Disgusting Diva

Is it wrong to be disgusted by your own child?  Well, too bad, because I am.  Meike has been super uber gross lately and I've been having to exert some tremendous self control to not say anything that will result in her having therapy-worthy self-image issues by the time she's five.

She's been peeing in her pants fairly regularly.  The degree of peeing varies, but the smell is pretty constant.  She either accumulates small drops throughout the day or full out pees on the couch while screaming at me that she doesn't have to go to the bathroom.  It seems like every time I pick her up, my hand/hip/arm gets wet.  It's really gross.  We're currently investing in Sam's Club-size carpet cleaning products.  I'm considering plastic clothes (for me).

Meike's nails grow at an alarming rate.  And with them, an accumulation of an insane amount of grime.  I have to clean her nails out every day so that she doesn't look homeless.  Now I understand why Jonathan is so neurotic about Meike putting her hands near Luke's mouth.

For some reason, Meike has recently started drooling.  When she laughs, she drools.  While I'm brushing her teeth, she drools.  While she's sleeping, she drools.  This wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for her horrific breath.  Her father and I have actually had conversations about it.  You do not want to be within a 5-ft radius of her mouth when she wakes up in the morning.  Seriously, you don't.  I made a few dentist appointments for her while I was pregnant, because there was enough making me nauseous as it was.  But, for whatever reasons, we kept having to cancel or reschedule.  I promise to get on that.  If only to spare Luke, who has Meike in his face 24/7.

In addition to all of these cuddle-inducing characteristics, Meike has been maxing out her annoying quotient.  She has apparent developed some crazy version of fibromyalgia that involves every single part of her body.  You cannot do anything to that girl without her whining about it hurting.  I should probably contact a medical journal, because it gets even weirder.  Meike's terrible disease intensifies near bedtime.

Cleaning her nails hurts.  Cutting her nails hurts.  Holding her hand over the sink hurts.  Being wiped with a wet washcloth hurts, with our without soap.  The blue bubblegum toothpaste hurts her teeth, which requires her to spit it all over my hands while I'm brushing them.  Putting her shirt on hurts her head.  Putting her socks on squishes her toes.  All blankets that are not pink assault her skin.  Washing her hair, conditioning her hair, and, of course, brushing her hair all elicit high-pitched screams.  The list goes on.  She's going to need a morphine drip by next week at this rate.  Or I am.

There's a Waffle in my Bathtub

In all honesty, there's actually a waffle in Meike's bathtub.  If we're considering who cleans and pays for said bathtub, ownership gets a little fuzzy.  And actually, it's not actually in the bathtub, but sitting up on the side.  I have no idea what brought Meike from eating breakfast at the downstairs table to abandoning the waffle in the upstairs bathroom (there's one downstairs, right next to the kitchen?).  I am assuming it was Meike, but I can just as easily picture Jonathan walking through various bathrooms muttering, "Leggo my Eggo."

Stranger things have happened when Jonathan is in charge of the children.  I'm sure all you moms out there have more interesting stories about Dad-watching-the-kids fiascoes.  I am sick and Luke is sick, so Jonathan is [sort of] in charge.  This basically means that Meike watches movies and wakes me up if there is anything "debatable" that needs settling.  Some previously debated topics have included: in what room diapers should be removed, how soon after waking diapers should be removed, and where diapers should go once they have been removed.  Meike and Jonathan argue about really important issues.  My house would probably implode if one of them did not awaken me from my semi-slumber (as I lay there listening to them arguing) to settle the disagreement.

Now that I've set up the scene for my rant, here it goes...

Why is it that men, in general, (I'm sure there are some competent ones out there who've learned through keen observation) seem to lack a natural ability to treat with children?  You guys just make things so much more complicated then they need to be.  Before arguing with your child, ask yourself the following questions:

Will this harm my child or another beyond reasonable repair?

Could I be imprisoned for what my child is currently doing? 

Will this result in me (or someone else you'd rather not deal with) spending a large amount of money?

If the answer is, "No," to all of those questions, then don't argue about it.  Your child will learn from natural consequences.  Or they will grow up to be the bane of civilization (but at least the hypothetical sick mom who was up all night nursing the hypothetical sick baby will get some uninterrupted sleep).  

Furthermore, I don't think it's fair that men can so easily put aside their fatherly duties.  For instance, if I want to go out for two hours without children, I have to prepare.  I have to find an appropriate caretaker.  I have to teach the caretaker the innumerable specifications of caring for my children.  Such painstaking details include everything from how many seconds to microwave the rice cereal to on which side the baby needs to be rocked to sleep so that he will stay asleep once he is put down (which isn't going to work anyway).  I need to pump milk in advance.  I need to bring a hand-held breast pump with me in case there's too much traffic or an earthquake or I'm having fun and don't want to go home.  I need to wear clothes that allow me to pump unencumbered, do not highlight my newly squishy post-baby belly, and hide those itchy nursing pads.  I need to plan and prepare the meals that will be made and eaten in my absence.  The list goes on...  

A man just needs to walk out the door; shower optional.

I would never even conceive of thinking about going out for eight hours to play "disc golf" (whatever the hell that is) and "have a few beers with the guys."  Especially not with a sick spouse and baby.  And if I did, I would come home spraying milk everywhere like a water sprinkler, which might actually be helpful because my house would probably be on fire because I did not respond to the 600 texts I received while I was out.

I acknowledge that this post sounds particularly biased and bigoted.  The truth hurts.

My Three Month-Old is Not Potty-Trained

That's right, I said three MONTH-old.  I did not mean to write three year-old, even though that would make a little more sense.  At least I thought so before today.  Apparently, Luke is behind the ball.  You'd think that sitting up unassisted would be a prerequisite for sitting on a porcelain bowl, but alas, it is not.

Ever heard of "EP-ing?"  I had a vague idea of it that I learned from...I don't know, probably the Daily Show or something.  For those of you not in the know (losers), EP stands for.. Oh man, I just looked it up because I could not form a sentence cohesive enough to describe it to you and discovered that it is actually called "EC-ing."  Turns out I'm the loser.

I digress.  So EC stands for Elimination Communication (aka Elimination Potty Training, must of been were I got the "P" from).  You are supposed to watch your infant for cues that they have to "eliminate" waste.  Then you somehow rush them the the toilet and dangle them there until it all comes out.  Here, let's test your skills.

Look at the following pictures and try to choose the one in which Luke is peeing (he's wearing a diaper because I'm old-fashioned like that):

 A

B

Could you tell which one it was?  Me neither.  But he was definitely moving in B (see the blur?).  

Diapers it is, Luke!

Ironically, this practice has produced such dignified publications as Trickle Treat and Potty Whispering.  I kid you not.  Are people really in such a rush for their babies to grow up?  Can't we just enjoy the ride?  

When you have a baby, you know what's involved before it arrives.  Diapers, drool, and spit-up.  Maybe you didn't know just how much of it was involved, but you were at least aware of the general implications of infant care.  I will liken the situation to getting a cat.  When you get a cat, you know it needs a litter box.  But, despite knowing this, do you potty-train your cat to fit your ideal Bohemian lifestyle?  No, you just keep on truckin with that pooper scooper.

One more fun fact:

ECed babies are free from the problems of conventional diapering: 

...not being able to explore this area...

That's been a big worry of mine.  I've been thinking lately, while changing his diapers, "How is Luke going to touch his penis frequently with this damn diaper in the way."  Problem solved!

Just in case I was too quickly dismissing the key to enhanced attachment with Luke, I asked him if he felt like we were not communicating enough about his elimination needs.  He drooled on me.