How To: Potty Training

In February we received the news ... Dylan had used the toilet! Regina and I high-fived, went home and threw away all our diapers. Easy-breezy! Piece of cake! All those whiney parents who complain that potty-training is hard and takes a lot of work and persistence obviously didn't have our natural parenting talents. All it takes, we reminded ourselves as we toasted our celebratory Crystal champagne, is positive thinking (as in, "Hey, Dylan, don't you think it'd be cool if you started using the big girl potty?") and Eileen, Dylan's daycare provider.

It's June, if you haven't checked your calendar or noticed all the farmers cutting hay, and Dylan is in, what I would call, the potty-training minor league system. Our dreams that Dylan would love using the toilet so much that she'd never soil another diaper have vanished. She'd be up the the big leagues now, but we aren't as disciplined as Eileen. At daycare, Dylan uses the toilet every 1/2 hour. At home, every other hour we ask, "You want to use the potty?" "No." "Okay."

To be fair, it's not entirely our fault that progress has been slow. Dylan likes a potty-party when she uses the toilet. The daycare kids have a parade every time one of the "trainees" needs to go. Here at home, Dylan's lucky to get Mom and Dad to watch. The first time Dylan used the potty here was when her grandparents came to visit and we crammed all five of us into the bathroom. Dylan loved it and went pee -- no problem.

There are signs of progress, though. Dylan frequently pees on the lawn (and sometimes poops), and -- if she's at Eileen's -- often uses the same pull-up all day long. Of course, Dylan's packing seven pounds of urine in it and it's disintegrating around her thighs, but, still, it's the OP (Original Pull-up). Okay, that's not true ... unless I'm watching her. When Dad's in charge, pull-up changes are like trains in Italy -- they come at infrequent intervals.

Dylan's also very curious about other people using the toilet. I assure you, it's uncomfortable to have your daughter stand in front of you and and hand over tiny pieces of toilet paper like a little, aggressive bathroom attendant. I just want a few minutes alone in the bathroom without someone checking in to make sure everything is working properly.

Our goal of having one out of diapers before the next one is in them probably won't happen (unless Dylan makes some big strides in four weeks. Yeah, four weeks. Wow!), but it'll be close. Dylan's progressing nicely. And, as long as I re-stock the pull-up supply, don't eat all her potty treats, and remember to have a potty parade every 1/2 hour, she should be diaper-free in no time. You won't believe how well fertilized our lawn will be.

I Love You. You Love Me.

This morning, on our way to daycare, I tried to get Dylan pumped about her soon-to-be big sister status.

"Dylan, do you know Mommy has a baby in her tummy?"

"Mmm-hm," came the reply from the back seat.

"Is it a baby boy or baby girl?"

"Boy."

"Are you going to be a good big sister?"

"I love ..."

Dylan paused. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Finally! Dylan was officially excited about having a little brother. Until now, her reaction has been, at best, dismissive.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I love Barney."

Barney? Really? That stupid I-love-everyone dinosaur isn't even on TV anymore. Fortunately for Dylan, Grandma has a VCR and a pile of old movies.

For our part, we've been busy surrounding Dylan with babies and boys, just to get her prepped for July. Malcolm, her Oakland homey, visited last weekend and helped transition her to a house that's equal parts estrogen and testosterone, like a well-mixed Manhattan. For a much better recap of the weekend, check out: www.bigdaddypaulblog.blogspot.com. Malcolm's dad has better recall than I do and has awesome photos from their visit.

Malcolm, too, is an only child, and two of those playing together is usually more heated then Israeli-Palestine peace talks. Not this trip. The two got along terrifically and their toy-tug-of-wars always ended with hugs rather than slugs. Dylan even appropriately ignored the boy when he ran around the yard in his nudie and put on a little burlesque show with his mom's hat.

