The Potty Mouth
I feel like Leah and I should stop swearing in front of the kids (or at the kids*). The other day we were at the dinner table and Rocky just started saying “fuck fuck fuck fuck.” That’s the sort of thing that’s funny when it’s just the five of us, but what about when the Queen of England stops by for dinner? Or worse, the Alderman!
So yeah, we have to stop swearing in front of the little ones.
Or do we? Maybe we just need to wait it out. A couple weeks back, Leah was looking for a package that was supposed to have arrived for Lucy’s birthday but didn’t seem to have arrived. On the phone with her mom, Leah said something along the lines of “shit, where is it.” That sparked Lucy’s attention.
Lucy: “Daddy, why did mommy say that word?”
Me: “What word, kiddo?”
“I can’t say it.”
Me: Oh, right. *That* word.
So maybe there’s not really a need to stop swearing around the kids, but rather to just keep Rocky out of society until he learns the words he can’t say. Because, really, being around the kids doesn’t make you want to swear *less*.
(*Kidding! We only swear at the kids within the confines of our own brains.)
This is the time of winter that I actually kind of like, and I think Leah would agree with me. The cold is the level of cold that just feels nice and crisp and Christmas is just a couple of weeks away. But, as every parent knows, best of all is the early sunset. I can tell the kids it’s late and time for bed anytime from 4:30 0n, depending on how badly I want to sit on the couch, watch TV, and drink beer.
“Come on guys, let’s hurry up with the PJs. Hurry, hurry, it’s soooooooo late. You guys must be soooooooo tired.”
If they don’t like it, they can learn to tell time.
Of course, in just 3 weeks the lack of sunlight will become soul-crushing and the only part of the cold that will matter will be how long it takes to get the kids into their seventeen layers of winter gear.
But, until then, bring on the dark.
The Potty Training
Rocky’s training is about 95% complete, just like Luke when he arrived at Dagobah**. But now that he’s feeling good about the potty training, I really think he’s decided to fuck with us.
(** Hopefully he can get out of diapers without me having to cut off his hand, have him cut off my hand, then have me throw a wrinkly guy off some scaffolding right before I die, my body then being dragged back to a nearby moon where it’s burned while a bunch of teddy bear’s dance around it. Because, really, all I’m trying to do is get him to not shit himself)
Rocky’s got it all figured out. His pants go down to his ankles and he squares himself up to the bowl, his business in hand. He aims and then he lets fly, hitting center bowl. Winner! But then, I don’t know. Maybe he gets bored? Because suddenly the stream starts to…drift. Up up up the stream goes until suddenly he’s peeing on the toilet seat hinges. Then, down the stream goes again, across the bowl until he’s peeing directly on the rim of the bowl. And don’t forget, Rocky is a meter tall, so he’s hitting that rim point blank. That’s no accident. And hey, I’m not expecting perfection. I may have, on occasion, landed less than center while engaging in a #1. Nobody’s perfect. But I’ve looked into his eyes.
He’s fucking with us.
So, what, we go back to using Cheerios? I mean, sure, that’s a proven tactic, but how would that work? He goes on his own 5 times a day. I don’t really think one of us can be around at all times to pop some O’s in the bowl. Do we install a dispenser by the toilet, like feeding ducks at the zoo? He turns a crank and out pops a handful?
Maybe that would work, I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we’d walk into the bathroom to find him squatting under the dispenser, mouth open, turning the crank, smiling while Cheerios to flow into his mouth.
All the while peeing his pants.