A Shot of Soccer, Also Known As a Kick in the Head

Soccer Shots are not vodka-filled Jello molds in the shape of tiny balls—but maybe they should be. Instead, they are a national enterprise providing soccer lessons for kids ages 3-6 at your local school, Karate studio or other child-resistant establishment. Basically, you sign your tot up for a six- or eight-week course, 45 minutes a session, and let the trampling commence. It's a great experience—especially in theory.

Nothing against the organization. They are a fantastic bunch, offering pointers, practice and fun for those who join. There's even a cute, fit coach who's good with kids. (Of course, not as cute, fit or good with kids as Hubbo. Ahem. Right sweetie?) The difficulty lies in what you bring to the game—in my case, 3-year-old Boss (player) and 1-year-old Stinker (spectacle, oops, I mean spectator) who must do everything that Boss does, but with shrieks.

For instance, when it's time to dribble the ball around cones, Boss shuffles about, roaring like a dragon—occasionally somewhere near a ball—while Stinker tries to steal equipment.

When it's time to sit on a ball and gather around Coach Dave, Boss wobbles on his bottom fairly well, even with a finger in his nose, while Stinker bolts for the circle faster than Beckham can trade his cleats in for more tattoos.

Goalie practice? Boss hovers outside the net ready and alert (Ok, he sits inside the net with a silly grin), while Stinker squeals his way to the center of the action, arms toward the sky as if chased by bandits.

Of course, every time I retrieve Stinker, he screeches louder and thrashes harder. My stash of Matchbox cars and yogurt melts may as well be cockroaches and deer turds. Little ingrate. He wiggles in my grip like a cat at the vet as I flee the gym, inadvertently kicking floor cones on my way out...because, you know, I needed to draw MORE attention to myself.

Outside of the gym, school kids are spilled all over the floor amidst books and piles of coats. All heads rise in concern to see who's dying an agonizing death. I'm extremely hot.

We head to the end of a very long corridor where I let the rabid animal, I mean Stinker, free. He scoots about happily and, more importantly, quietly. Ahhhhh, finally a moment of peace. My jaw unclenches and I start to relax...until my thoughts turn to Boss, who is probably wondering where the heck Mommy is. Or more than likely, he's rolling around on the gym's dusty floor in the middle of a soccer match, as the coach gently taps him with a sneaker to get his attention. It's late afternoon, and Boss' energy level has all the sizzle of a flat soda.

But me borrow trouble? Worry that Boss has that finger wedged up his nose again or has accidentally pooped his pants? Naaaaaah.

That's no more likely than Soccer Shots serving up jiggers of Grey Goose to a team of frazzled parents.

The Reward Junkie

Goldenrod flanks the roads, candy corn lines grocery shelves, and Boss has skipped through the doors of his first classroom. Fall has arrived.

It took a few steps to get here, though. Summer's big project was potty training, and we were off to a great start two weeks in with pooh in the pot and all. But soon after, Boss had mastered the task and decided to resign. For two long weeks. Been there, done that, got all the stickers he needed, thank you very much.

And the parents? Well, we fretted since preschool lurked sternly around the corner and toilet talent was a must. So we did what most parents (we assured ourselves) would do in our shoes: stepped up the enticements. Good-bye yogurt raisins and stickers; hello toys!

Oh, who's kidding who—along with loads of toys (hand-me-downs for the most part), we still bestowed the stickers and treats, not to mention our wacky dance of praise, making even Elaine Benes look good. We were a little desperate.

Happily, it worked. We offered Boss several more-than-you-should-probably-get toys for pee and poo in the pot, and we got payoff. In fact, he started camping out in the bathroom to earn as many rewards as possible. One day he pooped FIVE times in ONE hour, pushing out baby Tootsie Roll poops, each time demanding a “wonderful surprise.” I was afraid veins would burst with all the grunting. Plus,we were zipping through the pile of Shake 'n Go race cars faster than diarrhea flies through small intestine. (Yes, I did need that nasty visual to make my point.) Our trash bag full of loot was quickly diminishing. We were creating a reward monster!

