‘P’ is for Piss

Study after study has touted the benefits of a family sharing at least one daily meal together.  It should be a time where everyone can delight in good food and conversation; a time for modeling table manners and healthy eating habits while enjoying each other’s company.

But the line between ‘should be’ and reality is pretty blurred at our house.  We do manage to all sit down together for dinner on most nights, and sometimes the food is good and the conversation is enjoyable.  Other nights, the food is hotdogs, milk gets spilled, Coco talks with her mouth full, Allison tattles on Coco for talking with her mouth full, and Chris and I spend half our time telling the kids to be polite and the other half wondering why we insist on this ‘quality’ family time in the first place.

Last night, dinner was one of the other nights.  Thursday nights often are.  Allison has swim lessons and Nicole has pre-school, so we pretty much all roll in at the same time, hungry and tired.  Well, Chris and I are usually tired.  The girls, having somehow acquired boundless energy, make up for not seeing one another all day by chasing each other in circles around the table and alternately laughing and screaming like banshees until dinner is served.

Fortunately, we are usually guaranteed at least two solid minutes of peace at the beginning of the meal while everyone digs in.  It was just after this two minute reprieve that Coco finished pushing her macaroni around her plate and announced that she was ‘all done.’  “Allie done?” she asked hopefully.  (We make the girls wait for each other before being excused from the table.)  Allie shook her head.

“Awwww, wait Allie,” said Nicole, resignedly.  Of course, Nicole has never actually waited patiently for her sister to finish eating.  Most nights, she just repeatedly asks, “Allie done?” every 17 seconds until Allie is, in fact, finished.

Coco had only asked twice before she suddenly stood up in her chair.  “Me WHOAA Daddy!” she shouted (which translates roughly as, “I’m as tall as Daddy!”)

“Yes, good for you.  Sit down, please,” I said.  But from her ‘whoa, Daddy’ vantage point, she spotted the capital letter ‘P’ magnet on our fridge.  This was clearly an exciting find for our three year old.

Coco leaped out of her chair and galloped over to the fridge while shouting, “Hey!  P!  My P!  My school!!!!”

“Did you learn about P at school?” I asked.  “Is P for Papa?”

“NO!” she shouted back.  “P piss!!!!”

I looked at Chris.  “Did she just say P is for piss?”  We figured we must have misunderstood.  “Is P for please?” I asked, because I thought that made more sense.

“No, P piss!” she shouted again.  Chris and I exchanged another look.  “P is for push?”

Nicole was beginning to get aggravated at our slowness.  We continued to guess P words--”Pear?  Piece?  Pick?  Pig?” but to no avail.  Even Allison had a few guesses (Pumpkin!  Paper!!!)  Coco got madder and madder.  She sighed.  She yelled.  She screamed, “No, P piss” over and over again.

We asked her if she could act it out; she’s an extraordinary mime.  No good.  I tried a few more p-words, but Chris pointed out that I was making her even more agitated.  He tried a different tact--lying.  “Okay, P.  We got it.  We understand.”

Nicole saw right thought that one.  “NOOOOOOO,” she bellowed.  “P PISS!!!”  Then she  rolled her eyes way back into her head and hurled the P across the floor.  She grabbed her blanket, plopped down on the couch and popped her thumb in her mouth.  It’s probably pretty stressful having such dimwitted parents.

Little Miss Misunderstood

On the bright side, Nicole had her speech evaluation at the early childhood center, and we are hopeful that she will qualify for speech therapy.  Maybe soon she’ll be able to tell us what P is really for.

In the meantime, we’ll continue to have our expert prescribed family dinners.  It may not always be peaceful, but dinner at the Claussen’s is certainly never dull.

How I broke my foot, and Other Lame Stories

Last Tuesday I broke my foot.  I’ve tried to come up with a good story about how it happened, but nothing really stuck.  Me playing sports is pretty unbelievable, as is me rescuing someone or performing some other heroic act.  There really aren’t any other ‘cool’ ways to break your foot, so I’ll just stick to the truth:

I was walking.  I had put Allie’s swim clothes in the washer in the mud room, and I turned around to go back into the kitchen.  All of a sudden, I was sitting on the floor in excruciating pain.  My best guess is that I somehow miss-stepped and instead of using the bottom of my foot like most people, I stepped on the top of my foot.  I realize this implies that it was my own weight that caused two bones in my foot to break.  Believe me, if there was another way to tell it, I would.

Anyway, as I was sitting on the floor in tears because of the pain, Chris was on the phone and the girls were running around gleefully.  Allie stopped her gleeful running long enough to say, “Why are you sitting on the floor, Mommy?”

I told her I hurt my foot, to which she replied, “Oh,” and continued running around like a crazy girl.  A few minutes later she stopped in the doorway again.  “Mommy?  Why are you still sitting there?”

