How many penis rules do I need?

Me: Then I walked into the bathroom to find Tornado S not holding his penis and facing toward the tub.  HE was peeing in the tub!  And I yelled.  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”  And then he turned his body towards me.  And pee went Ev.Ry.WHERE.  And-

My Mom: You should’ve known better.

I responded with raising one eyebrow with a skeptical you’re-actually-questioning-me look that I perfected in my childhood.

Me: I didn’t know what to do.  So I ran in.  Grabbed his thing and aimed it.  Jesus.  How complicated is that?

A gleam of laughter flashed in her eyes.

I had no doubt that her mind went back to years before when she was raising two little boys who had their own aiming problems.  Aiming problems that they blamed on me until I moved away for college.  “So you’re telling me that your sister sat on the pot facing backwards, towards the tank, aimed and pissed all over the toilet just to get you boys into trouble and to make you scour the bathroom.”  The sarcasm was thick as honey.  Personally I thought it was a bit childish and crude for a prank; I prefered just casually asking why The Face moved The Truck from its parking spot after fourth period or asking The Friendly (not so ) Giant if he got his test back, at the dinner table.  My mom would divide the scouring chores and sent the grumbling boys to the bathroom not allowing them out until it gleamed and the stench of piss was no longer in the air.  “God help you if you have boys,” she said and went to her room to lose herself in a historical romance novel.  I looked up from my own book (not a historical romance) and shrugged.  Seriously, what were the chances I would have boys?

Then the gleam was gone.  Her voice remained cool and mom-like.

My Mom: Did you give him a sponge and tell him to clean it up?

Me: No.  He melted when I questioned him.  I felt he just needed to go straight to bed.  He was overly tired, and I assumed he wasn’t getting put to bed on time when I was away.  (Pause.  I shake my head.)  Mom.  What do I have to do to get them to aim?  Do I have to make this a rule too?  It shouldn’t be so hard.  It’s point and shoot!

She can’t raise just one eyebrow.  But she gave me a look of you’re asking me that question.


It’s all about the underwear

Yesterday a friend called to catch up.  She proceeded to tell me how her daughter (who is just a few months younger than Tornado E) had an accident in her underwear last weekend.  Since my friend was too busy to clean her daughter up, it fell to her husband.  We laughed as my friend imitated her husband’s grumbling.  (I thought we were done with this.  Why did she do this?  What happened?  Are we suppose to be over this crap?  Isn’t she too old for this?  Being done with this crap is why we didn’t have more children.  I thought we were done with this.)  Then when the husband decided to throw away the underwear instead of clean it (because who enjoys cleaning disgusting soiled underwear), the daughter threw a fit, begging her father not to throw away her precious princess underwear.  (Please, Daddy, not my princess underwear!)  What could a good father do?  So the husband started scrubbing sh*t from the princess underwear, starting his whole grumbling monologue all over again.  And how my friend and I laughed.

And how I laughed.

Then today as I spooned a large helping of pureed squash and corn in the mouth of a demanding Tornado A, Tornado S came up, bringing a package of unopened graham crackers.  I smelled something.

Me: Tornado S, did you poop your pants?

I don’t know why I expected a different answer.  There is only one possible answer to that question.  I knew the answer.  I didn’t want to hear it.  I was praying against it.

Tornado S: Yes!

Goddamnit. F- me.  Aren’t we done with this sh*t?  Isn’t he too old for this sh*t?  He potty trained so goddamn well, and then this.  F.  He was even on the pot earlier, trying to go.  What the hell happened?!  I’m suppose to be done with this crap for another two years.

Me: Tornado S.  Go to the bathroom and take off your pants and underwear and wait until I get there.

Tornado S: I don’t wan-

Me: (The Voice) GO!

He scrambled away, and I finished feeding Tornado A, keeping one eye on Tornado S struggling to take off his pants and underwear.  I’ll spare you the gory details.  But Tornado S did try to wipe himself.  Lord, help me.

After placing Tornado A in the midst of his toys (so that he can crawl right after me when I walk away), I went to the bathroom and cleaned up Tornado S.  With Tornado A hanging onto my leg, I looked down at the clothes.  I made a decision.  That underwear was going in the trash.

The good news is I learned a valuable lesson.  The bad news is I think it has something to do with karma is a bitch.

I’m really starting to hate this

I grew up with boys.  I have two little brothers.  And not the ah-how-cute-Fae-gets-to-play-little-mother kind, but the my-little-brother-is-15-months-younger-than-I kind.  We could’ve been raised as twins, if my mom hadn’t been raised as a twin to her 13 month older sister.  (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Vatican Roulette is not a suitable birth control; someone please inform the men in Rome who apparently missed that biology lesson.)  Not only was I raised with two brothers, but the vast majority of my cousins are boys.  I spent weekends with my little brothers and my older boy cousins.  If that wasn’t enough, I was the only girl in the neighborhood AND my little brother, being the ever social butterfly, adopted his two best friends into our household, so the number of boys double to four.