Our thoughts quickly turned to dollar store crap, I mean treats, to replenish the stash. Then Hot Wheels. Now, a month or two later, we've whittled it down to a fruit treat for pee (if he remembers to ask), and a candy corn/pumpkin for number 2. We've effectively traded good toileting for rotting teeth. I'm not proud.

But all said, I shouldn't complain because we're off to preschool with potty prowess and big boy underpants. We haven't addressed wiping yet (Shhh, don't tell the teacher)—that's up next. That, and keeping the trousers, shoes and socks on while using the loo. For some reason, Boss likes a naked lower half when on the hopper.

For now, I guess the motivations (ha, bribes!) will continue as he whips the finer points of potty time—and other life skills. The definition of “now,” by the way, is “years.” Guess we'll be parking a Pod in the driveway for all the rewards. Wait, that's worse than that diarrhea image. Nooooooooo!

Seriously, though, as Boss learns new abilities, we're learning as well. Mainly, we're reminding ourselves that WE are in control, not Boss, and that removing privileges is as good a motivator as toys.

Hell, it's better! No trip to the junk store, and no batteries required.

Toilet Training Goes to Hell in a Storage Basket

After two great weeks of potty training, somehow, somewhere, something shifted and all has gone to ... pot? I wish. Nothing is going to pot right now, except the towel Boss has thrown in it, and an occasional matchbox car or Lincoln Log (haha, yes a little irony).

I don't know what happened. The sticker chart was bursting with smiling trains, construction rigs and hot rods. The raisin treats were chomped with fervor. And when Boss went number 1 or 2, we all clapped and hooted like drunks at a square dance. In fact, we had four poops on the potty in the first two weeks. We were jubilant; perhaps even smug, since going 2 is notoriously more challenging than 1. Then little by little, the pee stream dried up and the poop plopped only in the pants. Sigh.

Maybe the turd factor is to blame, who knows. Instead of Boss's “normal” mudslides, potty training quickly turned his scat into those firm brown torpedoes most people have. It was a welcome change, but a result of him withholding a movement for a day. (A tradeoff I was willing to live with.) Then, when he had to go, he'd crouch over like Igor, scrunch his brow in concentration, and run circles around the family room like a dog bedding down for the night. It was video-worthy, but I was too busy sweating about the impending poop to film it. (Plus, me use the video camera? Hahahaha!) 

I considered chasing him around with the potty, but that may have pressured him just a little. A few times we headed outside when poop was imminent, and decorated our beautiful new pavers with “pine cones.” I'm sure that's what the mailman thought they were anyway.

Soon after poop in the pot ceased, the pee ended, too. Were pull-ups to blame? Maybe they contributed, but when I switched back to big boy pants (what we started with), the pee streamed out again and again, down his leg and onto the carpet. Then he began withholding that as well, demanding to go to his “big-boy bed” where he knew he'd nap with a diaper. Oh he's a sly one, that Boss. 

Now nap times are dangerously close to ending since he holds his pee AND poop until hitting the hay, and who wants to sleep on a wet dung heap? The boy has standards, you know.

I'm doing my best to swallow all signs of frustration as we figure out what to do next—and not to do. One expert says it could be a privacy thing and to move the potty to the bathroom. Another says let him pee his pants, but make sure he does it next to or in the potty and then helps to clean up and put fresh underwear on. I'm looking for another who says take a break. But truthfully, while I relish that thought, I also want to forge on and get him going (ahem) before preschool starts.

The countdown to mid-September continues, as does Boss's resistance ... Now what was that about no pressure?!

(Little disclaimer: Boss didn't really poop in that basket, thank God. Can you imagine?!)

Potty on! When crap is good.

I'll admit I had lots of excuses for putting off potty training with Boss. None of them were any good, mind you, except maybe one: His poop is like a mud puddle. Mushy, wet, messy, and a lovely shade of UPS brown. Would you want that splatting all over the rug? No thanks!