It was at this point that I decided Chris wasn’t going to get off the phone anytime soon, and that I would receive little sympathy from my daughters.  I crawled to the couch and asked Allison to bring me a bag of ice.

Only I should have been more specific because about ten minutes later she arrived proudly holding a gallon ziplock with two lonely pieces of ice inside.  By this time, I had done some research on my phone and found that the urgent care center near our house was open for just 30 more minutes.

Chris got off the phone and found me in a whole lot of pain on the couch.  I told him the happy news about still being able to make it to urgent care if we hurried.  He looked at my foot and said, “Are you sure we should just rush right in?  Why don’t we wait until the morning?”

I would have kicked him except I was in too much pain.  Instead, I crawled up the stairs, took a couple of Advil, and begged for more ice.

The next morning, Chris stayed home from work to watch the girls, and a good friend of mine took me to urgent care.  I told her she could just drop me off, but sweet girl that she is, she insisted on staying.  Three hours later, after urgent care, x-rays, and orthopedics, it was confirmed that I had fractured my 3rd and 4th metatarsals, and I was given a walking ‘boot’ to wear for the next six weeks.  The doctor said that I could walk on my heel, swim, and ride a recumbent bike if it was tolerable.  It definitely could have been worse.

I might have scoffed at the idea of swimming or using a recumbent bike except for the fact that I had joined a gym a month earlier.  I didn’t want to waste the money I paid for the membership, so I packed my wildly unattractive swim suit and headed to Gold’s Gym.

After 20 minutes on the bike (which is harder than you’d think for a machine that keeps you in the exact same position you’d be in if you were on the couch with your feet on the coffee table), I checked out the pool schedule.  Water aerobics was starting in just 5 minutes.

I had planned on swimming laps, though I use the term ‘swimming’ loosely.  I can’t really swim in the sense that I use alternate arm strokes while keeping my face mostly under water except for taking breaths.  I swim more in the sense that I can be in water that is over my head without drowning.  I do this weird modified breast stroke where my head is always above water and I kick both my feet out at the same time.  I imagine I look like a large frog, only more awkward and, well, less green.

I figured water aerobics couldn’t be any worse than that, and it might even be better.  I joined about 30 others in the pool.  As anyone who has witnessed a water aerobics class may guess, I was the youngest by about 40 years.  Also, I had the perkiest boobs, a title I certainly couldn’t claim in the larger gym population.  Score.

The class was really pretty fun, and at times, even strenuous.  The truly fabulous part was that due to the acoustics in the pool area, I couldn’t understand a word the instructor was saying.  I’m pretty sure everyone else, whose ears were 40 years older than mine, couldn’t hear anything either.  So for the whole hour, we all just sort of flailed our arms and legs about in our closest approximation of the instructors’ demonstrations.  It was such a hoot that I may even continue to attend the classes after my foot as healed.

Speaking of things I may continue to do after my foot has healed: I LOVE my walking boot.  At first I thought it was really uncomfortable, but it turns out that it just felt uncomfortable because walking on a broken foot hurts.  Go figure.

As my fractures have begun to heal, I’ve come to adore my boot.  Around the home, I wear my boot on my right foot and an Eddie Bauer ‘wicked good clog‘ on my left, and I have to admit, the boot gives the clog a run for it’s money.  It is just so spacious, what with it’s velcro straps and all.  Also, it extends a good inch and a half past my foot, which means it has saved me, on several occasions, from stubbing my toe on the kitchen island.  What more could one ask for in footwear?!?

I’m thinking of ordering another for my left foot.  Of course, after the overalls incident of 2003, the fashion police probably won’t allow it. 

The Unintentional Lock-in

I know I said I would try not to wait four months before blogging again, and I didn’t.  I waited five.  But something happened today that is, most definitely, blog-worthy.  Facebook saved my life.  Or at least about 5 or 6 hours of my life...

Today is Thursday, so Allie is at pre-school.  One of the main perks of pre-school (aside from Allie getting an education and all) is that I have Nicole’s nap time completely to myself.  I can do whatever I want:  Read.  Clean.  Watch TV that does not include weirdly-intelligent monkeys.

You can imagine my excitement when noon-thirty rolled around, and I announced to Coco that it was nap time.  She grabbed her blankie, two stuffed puppies and her sippy cup and headed upstairs with me.

After I changed her diaper and she had set up her ‘lovies’ in the exact right place, we were ready to read her story.  For the last three plus months, the only story she has asked for is, “Jingle, The Husky Pup.”  It’s a sweet story, but anything read two times a day for three straight months can get a bit old.  Especially since Nicole is so particular about the way we read it.  She has several items on each page that she must point to, and if we miss one, she will insist on going back so it can be properly pointed out.  Also, the door to her room must be closed while we read.

