So I wrote the whole nicey nicey “Love my kids” post wherein I claim God gave me my kids in just the right order.
I’ve changed my mind. Cuz I’m getting old. And this littlest one is going to be the death of me. I’m too tired for this nonsense. (I know you will hear this in the tongue-in-cheek manner in which it is written.)
First off, let me start with the “How I Started my Day” story. After being up with Ruth for about 45 minutes beginning at 4AM, Ry was kind and generous enough to let me sleep some more when he got up with Isaac at 7:00. I woke up at 8:00 and when I went into the bathroom I found Ruth there. Standing at the sink, trying desperately to reach the Dixie “dups” to get a “dink”. So, I ask myself, “How did Ruth get here? Where is Ry? Why is she alone in the bathroom with Ry nowhere in sight?” I asked myself these questions, but deep down inside, in those secret places you don’t want to go, I knew the answer. I did. She got herself out of her crib and I have to start thinking about a sleeping arrangement that allows her to roam free at will. At two days shy of 22 months. . . . I can’t think about that now. I’ll think about it tomorrow. For after all . . .
I’ll just move right on to Ruthie’s other latest trick. Taking off her diaper and pooping on the floor and demanding a “Tub!” Nice. Really really nice. I’m afraid, much against my pottying philosophy, I’m going to have to get proactive on the potty-training-teaching-learning-who-cares-it’s-all-a-mess-anyway front. Under advisement of my dear old curmudgeonly friend, I have generally put off potty-training till the kid was all but begging to do it. I didn’t go quite as far as she went with her older two, where they were, literally, begging to use the potty and get big-girl gotchies. My kids hadn’t quite reached begging, but Isaac was nearly 3 1/2 before I put any real, concerted effort into the process and Hannah was completely self-motivated when she decided it was time to use the toilet at 2 years and 7 months. (I know the exact age because I vividly remember Ruth was only two months and I would never in a zillion and a half years have suggested pottying to Hannah at that point.)
The benefit of waiting so long? It was really simple. Both times. Isaac more so than Hannah, with no . . . um . . . solid accidents. Some bizzarro issues to overcome, but no horrific messes.
Now. Ruthie. Keeps taking her diaper off. Sometimes right after she poops, sometimes right before. Generally we’re not around when it happens, she’s with a sibling or two in the gated-off living room, so I’m not sure if she’s like, “Hey! I need to poop! I don’t want to mess up this here diaper!” Or, if she takes her diaper off (“Because I can.”) and then just happens to poop. But, the frequency of the pattern is beginning to make me wonder if it is indeed the former. I have even found her in the process of stripping a diaper that has (obviously) just recently been made wet.
The third option, though, is that the few times she did it, before this past week when it’s become a habit, she went right from the poopy mess to the bathtub. So part of me is wondering if she thinks she’s found the ticket to the joyous slice of heaven known as the “DUB!” As in “If I take off this poopy diaper or take off this diaper and poop on the floor, then I get a DUUUUHB!!!” I wouldn’t put this last one past her. Which is why she now gets cleaned up in the living room with the help of some antibacterials. Just in case. Lest you scoff, let me tell you the tale of her older sister who, around 18 months, would literally force herself to poop every time she sat on the potty. Every time. Several times a day. She watched Prudence do it and she figured that’s how you use the potty: poo-poo and wee-wee every time. Can I just say, “Ick!“?
Anyway, I’m too squeamish for all this. I’m not a body person. I mean sure, sure, I know, I know, mind-body-spirit, all one, holistic, yada yada. I know this. But I’d rather live in my brain and never have to deal with body stuff. And potty-learning just gets downright icky. But right now the alternative is turning my living room into one big litter box and that’s not so appealing either. So. Here we go. One last time. . . .
My apologies for the quality of the pic. She hopped right off the potty as soon as she saw me coming with the camera, but I couldn’t resist providing you with a glimpse of Ruth as she looked this morning watching her potty show.
Having our Boy first was perfect. He’s just so very intense, he requires so very much energy, perseverance, and patience. But because he was our first, we just figured that was the way our babies were made. We simply met him where he was and went from there; there was no point of comparison. Then Hannah came along and I still remember vividly Ry and myself looking at her, wondering what was wrong with her because she just sat there. In one place. With one toy. And she was so, so, very quiet and required next to nothing. As long as she had her mommy and her milk, she was AOK. I can’t imagine if Isaac had to follow her, if we were asking ourselves, “What is wrong with him?“ I’m afraid we would have pushed until we did find something “wrong” with him and then we never would have grown to have this great appreciation for who he is, for his qualities that will lead him to take over the world.
And then came Ruth. Who is so interesting. She split the difference between Isaac and Hannah as we all predicted, because, really, there was nowhere else to go: Isaac and Hannah are so very different. What she required of us that her birth order provided is our mellowed attitude. We’ve been around the block a few times. Go ahead, throw your head back into the oak molding, you still have to come with us. Sure! fling yourself to the ground kicking and screaming, you just let me know when you’re done and we’ll carry on with our day. Oh dear, you seem to have flung yourself into a support beam and split your face in two, I think we need to go the emergency room now. She needed to be third. We needed her to be third.
Sometimes I worry about Hannah in the middle. Worry that she’ll disappear in her quiet, subdued way in the middle of these two loud, boisterous lunatics. But then I think, No. She’s so completely connected to the ones on either side of her; she looks out for them, she seeks them out to hug and kiss (or poke or jump on). She worries about them when they’re sick, she lifts their needs before us, urging us to care for them. Above all else, she hates to be alone, always has. So I’m happy for her that with an older brother and a younger sister, she likely won’t be left alone. When we’ve suggested time out with just her and her two parents, she’s disturbed at the thought: what about Isaac? What about Roofie? And when she’s sick of her brother or sister, when she just needs someone to love on her and take care of her, she just climbs right up on our lap, or into our bed, or between our hug. She’s not only aware of the love and care others need, she’s aware of her own need for love and affection. We call it her “snuggle tank” and she lets us know when it’s empty.
