I hope you’re reading this blog one day as an adult, 1) because the issues involved will be more appreciated once you’re older and 2) because I’m going to be swearing. A lot. This shouldn’t surprise you. I reckon that particular trait won’t be changing too much — especially if you’re on the road with me.
Moving on. As you can see from the posting date, you are three-years-old at the moment. You’re tucked safely in your little bed, asleep and angelic.
Thank. The. Stars.
I’m treating this blog as a catch-all for the things I can’t say or wish I could say to you. Some will undoubtedly be negative. Most, hopefully, will be positive. Thus, you’ve been forewarned; the musings will be honest (and rambling, probably).
Ambrose, my AJ, my little toddler, I ask you this: WHY WON’T YOU PEE IN THE GODDAMNED TOILET??!?!?!
I get that “The Incident” may have traumatized you in regards to Number Two, but c’mon! Peeing in the toilet is just like Daddy and SOOOO easy. And hey, you wanna sit down? FINE! Sit! It’s how we tried the last three periods of potty-training this past year. But NOOOO. Today, every time you sat down, you whined, “Ooooww!” except, of course, when you were distracted by a train video on my phone. You do this every time I buckle your car seat as well, whether or not there was an injury (or, hell, physical contact at all).
I’ve tried bribing, modeling, timing, potty training videos, naked time, undies time, potty-chair-in-front-of-the-TV time. Sigh. Congrats, kid, you definitely know how to frustrate the fucking shit outta me.
And yet, then you turn and grin ear-to-ear, your eyes lit up in that pure excitement only a child can conjure. My stern exasperation holds up for two seconds before I break, cracking a small smile of my own. “Hi, AJ. I love you, too,” for that is what I see: love.
And then, “Yea! Train!” you chirp, all your little teeth visible, “Steam train!!!”
Facepalm. The love was just for trains.
And that’s how your father found me this evening. I’m afraid I yelled at him a bit. I had cleaned up two messes already and tried to make dinner three times to no avail. And TBH, your dad just doesn’t like helping me potty-train you. Not that I can really blame him. This endeavor is right up there with hand-washing bottles at 0400 because my screaming infant found that time perfect for feeding.
I apologized to him, then sought some caffeine. Worked out pretty well, but while I was gone, I think you gave your dad an enormous headache…’cause he’s asleep now, when usually he’s up gaming until just after midnight.
I’m digressing. (See? Rambling issues.)
Back to discussing YOU, my dear child.
Some days I’m not too worried about potty-training. It’ll happen one day, really. You won’t be going to Hogwarts/starting your Pokemon journey/training to save the world at eleven years old and still be wearing diapers.
(Riiiiight? Oh god, right????!)
In other news, today you also, of your OWN accord, put on your costume fireman’s hat. Five days late, mind you, but at least you wore it without freaking out. Seriously, kid, next year, be more excited for Halloween, OK? Free candy is awesome and so is cosplay. Do it. Hell, your father got me to make him a Gandalf outfit. Just tell me what you want! I will try my utmost to make it happen! (And take a plethora of pictures if it turns out to be something embarrassing.)
All right, I should stop typing now. One of the next posts should be concerning a recurring theory of mine: how having a kid turns you into a stalker.
And, as always, I love you, Ambrose! Thank you for all the hugs and kisses today! Work on your “please” and “thank you.” It never hurts to be polite. (No, really, it doesn’t hurt. Physically anyway.)