I thought nothing of it when Nicole got up and carefully shut the door as I hurriedly read her story.  When we made it to the end, and Nicole had pointed out the last item in the book (candy cane), I covered her up and gave her a kiss.  Then, as I do every day, I closed the blackout shade and walked to the door toward sweet freedom.

The Perpetrator: 2'6'' tall.  31 lbs.  Brown Eyes, Blonde Hair.

Only sweet freedom was nowhere to be found.  Because the door knob wouldn’t turn.  Coco, who has never until this day successfully locked or unlocked a door, had locked us in.  I turned it a little more fiercely, and panic began to set in.  I had left my phone downstairs, and the only key to our doors is kept above the bathroom door in the hall.

I turned on the light, which is about when Coco noticed something was up.  She got out from under her blanket and walked over to the door knob.  She did some fierce turning herself, and then looked at me and said, “uh-oh Mama.”  Uh-oh indeed.

I tried to think of something long, thin and pointy that might be in the girls’ room.  But the girls are 5 and 2, so we spend a lot more time making sure pointy things are out of their room rather than in.

Thankfully, Nicole had been doing some thinking of her own.  She grabbed one of her favorite board books and shoved it between the door knob and the frame.  This technique, as you may have imagined, was quite unsuccessful.  She abandoned the attempt and went to Allie’s nightstand where she retrieved a pair of sunglasses and a flashlight.  Helpful, that one.

In the meantime, I found a single artificial flower on the girls’ dresser.  I popped the bud off, and hopefully poked the stem into the lock.  No such luck.  The hangers in the girls’ closet were too big, and the posts in the door were too tight to move.  I had pretty much exhausted all hope of getting out of there without assistance.

This was pretty problematic for several reasons.  First, Chris was supposed to be working late, and he wouldn’t be home until 6:30 pm.  Secondly, Allie’s pre-school closes at 6:00, and they would have been pretty worried if nobody came to get her.  Thirdly, I had to pee.

I looked over at Coco, who had apparently given up on escape and had decided to take a nap.  I turned off the light and then remembered something which would become crucial to my getaway:  Allie has an iPhone.  My dad gave her his old one so that she can listen to music at night, play games, and take pictures.  It doesn’t have a sim card, but it does have wi-fi.  Thank goodness for spoiled five year olds.

I turned it on and began face-timing every one of her contacts.  It didn’t take long because she only has three: her Grammy, Opsi, and her Auntie Laura.  Sadly, none of them answered.  I sent a few iMessages as well before recalling my most favorite app in all the world:  Facebook.

It only took a couple of minutes to download the app and login, and just like that, I was connected to the world again.  I posted this plea for help:  Umm--Coco just locked me in her room (we have the lock turned around for Allie). I have nothing but Allie's iPod. I need someone to call Chris or if you live near by let me out!!! Message me if you can and ill get you his number or our garage code. Facebook world don't fail me now!! ;)

I tagged a few friends who live in the area in the hopes of expediting things a bit.  It only took a couple of minutes before the comments and offers of assistance began coming in (thank you, fellow Facebook addicts, thank you).

I guess I should note that my Facebook status was not particularly well-worded.  Mainly because it made it sound as if I was inside the room while Coco was running pell mell about the house.  Had this been the case, I think she would have a) gobbled up all of the jelly beans she could find b) brought me my phone, or c) managed to unlock the door.  But this was not the case, so my apologies to anyone who was worried about my child’s safety during this whole ordeal.

I should also note, before anyone calls the Child Abuse Hotline, that we never lock Allie in her room.  Well, hardly ever.  We haven’t even had to threaten it in ages, but it was pretty effective in getting Allie to stay in her room at bedtime.

Anyway, some good friends of mine called Chris almost immediately and explained my predicament.  They also stopped by the house and tried to use our garage code to open the door.  But fate was against me, and the door wouldn’t open.

The attempted break-in.

Being the marvelous friends they are, and after checking for any unlocked windows, they headed to Walmart to get a new battery for the keyless entry on the garage, or a screw driver or something to toss up to me through Cole’s window.

At that point, there was not much to do but wait.  I perused Facebook a bit and discovered a pretty cute way to make a birthday cake.  I messaged a bit with my sister and browsed Pinterest.  I even searched for ‘locked in.’  The results included a heart shaped egg on toast, a pair of earrings and a tub of beer.  Huh.  Who would have guessed?

Then I heard a door open and footsteps downstairs.  I have never been quite so overjoyed to hear an unknown person inside my house.  The girls’ bedroom door opened seconds later, and there stood my hubby, Chris.  My knight-in-shining-armor (or rather my knight in jeans and a polo shirt).

Thanks to good friends and spouses for making this a blog about how much I love Facebook...and not a frightening tale about how I yelled for help out the window for three hours only to have to pee in one of Nicole’s diapers while Allie sat forlorn and seemingly forgotten at her preschool.  Yes.  Thank you.