Last night, we took her to Derek and Shelly's wedding. It was a huge valley party and you couldn't walk ten feet without stepping on a small child. Parents don't like it when you step on their small children, but I say put lights on them and I'll see them. Anyway, it was another great opportunity for Dylan to meet babies -- maybe even baby boys -- and take another step toward acclimation. It turned out to be a great opportunity squandered. Dylan ran around the dance floor, pushed anyone off who tried to join her, and got shushed by old ladies. Regina and I pretended we didn't see her as we ate as quickly as we could. As we finished our meal, we realized that sharing the dance floor was as likely as sharing her toys with her brother, and we knew we had a lot of work ahead of us. We finally caught her when she blew out her flip-flop and were able to load her in the truck.

While Dylan pretends that Mommy's pregnant tummy is hiding either puppies or kittens, we are getting excited. We've decided amicably on a name (hint: it rhymes with "silver angst") without resorting to a rock-paper-scissors tournament or Indian leg-wrestling. We've set up the crib, again, and even picked up a pack of diapers (one ought to do it, right? I've heard that boys to all their business outside).

I think we're ready. And who knows, maybe by the time Bilver Pangst (hint: not his real name) is old enough to be seduced by television, the big purple dinosaur will be back in fashion, and he and his big sister will snuggle up on the couch together and sing along with every song.

Horse-Crazy

It was rodeo-time here in the Valley, unfortunately for Dylan, it was also nap time. So, after watching a few brave (or forced) mutton busters, she took off her pink cowgirl hat and decided she'd had enough. The rodeo puttered along without a hitch; it went so smoothly, in fact, that by the time Dylan and Mommy made it back in, the Lions' Club was discounting their Lion burgers and the performance was over.

As per customary rodeo tradition, we hung around with people whose coolers weren't quite empty and watched Dylan play in the dirt. She and her buddy Aiden found a pile of wheat (you know it's a good place for a rodeo when it's easy to find piles of wheat) and played the "pour wheat in your hair" game.

At one point, Dylan and I had to walk to our truck (our "friends" let their coolers get empty). As we passed behind the roping chutes she pointed to a pile and said, "Horsey poopy." It was a courteous gesture to warn her old man and I was impressed that she could differentiate between horse and "other" poop. But, what do you expect from a horse-crazy girl?

Yep, it's official: Dylan's crazy about horses. It's a lot better than being crazy about Saving You Money at Crazy Eddie's Furniture Gallery, or just, you know, plain ol' crazy. It helps that we have a new foal in our front yard (we've named her Sugar) and that the rest of the cavvy is in our back yard. We go on horse watching expeditions nearly every day and Dylan's new favorite word is "Penny," because that's the last horse she rode on a cattle drive.

I have a few horses here to start training, and I think Dylan will like having little rodeos right here at the house every night. Who knows, if the horses don't like me, I'll send in Dylan ... they'll surely like a horse-crazy girl with wheat in her hair.

Dylan Hanna & Parliament Funkadelic

In 1994 Regina and I, along with a few friends, went to Lollapalooza. We left before the headliner, the Smashing Pumpkins, played because, well, it was the Smashing Pumpkins. But we did see A Tribe Called Quest, the Breeders, and the Beastie Boys. We also saw people who shouldn't have been topless and a fistfight in a bathroom. Between the Beasties and the Breeders was George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic. I hadn't heard much about ol' George and for the first hour of his set I thought he was a roadie on stage setting up mics for the Beasties. When I realized the jamming/singing/growling coming through the speakers wasn't mood music or a sound test, and was, in fact, an actual guy singing, I thought, "Who in the hell is this big dude with rainbow dreads and giant sunglasses? And why is he freaking me out so much?"

Dylan's second birthday was last weekend and Regina and I had a Lollapalooza flashback, or a lolla-back, as the professionals call it. Dylan was pretty pumped up about her big day and when the first guests arrived, she grabbed a pink pair of sunglasses that were attached to her gift. When the next guests arrived, she swiped the curly-q ribbons off their gift and put them in her hair. She added a princess crown, platinum necklace (genuine Chinese plastic), and a ring that looked like something Run DMC wore in 1988. "Our little Funkadelic George," Regina said to me. "Yikes," I think I replied.

