The other day when I was watching J and C, a new development in the J vs. Sawa war on potty unfolded. Here’s how it went down. I had just positioned myself on the brown sofa, baby in arms, to deliver a much desired bottle to C. He was getting a little on the fussy side (a rarity for him) so I knew it was time to feed. He took the bottle like a champ. I was in the middle of patting his sweet, round back in hopes of a burp when suddenly he spit up all over the front of my shirt. Great. Oh well…at least infant vomit doesn’t have an odor.
I was still in shock of the spit up when notice J across the room. He had been stationed at the dining room table (pre feed) to enjoy a snack of “peanut butter crackers” and sliced pears before I sat down to feed C. I find this an effective sitting technique: feed both children at once, that way I can see the antsy 3 year old while I hold baby C in bottle position on the couch. It tends to work out for me.
At first, I couldn’t even be sure that I had heard J say something, but the look on his face told me he had made an announcement. I said, “What J? I couldn’t hear you.”
The slightest, breathiest whisper escaped his lips: “I don’t have to go.” Then his face went into number two production mode. I knew it was on, and it was up to me to race him to the training toilet downstairs. Swiftly, I set C in his swing (didn’t have time to strap him in….don’t call CPS on me por favor) and ran to the table. J let out a telling grunt as I plucked him from his seat and flew to the bathroom, toddler in hands. As quickly as possible, I unbuttoned his pants to sit him on the pot.
The stench that escaped his batman underwear told me that I was too late. To late to intercept the load. I was bummed, but threw him in the shower for a quick spray down and gave him a fresh pair of underwear and shorts to put on. Not wanting to appear disappointed or upset with the young boy, I lied through my smile as I redressed him, “It’s totally ok J. You’re doing great. We’ll get it next time.” And miracle of miracles, we did get it next time. But only because of my boss negotiation skills. Yesterday, number two was safely deposited in the mini-john. Hooray!
I do have to give it to the kid. He sticks to his convictions. Some may label it “denial” because he said he didn’t have to go poo when he was on the verge of doin’ the doody in his trousers. But I prefer to call it conviction. This little dude has learned the American way: stick it to the man, no matter what situation you’re in. Maybe he’ll learn wisdom and honesty someday. We can only hope.
I have been blessed with a wonderful baby sitting job for a family here in SLO. They have two young boys. J just turned three, and is so much fun. He loves building forts, play dough, and ghost pirates. C is almost 12 weeks, takes a bottle like a champ, and loves to have dance parties with his older bro. Needless to say I stinking love them. They are the best. Save for one catch.
J, being 3, has naturally reached the threshold for potty training. His mom reminds him each day as she leaves the house, “J, who are you gonna tell if you have to go potty?” To which he replies, “Sawa.” That’s me.
Turns out that he never actually tells Sawa if he needs to go. So the responsibility lies with me to constantly ask, “J, do you need to go potty?” To which the response is infallibly a whiney “I don’t wanna go!” But at least once I trudge him downstairs to the little, er I mean, “big boy” potty and let him try to go. I mean, he loses nothing for trying. He even gets a Pez candy just for squatting on the pot. Win-win, I say. He doesn’t think so, though.
He usually stands, stiff-legged in front of his tiny potty and squeals “NOOOOOOOO.” As I try to calmly coax him into sitting down and just giving a little push. I kid you not: he is deathly afraid of doo doo. I have no clue why, but the kid will go days without a #2 sighting and give himself a huge stomach ache. His mom assures me that this is totally normal for kids his age, but I still have my doubts. I just feel like a villain each time I have to march him downstairs to give it a try. Hopefully this phobia subsides soon!
I got my beautiful periwinkle bridesmaid dress in the mail this weekend. I was thrilled! After just a wee bit of alteration, it will make a fabulous dress in which I can support my dear Lyse as she walks down the aisle. Really though, I was so so excited when the dress came. I was just about to leave the hose to go to a babysitting job (leaving about 2 minutes late, as usual) when Lance knocked on my door. I threw on the rest of my clothes and answered. In his hands he had the box. I knew exactly what was in it. I took the box to the kitchen, cut it open as quickly (and carefully!) as I could. I then ran back to my room to try it on, all the while knowing I was growing later by the second to nanny my sweet Cassius and Jaydn.
