Because it Can't all Be Wise 'n' Shit

First, I'm so amazed and gratified that you're still out there. I gave serious consideration to just slinking away in shame and never coming back.

But if I did? Then I wouldn't be able to share ridiculous stereotypical mommyblogger moments with you. I do beg your pardon, and appreciate your willingness to pretend that no-one else has ever waxed rhapsodic about potty training.

So, Tankboy has shown some interest in toilet training, and we got a little plastic potty to offer as an option. He's only used it once (during an evening when we had dinner guests, who were very gracious about the fact that their hostess was getting weepy over 30 ccs of baby pee), until the last 24 hours. He tells me "baby pee" or "baby hah doh pah-ee" and then insists that "mama doh 'way" so that I will "yeave yone" (oh yes, for a future date, let's discuss Teeny Speech Therapy). He gently ushers me to the door, pausing only to ask for a pile of books. And if I peek in to check on him, there he sits, naked from the waist down, reading. "Honey? How're you doing in here?" Smile. "Duhd." "OK, then..."

But yesterday I heard the clunk of the toilet seat and went in to find him attempting to empty his little potty into the large bowl. He's only two, so this meant that most of my bathroom was dripping with pee. But that's nothing compared to...

This afternoon, when I came in to find him scaling the toilet to reach the kleenex, the better to wipe himself with. Because he had pooped. Riiiiiight next to the potty. Originally, that is. He had...traveled a bit.

Or this morning, when I opened the door to find him perched on his little seat, holding a (wrapped, thankfully) tampon and carefully considering his nethers. I stopped him, but I'm kind of wondering what his next step would have been.

Plopping and Hanging my Head

We just passed the fourth anniversary of my mother's death, and once again I wrote lengthy, detailed memoirs in my head that never made it out.

I am working late almost daily and bringing work home, trying to find some way to quite literally change the course of this one child's life, knowing that the odds are that the System is going to claim him as thoughtlessly as it has so many others. Meanwhile, my agency is facing up to 25% less funding next year, and if I'm not laid off myself, I will be doing the same work I can't get done this year, but with 25% fewer people and resources. And I can't make myself write about it, because it's a recipe that requires too much back story and too little hopefulness.

I am still running, but have lost the focus on letting go of anger and on learning to meditate and am feeling that dull, run-over lethargy and I just don't want to talk about it.

My friend had her beautiful baby girl, on Tankbaby (excuse me, Tankboy, as he recently turned two and is doing things like wearing cargo pants and shaving and calling girls)'s birthday, in the same hospital where I had Tankboy, and the visceral memories of that night and how weird but comforting it is to be the experienced mama...all plenty of writing fodder and I never even opened the Blogger window.

I'm pretty sure you guys have all given up on me anyway, because it turns out that I kind of suck at this being-part-of-the-blogosphere thing.

BUT.

Today, on the way home, I was listening to NPR, and they had a brief interview with Anne Lamott about Easter. And she talked about Lent and Easter being this "dark night of the soul," when it's time to just stop the crazy head hamster wheels (um, that's my imagery, not hers), and she told a story about going shopping:

"When I was 38, my best friend, Pammy, died, and we went shopping about two weeks before she died, and she was in a wig and a wheelchair. I was buying a dress for this boyfriend I was trying to impress, and I bought a tighter, shorter dress than I was used to. And I said to her, 'Do you think this makes my hips look big?' and she said to me, so calmly, 'Annie, you don't have that kind of time.' And I think Easter has been about the resonance of that simple statement; and that when I stop, when I go into contemplation and meditation, when I breathe again and do the sacred action of plopping and hanging my head and being done with my own agenda, I hear that, 'You don't have that kind of time,' you have time only to cultivate presence and authenticity and service, praying against all odds to get your sense of humor back."

And I almost drove off the road.

"Annie, you don't have that kind of time." God. Damn. How could I not share that with you lovely people, especially those of you raising kids, especially those of you raising girl-type kids? You don't have that kind of time. You don't have time for self-doubting, self-critical bullshit. You don't have time for worrying how to impress other people. You don't have time to be less than yourself, to be not as good as you are, to hold your breath and spin your wheels.

You don't have that kind of time.


Damn.