The party was pretty fun for Dylan. Last year she opened one gift, cried, then quit the party entirely. This year, she opened each gift carefully (sort of), added more ribbon to her birthday dreads, and gave appropriate ooohs and aaahs at every unwrapping.

Dylan is getting pretty good with forming sentences, but there are long sentences, even multi-syllabic words, that tongue-tie her a little. "Bicycle" comes out as "Factory yo-yo." "Greg" has three syllables. And the Gettysburg Address starts out great but gets off track ... "Four score and a blee-blooo dobbie do da."

It must have been right between roping cats and polishing off her fourth cupcake when Dylan's words failed her and she resorted to toddler-scatting. The babbling reminded us even more of George Clinton, and we knew our best bet would be to put her to bed. It took a while to come off the sugar-high, but she finally fell asleep, sunglasses askew and ribbon strewn around her room. Regina and I finally sat down, relaxed, and, since our little George had finished her set, waited for the Beastie Boys to come on stage.

Montezuma's Last Stand

What a difference five months makes. That's how long it's been since Dylan's last visit to Mexico and our little chrysalis is now a Mexican butterfly. Can you believe that in November Dylan couldn't even order tequila con limon (she always said "con carne") or buy cheap Vicodin at the pharmacia? Amazing.

Okay, she still can't ... as far as we know, and we did clear customs, but her traveling skills (aka patience) have improved greatly. We no longer have to restrain her on the plane like it's Con Air. I'm actually writing this on the plane and Dylan is sitting quietly on her mother's ever-shrinking lap, watching Curious George. And while Dylan is being as good as possible, Regina's on the verge of vomiting because our seat-neighbor just put on patchouli lotion and now our row smells like the BO from a hundred burning-man hippies. Unfortunately, Dylan has filled every available barf-bag with her snack and toys, so I guess the next option is my lap. Dylan's bored, despite the monkey on the portable DVD, and wants to read (aka "tear apart") our foul smelling neighbor's book. She hasn't yet, and we're proud, but if the patchouli comes out again I'm turning her loose.

Aside from Dylan becoming a better traveler, Regina and I have become much better parents. We've learned the power of candy. Dylan, like her old man, has a complete row of sweet teeth and we take full advantage of it through bribery. Can't stand another second on a cramped bus? Try candy. Need to be quiet before we're asked to leave the restaurant? Candy. I know, the Baby Whisperer might call it bad parenting, but we say bully to her. Besides, they're just baby teeth, if they rot, she'll get new ones.

Puerto Vallarta was a great new city for us. Dylan was excited that our resort had feral cats, but didn't think too highly of the iguanas. We swam, walked the marina, and took little adventures on the butt-breaking local buses into town. Poolside, there were plenty of little Mexican boys for Dylan to oogle at, and I found a place nearby that made killer fish tacos, so everyone was content.

In the end, the trip was just a great, relaxing getaway. No crazy drug-gang shootouts (although the twice daily canon fire from the "pirate" ship kept us on our toes), no blistering sunburns (I always remembered to pass out beneath an umbrella), and no Montezuma's Revenge.

So Puerto Vallarta, keep your fish taco frying, your beer cold, and your pharmaceutical regulations loose, because the Eastside Gang will be coming back.

The (Eastside) Road

If you've read Cormac McCarthy's "The Road," you'll recall that it is about a father and son trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic world and find "the good guys," all the while pushing a shopping cart full of their belongings. If you haven't read it, thank you for choosing my blog over, quite possibly, America's greatest writer.

