I See You, Reality. And You SUCK.

For a few months every year I have the luxury of pretending I'm a full-time, stay-at-home mom.  Usually around the end of July, I've had about all I can take of  those annoying orphans, Max and Ruby, and I've lost my taste for leisurely, cinnamon-toast mornings.  Even my sidewalk chalk drawings start to look a little...mental patienty.  As August approaches, I usually start to look forward to exchanging full-time Diaper Duty/Timeout Patrol for a classroom full of young adults.  Sure, they're smart-mouthed, eye-rolling, teen nightmares sometimes, but they can take themselves to the bathroom.  And I don't know if it's because my school has great kids or because I've built up a reputation as being "scary," but I rarely have to send any of my students to timeout.  

My job and my students challenge me in a way that makes me smile more often than they make me throw my hands up in frustration, so at the first sign of the "Back To School" display at Wal-mart, I'm usually more than ready to pack away the sunscreen and the sprinkler, and to happily purchase a fresh notebook full of clean paper and a shiny new red pen.  Even when my summers were all my own, in the pre-Owen days, I would eventually become sick and tired of myself (sometimes a little of me goes a long way, especially when I'm bored and/or too lazy to make myself un-bored), and ultimately I'd be itching for the first day of school.

This has been the routine since I started life in the real world.  However, this year is different, and as a result I've built an invisible force field of denial around myself.  And, I must tell you, I dig this bubble I've been living in for the past couple of months, and this time I do NOT want to come out.  Outside the bubble I will have to have conversations about whether or not I will report to the classroom or the picket line, but inside the bubble my conversations go something like this:

              Owen (sitting in the bathtub): "Mommy, I'm having a problem over here." 

              Me (lying on the floor, exhausted): "What sort of a problem?" 

              Owen: "Oh, I'm just up to my old tricks again." 

Or, sometimes they go something like this:

             Owen (riding his bike down the sidewalk): "Mommy?"
             Me: "Yes?"
             Owen: "You're probably my best buddy in the whole world." 

Now, tell me again why I would ever want to leave this bubble?  Oh, right.  There are those pesky bills that must be paid.  Those are fairly motivating, but fiscal responsibility is not to blame for the noticeable absence of the back to school anticipation I've become so accustomed to feeling.  And it's not just being a mommy that makes me want to stay home, either, because as much as I love my kid, I know myself well enough to realize that I do NOT have what it takes to be a full-time, stay-at-home mom.  (Super shout out to those saintly beings who DO stay at home full-time.  I worship at your feet.)  So, what makes my bubble-life so appealing this year?  Well, I think it's a mix of two things. 

First of all, my kid is AWESOME right now.  He's not a cuddly, chubby-cheeked observer of the world anymore.  He is a smart and hilarious kid whose favorite thing to do is to play the best game in the world, PRETEND!  The Muppets don't make pretend visits to my house when I'm outside the bubble!  And no one plays Monkey Tag out there, either!  (It's pretty much regular tag, but you pretend you're a monkey while you chase each other around the house...I know you were wondering.)   And, after a day of constant Muppet visits and a rousing round of Monkey Tag, my awesome kid goes to bed at 8:00, and I get at least two uninterrupted hours of porch time with Neil.  And, if you haven't noticed, porch time is pretty much my second favorite thing in the world (aside from Monkey Tag). What I'm telling you is This.Bubble.Rules.

And life on the outside?  Well, it's full of uncertainties.  The people in charge of our country, AND the people in charge of my own workplace, have yet to find a compromise.  Rooms full of adults, all of whom are responsible for the well-being of those they serve, can't won't agree on a common ground.  It's frustrating outside the bubble, to say the least, and this sort of frustration makes going back to work feel a lot more like WORK. 

So, now you're thinking, "Okay, Erin.  Not all of us get THREE months off of work, so you should probably stop complaining."  Or, "Not all of us have the luxury of being a working mom and a stay-at-home mom all at the same time, and here you are complaining about both?"  If you're thinking those things, you're right on both accounts.  I really do have it made, and I'm aware and grateful every single day.  And I know that, eventually, I'll be back in front of a classroom full of bored teenagers, trying my best to teach them something, while in the back of my mind thinking about how much I miss being home with my husband and my son.  And, eventually, I'll find myself at home dancing (and singing...don't judge me) to the newest song by Nickjr's very own freaking Fresh Beat Band, and when I realize that I know all the lyrics and can follow most of the Fresh Beat choreography, I'll feel instant shame and long to talk to someone, anyone, about symbolism in The Scarlet Letter.

I'll probably start to feel a twinge of excitement about returning to school when this ugly business of negotiating is over.  Shopping for new school clothes, seeing my class roster for this semester's Creative Writing class, and the promise of daily giggling sessions with my funny, smart and fabulous co-workers will eventually make life outside the bubble bearable.  But, for at least two more weeks, this bubble is impenetrable.  If you need me, you'll have to come in because I'm not coming out.  I'll be swimming in the kiddie pool, blowing bubbles on my porch, pretending to be a monkey in my living room, and basically soaking up some son. 

On Second Thought...




Behold!
Potty training in the 21st century.
Yes, I bribe my kid with apps. 



We have a plastic placemat with the faces of all the presidents on it, at least half of which my child, Owen, can positively identify.  He uses terms like cumulonimbus to describe storm clouds, and he can sing almost all of the lyrics to Queen's The Muppet's version of Bohemian Rhapsody.  He navigates my Nook like a pro when he wants to read books, draw pictures, or put together virtual puzzles.  He's a pretty sharp kid, so it's no wonder I expected him to pee on the potty on his first try, poop on the potty on his second try, and be completely done with diapers by the end of day one. 

Before you start feeling sorry for the poor, put-upon child of an impatient, Type A, achievement-oriented mom, please realize I'm exaggerating about my expectations (a little).  What I did expect was to have a few more actual pee-in-potty successes this week, but that just didn't happen.  Not because of lack of trying, though!  I spent more time than any person should, sitting on our bathroom floor playing games, urging Owen to try to go, and hoping that one of the many accidents that I systematically cleaned up off the floor this week would magically occur during potty game time.  Again, no such luck. 

So, that leads me to the conclusion that the kid isn't going to do it until he does it on his own terms. Yes, that's the EXACT same advice that every seasoned veteran gave me when I mentioned my intention of embarking on this toilet adventure, but MY kid can point out James K. Polk on a presidential placemat, so naturally I filed said advice away in the "Thanks, But No Thanks" portion of my brain.  You know, for future reference...Because I, too, like to do things on my own terms. 

So, here's what Potty Week One taught us:

1.  Owen enjoys the idea of being a big boy.  Big boy underpants are way cool. 

2.  He is slow to warm up to all new experiences, and potty training is no exception.

3.  He's a private kid, so letting him run around naked, or sitting with him in the bathroom for that matter, aren't going to be techniques I employ in the future.

4.  Owen might look like a carbon copy of his dad, but boy he sure does act a lot like his mom sometimes.   

Why?

Unqualified (adj.)

1.  Lacking necessary qualifications. 
        I recognize that I am unqualified to provide any sort of wisdom on most
        occasions. 
2.  Not restricted, limited, or modified. 
       Truly unqualified statements or ideas sometimes require more than 
       420 characters, Facebook.
3.  Absolute; Complete; Out and Out.  
       Putting words together to form ideas gives me unqualified joy.   

That's why I'm doing this.  It's just that simple.