The color is perfect, accenting both fair and golden complexions, much to my delight. Admiring myself in the mirror, I imagined how wonderful it would look as soon as it fits me properly. After a moment, I quickly threw back on my coral t-shirt and tattered jeans and dashed out the door. When I returned home that evening, I found the most curious sight. The box in which the dress came had its back facing my bedroom door as I entered. Here’s what I saw:
The wheels in my head starting turning. Did this box know me or something? It was as if it was proclaiming my identity to me as I waltzed through the door. My beautiful bridesmaid dress, used to aid my friend bid a goodbye to her singleness, was screaming at me in irony. Here’s a close-up of the box (enjoy):
Today, as I drove home from church, a noteworthy event took place.
I left CalvarySLO around 10:15am, and turned out onto Broad St, where a maroon Ford Aerostar van pulled up next to me (it didn’t look too different from that pic). I took off from a stop light, and the van was going about the same speed as me, but I took no notice. My window was down, as it was a beautiful SLO Sunday morning, and I wasn’t about to miss it in order to run my AC.
I was enjoying the 3 minute drive home, soaking it in by not taking off from the light too fast. I was even thinking to myself about how this is an excellent way to conserve gasoline, too! The man in the passenger seat of the van (who I assume was of Mexican decent, perhaps he was some other latin american nationality, though) called out through the open window of the Aerostar,
“Hey! ¡Hola! ¿Cómo estás?”
The driver whistled at me, and both gave that machísimo smile. You know, that smile. I don’t understand how any woman has ever been wooed by that smile. Come on, ladies. That really works on you?
I was caught off guard for a split second, then called back in my best Mexican accent as I slowly increased my speed,
“¡Buenos días! ¡Muy bien, gracias! ¿Y usted?”
Well, that did the trick. They stared back, dumbfounded. The ol’ white girl speaking Spanish gig strikes again! I love my life and my (seemingly) useless major in moments like this.
I should be writing my final paper for Neruda right now (hey! cut me some slack…I’m on page 4 of 8…and its not due til Thurs) but instead of writing, I wanna show you this video. The thought of it keeps interrupting my writing because it is so stinkin’ funny! I hate cats, but I still love this!
Tonight my parents and sister came to visit from Bako. My dad was pretty stoked to take our fam to a quality steakhouse in Nipomo. It’s called Jocko’s….and let me just say: Bakersfield has nothing on this place in terms of okie-ness. When we got there we parked in the back, and walked around to the front of the restaurant. On the way in, we stopped and admired the 20+ slabs of red meat cooking on the outdoor grill. My dad’s excitement grew.
There wasn’t a whole lot of room to sit and wait for the hostess to prepare our table, so we went into the bar area to find a place to sit. In my usual hardcore style, I ordered a Shirley Temple. I admired the dark-stained wood panelling on all of the walls in the bar area, and was even more impressed that each individual panel of wood bore its own genuine cattle brand. Now we’re talking. I also couldn’t help but notice the attire of the clientele in the bar…Let’s I felt a little out of place in my dark jeans and Gap crew neck shirt. I probably would have felt much more at home if I was wearing a down coat with the arms zipped off, like the girl across from me. Or maybe if I had a black bra on under my white shirt or a flannel plaid shirt I’d feel better. These styles seemed to be pretty popular in this joint. On second thought, maybe it’s my lack of peroxide blonde hair that made me feel out of place.
We sat down at our table and I immediately took notice of the lack of table cloth. But no worries, there were some great paper placemats that did the trick great:
Please note the martini on the Bull’s tail. Is that just weird to me? Also…they have the word “genuine” spelled “Jenuine.” Awesome. I’ll also let you know that that’s not the only grammatical problem on the place mat. From my seat, I also had a prime view of the meat cooking outside on the grill (my Mom’s pointing at it):
I ended up ordering a BLT, since I had more than my fill of red meat at Firestone in SLO last night. Bad choice. The bacon strips were seriously a quarter of an inch thick. They might as well rename it a “HLT.” That’s Heart attack, Lettuce and Tomato. On another point of interest, the history of the restaurant was given in great detail on the back page of the menu. I learned that it’s a family business that started as a saloon in the 1800s. I was really enjoying the stuff I was learning about the restaurant and the Jocko family. I was slightly caught off guard by the last line of the “history” which read: As our sign says out front, COME IN AND MONKEY ‘ROUND. What? What does that even mean? What do monkeys have to do with Nipomo, the Ag community, steak, or the Jocko family? I will continue to ponder this for a while.
For your consideration….the Bull and Martini image once more:
I hear that the steak is real good.
ps- if you are a woman over 5′6″, you may have trouble fitting into the bathroom stalls. My knees practically hit the door when I was sitting in there.