Truthfully, though, I guess it was fear that kept me from loading up on training pants, carpet cleaner and stickers. Not fear of poop-smeared walls and furniture, but fear of the unknown.

What I did know was:

1. You watch for the readiness signs, like developmental maturity (check), dry diapers for a few hours at a time (check), and interest in using the hopper (check). Heck, Boss outright asked to use the potty a month ago when we were vacationing with friends and their boys, but my chicken-self pretended it was a ploy to avoid bedtime. Sigh.
2. You buy the gear—a potty or seat attachment, the treats, the big-boy pants/pull-ups.
3. Well, 3 is where I got stuck. Now what? There was no universal method of learning to pee and poop, and I didn't know what direction to take with all the options out there. So I circled back to nowhere over and over.

Finally, I realized we were getting dangerously close to starting preschool, where potty proficiency is a must. Plus, I was feeling like a doofus for announcing to friends and family over and over that I was diving in, only to take no action. So Hubbo and I got serious. He had read about—and liked—the Boot Camp approach in which you train your tot in one day or weekend. I responded with a “Pfffffft,” a loud snort and a dismissive hair flip. But I had no ideas of my own to offer. How was I supposed to know which strategy was best?! I just wanted a detailed list of what to do, preferably in bullet points—and it didn't exist!

Eventually, I did what my cheap self didn't want to do: I bought a book. It at least narrowed things down to two choices: the Boot Camp plan and going at it slow and steady. With Boss's third birthday recently behind us, and him being (possibly more than) ready, I was starting to like the crazy camp idea.

As part of our prep, we watched videos with Boss, which he viewed with hands over his eyes—not exactly fueling our confidence. We also reintroduced his potty book, dusted of his Elmo toilet that we bought about a year ago, got a Baby Alive doll that makes turds and tinklies, crafted a sticker chart, and bought Cars books for big victories like pooping. The night before the Big Weekend, we reviewed key points, gave Boss a pep talk, drank some wine and hit the hay.

The next day, Hubbo and I got up, ignored the elephant in the room that was our plan, and made pancakes instead. We confessed that the Boot Camp method seemed … a little out of our reach, being that Boss had never even pulled his pants down by himself. We lowered our goals and decided to still try it but with a slightly relaxed outlook. Instead of Boot Camp, we went a little more cushy—maybe a Sandal Camp or Bootie Hike. We'd allow the TV and radio on a few times during the day, for instance, and bend other rules as needed. We also didn't bank on success by Sunday, but rather a strong foundation of toileting to hopefully get us on a fast track.

A little later, Baby Alive gave her demo, and soon we commenced with big boy pants, Raisinets on the ready, a Cars and Thomas the Tank Engine sticker stash, and sitting (on the pot) and waiting. We did the Boot method on Saturday and Sunday, and on Monday we switched to pull-ups and semi-regular (vs. constant) reminders to use the potty. Here's how it went down:

Day 1: Peeing in the pot while Boss was in enforced-sit mode.

Day 2: More of the above, plus pulling his pants up and down on his own.

Day 3: Peeing without prompting. A poop trail on the floor.

Day 4. A poop without prompting! Another poop on the floor.

Day 5: More peeing without prompting, no poop.

Day 6: TBA

We're thrilled with the progress, but have also learned that human feces is much more difficult to scrub off carpeting than cat doodie. Which reminds me: Training pants leak!!! At least they did for Boss and his mud pies.

We also realized that Boss gets really jazzed with positive feedback, and the best motivator for him seems to be clapping, jumping up and down, and yelling “Hip, hip, hooray!” Even Stinker gets into it and screeches his happy face off to cheer on big brother. The stickers, books and treats help, too, but it's great to see how much he thrives on our praise.

While I still have fears about what's next, like running errands with a tot in training and figuring out when to do the stand-up routine (look out Cheerios!), I'm gaining confidence in … well, going with the flow. I still wouldn't mind bullet points. But each success for Boss feels like one for me, too.

Raisinet? Don't mind if I do.