So when it came to boys, I saw the good, the kind, the stupid, and the cruel.  And the gross.  From jock straps being sling shot across the room to bug eating dares to vomit stories (which I could now win, thanks to morning sickness) to smear stains (that was when I flat-out refused to do any laundry but my own) to gore movies to human body tricks, I’m pretty much ungrossed out.  (Except one thing, which will not be mentioned so that no one can ever use it against me.)  My god, I shared a bathroom with those four animals until college.  To keep from being a target of such grossness, I learned hold my own, like when my dad thought he could scare/sicken us to be better drivers by bringing home autopsy pictures, I examined them with glee.  My brothers turned a little green.  False bravado will take you far.

But even with all that preparation, that hardening of the stomach, I was nearly brought to my knees yesterday.  I decided to take the extra precaution to keep Tornado A asleep and use the boys’ bathroom.  I lifted up the lid.  To find sh*t smeared on the seat.  I dropped the lid and yelled “TORNADO E!”  even though he was safe at school.  Lucky.

Tornado E tends to wait on wiping himself.  I don’t understand why, but he does.  I have to remind him over and over and over.  Apparently the other day, he decided to sit on the edge of the seat to talk to his brother.  Before wiping himself.  Leaving, not a tiny smear, but a bunch of sh*t.

So I had a few options, trash the toilet (stupid rental), wait for Tornado E to clean it (how do I explain my son getting e. coli), con someone else to clean it (too bad my mark was in California, lucky bastard), or clean it myself (ah, crap).  Then I did what any parent would do.  I started to mumble curses under my breath as I stomped to the kitchen and grabbed all the cleaners.  I stomped back to the bathroom, mumbling more curses.  Then I sprayed and disinfected and scrubbed (with bleach wipes) until I took off all but the bottom layer of paint .  Mumbling more curses.

God, I hate potty training.

The Glitch

I’ll admit it. Tornado S was relatively easy to potty train.  Sure, there was a whole week that he didn’t understand the concept of underwear are not diapers, but a couple of weeks of naked time, he got the whole concept.  He even got the concept of pooping.  Sure, he calls peeing poop and pooping green poop.  But you get the drift.  (Note: Never feed your child grape juice while potty training because the child will become fascinated with the green poop.)  All in all, it was an easy ride compared to Tornado E who would go hide to do his deed and I swore he would go to preschool with a pull up so he could poop in it.

Then something changed in Tornado S a couple of weeks ago.  He stopped wanting to pull down his underwear and shorts.  That was specially a Mommy Job.  But Mommy often has a baby in her arms and is trying to do three hundred things at once.  Besides he’s THREE; he can pull down his own underwear and shorts.  So one day I refused, and he peed his pants.  He was horrified and upset.  I calmed him, and we reached an understanding.  He was a big boy, and he could pulled down his own pants.  An understanding.

So I thought.

Then came the dribbling. Tornado S would hold his urine until he couldn’t hold it any more.  Then he would dribble a little out and was good to go for another hour or so.  Before when you asked if he needed to go, he would answer truthfully.  Now, he answers no.  Every time.  Even with a fresh urine strain on his pants.  What the hell?

I get it.  He’s too busy being an active kid.  Who wants to potty?  But seriously, I got to figure out how to teach him to go when his body calls or he’s going to pee his pants.

Then there’s the fact he goes three times a day.  He goes Three Times a Day.  THREE TIMES!  That’s not natural!  Ok, obviously this is a punishment from my young camel days when my mom was so sure I was just a day away from a UTI because I never peed.  Yeah, pay backs are a bitch.

So anyone with some advice?  Good or bad?

At least he’s polite

My boys LOVE sitting on the pot.  They would sit there for hours if you let them.  I believe this is my fault because I feign constipation from time to time to get a little quality time to myself.  Not that it works much, but at least, it’s something.  When I have a schedule to keep, this little meditation on the toilet can be irksome, especially when I can smell the poop already in the potty.

After checking Tornado S three times and tapping my foot, I got the all clear.

Tornado S: Mommy!  Can you wipe my bottom?!

I walked into the bathroom and was shocked by the giant turd sitting in the plastic bowl.  A man-sized turd!

Me: No wonder you took so long.  That’s a huge poop!

Tornado S: Why, thank you.

You might want to rethink that

I was getting ready for the day and went back into the family room in underwear and a shirt to see what the newest brotherly fight was all about.

