig poop, but it wasn't fresh and that meant it wasn't too bad. I deemed it safe to take to a laundromat and headed down the street with my bag of clothes and box of detergent. Arriving at the laundromat at the same time was a couple of girls. Yes, they were cute and flirty looking and although I had zero interest in asking either of them out, I didn't want to look like a goober in front of cute girls. With that in mind, I grabbed the bottom of the trash bag my pig poop clothes were in and I quickly jerked it out and up thus inverting the pile of clothes and pulling off the bag in one move. Bad idea! Apparently in the 2 months that the clothes were in the bag in the shed, a crust had formed over the top which sealed the stench and by inverting the pile I had unleashed upon this laundromat the most foul, fermented pig poop, moldy dirty laundry smell imaginable. The smell was so strong that it filled the entire building immediately. There was no escape. The girls gagged, giggled, and ran out and I barely got my clothes loaded into the washers without barfing myself. It's impossible to be cool when your clothes smell like that.

Clean up, aisle 3

I had a hard time adjusting to having two kids. Not because she was a girl or because it meant twice as many diapers to change or even because that meant we would have to buy another set of baby accoutrement since Abigail was still young enough to need her crib, dresser, etc. No, I had a hard time adjusting because every time I held her she would barf on me. That's not an exaggeration. Ask around. My friends will vouch for me. Suzi would feed her and even hold her upright for a while before handing her to me, but as soon as I got Elise, she'd yack all over me. I got tired of smelling like sour milk so I even went a little while without even holding her. I'd play with her and talk to her while someone else was holding her. It's not like I wear cologne or deodorant that would irritate her gag reflux. I don't usually wear cologne and my deodorant is unscented because I don't even like the smell of most deodorants. Suzi holding her - fine. Me holding her - vomit fountain. Anyway, she grew out of it and every now and then while I'm cuddling with her I whisper in her ear, "Thank you for not puking on me in a long time." She tells me I'm welcome and smiles up at me. Sweet moment.

Then she goes and does something like this:

It was time to brush the dogs. I sat on the floor and was giving Nanuk a good brushing. He was enjoying all the attention as I brushed and the girls talked to him. It took a while since he has so much thick fur and I was trying to do a really good job. I don't know how long we were sitting on the floor, but it must have been longer than a little girl bladder can hold its water. Did I mention the girls had their diapers off due to an ongoing potty training seminar? All of the sudden I see Elise take a step toward me and I felt her touching my leg. "That's sweet," I thought. "She's happy and wants to touch me." Then I felt something that sort of felt warm and wet at the same time. That was odd. I looked at what could be making me feel that sensation and then I saw it. She's not touching me; she's peeing on me. I was in such shock that I didn't know what to do but to sit in shock for a second longer. Then Elise had the audacity to start to turn to walk away when she was done as if to say, "Ok. Thanks. Now I feel better." At least she doesn't hurl on me anymore.

Concerning communion

Is my quest for answers to my questions leading me down the same road along with the Pharisees? They wanted to know about murder, adultery, divorce...and Jesus essentially told them that they were asking the wrong questions. They should have been concerned with simply loving each other. I don't deny that learning what participating in the act of communion is about or what it means is important. What I have learned is that the nit-picky questions I have been asking, while valid, miss the mark. I'm dwelling on what kind of bread to eat and when/how often to eat it and all the while Jesus is saying, "Remember me." How do I remember Jesus and what is it that I remember about him?
I eat the bread and drink the juice and remember that death is not the end of the story.

I eat and drink and remember that the blood of Jesus is multilingual.

I eat and drink and remember that Jesus "went there" and "did that" and came out the other side absolutely perfect.

I remember Jesus by welcoming people to my inner circle without noticing their clothes or social status.

I remember Jesus by sharing stories of his life with my family.

I remember Jesus by blurring the line that separates family from friends.