Love Me Some Summer

Mosquitoes. Sunburn. Hairy backs. The AC-infused electric bill. Sure, summer has a dark side. But no one's perfect. Even Johnny Depp gets morning stink breath that could wilt your morning glories in a single exhale.

The truth is, summer is THE season to celebrate much like Mr. Depp is ... oh, never mind. I'm talking about summer! How can you argue with all of that daylight? Cannonballs in the pool? Those colorful perennials? Hummingbirds! Butterflies! The ice cream man! Plastic baby pools as cheap as Happy Meals!

Yeah, I know car seats in July feel like mobile skillets, and summer grass can brown faster than a bowl of guacamole. But admit it, hot buns cool fast, and that gauc is still delicious. Summer is just a love.

Here are 15 reasons you should mop your brow, pucker up and give June-July-August a big, sweaty smooch.

Summer's Sweet 15

1. Unless you're a vampire, there's no such thing as cabin fever in summer.
2. Going anywhere is easier with tots. No mittens, hats or shoes (for baby) to get on. No Michelin Man parkas that turn car seat buckling into a wrestling match. Just get in the car and go, go, GO!
3. Al fresco dining.
4. Smashing puddles and dancing in the rain without freezing your piggies off. Goes for your kids, too.
5. Throwing a blanket down in the backyard at night and doing some star-gazing. (Yep, that's what they're calling it these days.)
6. It's light out when you rise and shine, and it's light out after dinner for an evening chase about the block.
7. Fresh tomatoes, peaches, strawberries, watermelon, corn on the cob. And that's just appetizers.
8. Cul de sac happy hours with cool neighbors. 
9. Clothes are cheaper. It's the law: Tank tops cannot cost as much as a hand-knit sweater. (Bathing suits, however, are exempt from this logic.)
10. The magic of lightning bugs.
11. The hose. No more carting Stinker or Boss to the tub with mud-caked arms or sand-filled bottoms.
12. Pedicures in boot season are harder to justify.
13. Popsicles and ice cream cones (outside, of course). Hit #11 if needed.
14. Potty training is much easier in the Great Outdoors.
15. Buying a Slip 'n Slide for an adult party.

Frito Dogs and 13 Other Summer Bummers

Don't get me wrong—summer is my favorite season.* I love fresh air, extra daylight, beefsteak tomatoes off the vine, the smell of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, my blue hydrangea, the great stink bug retreat out of my house into the Great Outdoors. But summer has a few pests, as well. A tiny swarm of gnats, if you will. Nothing some DEET and a frozen poolside margarita can't take care of, though. So, spray your body, salt that rim and read on unafraid!

(Well, maybe just a little afraid.)

14 Summer Stinkers

1. Must the debut of the greatest season of the year bear the name of a certain vaginal cleanser? C'mon now. We can do better.
2. When Popsicle juice meets sand/dirt/clothes. Boss looked like True Blood's Bill after his wild berry ice treat today--blood-covered and dangerous (but not nearly as smoldering).
3. An average of three outfits a day for Boss (see above). Laundry is for losers, I keep telling myself. That mountain of T-shirts and shorts? It's better than leaves for human dive bombing.
4. The screaming bunny clawing a chalkboard in the yard at midnight during a cat fight. What?? Oh wait. I mean the sound of a @#&@*#&@! fox below our window looking to score. Get a room, Red. We've got a nice shed out back. See FatAss, the resident groundhog underneath, for keys.
5. Freckles … that move? Much worse. Deer ticks!
6. Turning my flailing-arm, bug-be-gone moves into a silly dance so as not to feed Boss's fear of insects. Video clips strictly forbidden.
7. Humidity hair. Or, Richard Simmons meets Cher. Hell, just Richard Simmons without a trim.
8. Later bed times for the kids. I blame it on extra sunlight. It's not because I'm a spineless Wimp or anything like that. Especially not when Boss pleads, “One more Thomas!” baring dimples while poking the air with his Lincoln Log-sized finger.
9. Outdoor chores—pool duty, weed hell, fountain scrubbing, shrub trimming, flower watering, curse-word bellowing. Your choice: A clean inside or a clean outside. I don't go both ways.
10. Fear of neighbors hearing me shriek at the kids when the windows are open. Just kidding. I'd NEVER do that. That's the crazy lady down the street, making a jackhole of herself. Nooooho-ho-ha-ha-ha. Never moi, silly!**
11. The neighbor's cats plucking our screen door, clamoring for vittles. Dudes, the restaurant is CLOSED! No more mooching from momster! (See #8. Wimpy left the premises.)
12. Sweat. It's my body crying.
13. Swimsuit shopping with new stretch marks. Thank you polyhydramnios! You should be pleased with your award for most fluid ever when Stinker was in utero. My ob/gyns were floored. And the floor in my delivery room—soaked.
14. Corn chip feet. Pass the dip, people! As in, dip those dogs in some bubble bath! Unless you want hungry cats, randy foxes and a chubby little groundhog licking your toes.