We're reading it for class right now, so it's on my mind. The book says a lot about a father's love, cannibalism, and the best way to carry all your stuff in a cart. The familial love part is nice and meaningful, but Dylan, probably by listening to me yammer on about the novel, has learned how to fit her belongings not in a cumbersome shopping cart with a wonky wheel, but in her arms. She'd kick ass in post-apocalyptic America. Or in a McCarthy novel.

Trips in the car, walks around the yard, even moving from one room to another, all require a transfer of supplies that resemble a US military exit strategy. We call it "Operation Toy Grab." A ride in the truck requires, minimum, one pacifier (mi-mi), one small blanket (night-night), and often a book, pencil, small Diego toy, Diego's puma, and anything that resembles a kitty. Around the house, Dylan usually packs a small piano, her Leap Frog caterpillar, a recorder, and anything else that will fit into her arms.

Regina's started calling her the Bag Lady. I'd call her something from "The Road," but none of the characters are named. Dylan's greatest achievement in supply-carrying comes at bedtime. To sleep properly, we must have mi-mi, night-night, a stuffed cat she got in a trade with Malcolm, a dolly, Hello Kitty pillow, and in the tight grip of her hands, a Baby Barbie and a Hello Kitty ring. It's exhausting to even remember what she needs, but if I've forgotten just one item, I can't get to to the door without her calling out, "Daddy. Ring? Ring?"

Oh sure, you're wondering why we allow it, right? Or are you still wondering if we read Cormac McCarthy novels to Dylan before bedtime? We don't, yet. And to answer the first question, we've tried to "forget" some of her swag on road trips, and the hell unleashed from the back seat made us turn around for whatever trinket we'd left behind.

I hate pushing Dylan into growing up too quickly, but I won't miss having to run a mental checklist of everything required to travel/sleep/walk. I've gotten so good at remembering exactly what situation requires which toy that I usually forget A) my necessities (wallet), or B) Dylan's real necessities (diapers). And heck, when she's just a little taller I'm going down to the WalMart parking lot and swiping her a real cart of her own.

Little Dylan the Wrangler

Last week, Regina and I went to a wine tasting party. I learned that I am very good at tasting lots of wines, yet horrible at determining the difference between, say, two-buck chuck and the host's wedding wine.

I also learned that I wrangle. Granted, I live on a ranch (wranch?), I wear Wranglers, and I know the words to the old western song, "Little Joe the Wrangler," but I'd always reserved the terms "wrangler" (as an occupation) and "wrangle" (as a verb) for summer-camps and dude ranches. But then I had this conversation with a wined-up party-goer:
SHE: What do you do?
ME: I'm a rancher.
SHE: Oh my God!
ME: (flinching) Yep.
SHE: What time do you wrangle?
ME: (confused) Um. Five?
SHE: Can I help wrangle? I'm .. blah ... horses ... wrangle ... blah ... horse ... blah ...
ME: Yep. We can wrangle.
REGINA: Stop calling it that!

A couple of weeks ago, Dylan and I did a little wrangling. A couple of weeks ago, I just called it "moving cattle," or, "a cattle drive," but now I have a cool word for it.

Dylan was, to my relief and joy, very excited about getting on a horse. She's only sat on a few of the older "kids'-horses" (okay, and a horse no one had yet ridden, but he is very gentle. I swear.), so when I put her on my saddle-horse and we took off after the cattle, I expected shrieks of terror and a quick return to mommy. Instead, she laughed at the uncomfortable trotting and yelled at the cows. "Move! Cow!"

I was impressed. Once the cows lined out and slowed down a little, and we no longer needed Sparky, my horse, to trot, bite, or push, Dylan finally got bored and wanted down. I thought about giving her the "cowgirls don't quit on the herd," lecture, but I thought better. Besides, Dylan had made it nearly three miles, sitting or bouncing on a saddle horn. I'd have called it quits long before that. The pain in her butt couldn't compare to her sheer unbridled (mind the pun) joy.

So now I have these two things: a daughter who loves horses and my very own little wrangler. I need to go to more wine tasting parties. It's amazing what I learn.