Tornado E: Mommy!  How does your penis fit in there?

No one freak.  I prefer bikini underwear to thongs.

Me: Baby, girls don’t have penises.

Tornado E: How do they pee?

Hmmm . . . .

Me: Through their urethra.

The Husband: Just to let you know, Tornado E, boys pee through their urethras too.

Tornado E: Oh!  Mommy!  Can I cut of my penis so I can sit to pee like you?

Me: I think you might want your penis one day.

In fact, you’ll probably name it your favorite body part in eight years or so.

Tornado E: No.  I don’t want it.  Can I cut it off?

Me: Let’s wait until you’re a little older.

Underwear Problems

Me: Tornado S!  Time to put on your underwear.

Tornado S: Who’s on my underwear?

Me: Hulk, Cyclops, and who is that guy?

Tornado S: Spiderman!

Me: That’s right!  Now put your foot in.

Tornado S: No!  I don’t want them there!  I want see them!

Me: The pictures go on the back.

Tornado S: But I want to see them!

Me: Well, they’re suppose to be on your back to protect you from . . . um . . . behind.

Tornado S: They can go on the front and protect my penis!



Reported by my mom

Tornado E was watching TV on my parents’ bed as my mom read.

Tornado E: Grandma, why do I have gravel here?

Grandma: (looking up from her book) What, hun?

Tornado E: Why do I have gravel here?

Grandma: (Looking where he has his hands) Babe, that’s not gravel.  That’s your testes.

Tornado E: Oh.  So what are they for?

Grandma: Um.  Ask your mom.

Thanks, Mom.

My dad said they’re to keep a man balanced.

What would you answer?

A new rule?

Tornado S was pretending to pour juice and drink it.

Tornado S:  Mommy!  Do you want some juice?!

Me: Sure!

Tornado S grabbed his penis with his left hand.  He pretended to hold a cup with his right hand, placing it at the end of his penis.  He then proceeded to make a water-running noise.

Me: Uh, Tornado S?  What are you doing?

Tornado S:  I’m making you juice!

Me:  Out of your penis?

Tornado S:  Yes!  I make juice come out of my penis!

Me: Um, juice doesn’t come out of penises.

Tornado S:  It comes out of my penis!  Want some?!

Me:  No, thank you!

A new penis rule?  We don’t pretend drinkable fluid comes out of our penises.

A Morning of Potty

I was awoken by Tornado S telling me, “Mommy!  I need to go potty!”

I rolled over and undid his diaper.

Only Tornado S meant to say, “MOMMY!  I’m peeing!”

With my hand thoroughly drenched, I was wide awake and shouting, “GO TO THE BATHROOM!  RUN!  RUN!  RUN!”

Maybe that wasn’t the best phrase to use.  Or tone.  But he ran and finished in the potty.

He received a candy.

For the next three hours, he tried peeing in the potty.  Tinkling a few drops and demanding candy.  Sorry, little dude, you have to actually empty your bladder to get a treat.

As I rehunted the Internet for my mom’s frosting recipe (because I lost it after she gave it to me and then I found it last night on the Internet, printed it out, and promptly lost it again because that’s how I roll), I heard the sound of running water.  Running water hitting the carpet.  I spun around to see Tornado S emptying his bladder on the carpet.  ACK!


Again.  Not the best response.  So I flipped the bird at the computer because it just wouldn’t yield the recipe in a timely manner and went to find paper towels and Simple Green.  Sonofabitch.

An hour later, I was stirring frantically as I made little stepping stones from a package.  Apparently they gave me QuickSet instead of Plaster of Paris because the stone was setting before I was even done stirring.  I wanted to make handprints on the stone, but we’re settling for painting them.  As I was stirring, Tornado S came up to me.

“Mommy!  I went green poop!  I went green poop in the potty!”


Ok, my responses really do suck.

I jumped up.

“Tornado E!  Stir the QuickSet!  Tornado S!  Where’s your poop? ! Do you need to poop more?!”

There was a tiny log on the floor.  Tornado S ran before me into the bathroom.  I remembered Tornado E didn’t replace the seat after his own bowel movement on the regular toilet earlier in the morning.  Crap.  As I ran into the bathroom, ready to do damage control.  I noticed two things.  The seat was on the training potty.  And there was a big log in the potty.

My son rocks!

So we celebrated for ten seconds before I realized I left a four-year-old stirring QuickSet.  Damn.  I ran back, finished making the stepping stone, ran to get the celebratory candy, cleaned up the poop, called my parents for a celebration call, called Tornado S to flush his own poop, and thanked God for not making me crazy enough to take a picture of the poop before it was flushed down.

So two steps back, one step forward.  It’s a dance.