*Next up: what to love about sumsum.

**Psssst, Fox! We'll call it even. No charge for the shed.

Stay-at-home vs. working moms—still a battle or just a crappy sandwich?

The debate between working and stay-at-home moms seems to have gone the way of cloth diapers vs. disposables. It still exists, but diplomacy has (thankfully) quelled the attacks, throwing sand on the fire instead of in each other's eyes—at least when no one is looking. I'm no fool to think it's gone completely, mostly for two reasons—the grass is-always-greener factor and that pesky thing called our insecurity.

As a stay-at-home mom who once worked while Stinker and Boss were in day care, I've seen both sides of the picket fence. As expected, each has pros and cons, with new information popping up regularly to validate or worry moms like me. Recently, for instance, I read that children in day care are significantly less likely to fall behind in language development than stay-at-home kids, thanks to more socializing with peers. Day care kids also get sick more often, but the trade-off is a more robust immune system once they're skipping off to the school bus.

Happily, I've seen enough information on the benefits of working with or without a paycheck (i.e., employed vs. at home with tots) to not fret much one way or the other. And often, there's no choice in the matter. Some stay-at-home moms who want to work can't find a job in this economy to save their sanity. Others would give their right ovary to chuck the briefcase out of the minivan and be home with the kids.

I did once think the latter was the dream life and, don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to have this chance to bond more with the boys after the Big Layoff—especially after struggling to have kids for six crazy years. But as I posted on Facebook today for 3 minutes before deleting my whine: “Some days are hell, with no pretty little hand basket in sight.” It was nothing too out-of-the ordinary, either: Boss left the screen door open and the cat escaped, then he frolicked in a stagnant fountain, ingesting brackish water and delicious mosquito eggs. Next, he mastered the gate latch in the yard, practiced the general art of fits and defiance, and tormented Stinker A LOT—causing Stinker to shriek A LOT. Oh, and also, I ate four doughnuts.

I wished I was back in the office editing articles about radiology equipment and hunting down docs too busy saving lives to get their promised submissions in by deadline. (I mean really.)

But truth be told, while life with a 1- and 2-year-old can be exasperating, life at work was challenging, too, with a mile-long to-do list, never-ending stress and 4 a.m. insomnia routinely knocking on my pillow. Yep, both pastures have their dandelions—no surprise there.

The thing that does surprise me a little is when people tell me, now that I'm unemployed, that being home is better. Not saying it is or isn't (again, pros and cons), but wouldn't they be a tad embarrassed if I went back to work tomorrow? It's like telling a ditched spouse that she's better off without her husband, only to see them smooching in the driveway a month later. (Foot and egg sandwich, anyone?) I learned that lesson in 7^th grade, when boyfriends lasted four days on average, and circles of friends all dated each other.

Honestly, though, most people mean well. Of course, some are just chomping on that sandwich, oblivious to the egg and toenails decorating their beards and eyebrows. But hey, no worries—that's why we have mirrors and napkins. And more importantly, a sense of humor. Because toenails in eyebrows? All you can do is laugh.