I have (we have) noticed a sharp upturn in the frequency of use of our Plumber’s Friend (plunger). As Alice is not yet fully potty-trained, all signs point to Helen.
So this morning, I talked to her about the appropriate amount of toilet paper one should expect to use during a trip to the bathroom (File this one under “Conversations I never expected to be having.”).
Always the creative teacher, I decided to explain things in terms that Helen can understand and relate to.
“Helen, if you put too much toilet paper into the potty at one time, the toilet can’t swallow it.”
“No. And eventually, if you do that to the poor toilet too many times, the toilet might get sick and throw up all over the floor.”
“It might throw up? What color would that be?” I love my child, always concerned about color. She’s obsessed with color.
“It would be poop. Toilets throw up poop.”
“Would you like me to teach you how much toilet paper you should be using each time?”
So we went into the bathroom, and I had two suggestions — the strip of TP should be no longer than the width of the toilet tank, or the length of her arm if there’s not a tank. And that she can put up to three strips that long into the toilet at once, but then she HAS to flush it so that the toilet can swallow it.
And now she’s obsessing. She’ll open the door and come out, panties around her ankles, and hold up a strip of paper. “Is this right, Mommy?”
And she’s directive. “NO, Alice, the length of your ARM.”
It’s very funny.
But hopefully the Plumber’s Friend can go back to gathering dust, as it used to.
Apparently, I do some of my best scrapbooking very late at night, and very early in the morning. Who knew?
The journaling reads:
Tickle. (When she walks her fingers up my arms, trying to tickle me)
Bugs! (pointing in horror)
You’re OK. You’re OK. (She comforts anyone who’s sad)
Don’t DO Dat!
No ticklin’ ME.
I need dis ON.
COWS! (gleefully pointing)
Pannacakes ‘n Sawop
I need sunscream.
Dass enough, Mommy! (as she fills a cup with water)
Hug? (when she knows she’s been naughty)
I’m stwong. (as she hauls a gallon of juice from the fridge)
Mommy. NO. SINGING. (when she wants to hear music in the car)
I want some o’yours.
Wide. (I want a ride)
My shouldah. (patting)
Yuv you, Mommy.
I’ant a Bandaid!
Woe, woe, woe…. (Row, row, row)
No. NO, Daddy, NO. (scolding)
Color ON PAYPAH.
Dis my babing soup. (bathing suit)
Alice, where are your shoes? Obediah.
Uttered by a 13-year-old male student as he left my home on Monday evening: “Your house looks like my room.”
I wish the Cleaning Fairies would show up.
8:45am: Algebra II up at school
9;45am: Algebra I back at home
10:45am: brisk 3-mile walk with Mom, chatting about how to get Helen to eat
12:25pm: Calculus up at school
1:20pm: Algebra I back at home
2:35pm: Pre-Calculus up at school
3:30pm: Pre-Calculus back at home
4:15pm: Algebra I
5:00pm: made dinner for hungry family, which girls did not eat
6:00pm: mental break surfing the net for a few peaceful moments
6:30pm: bonded with family watching Power Rangers: Mystic Force finale
8:15pm: Algebra II
My brain hurts.
Wednesday’s not looking much better, though I’ll be DONE at 5pm, which is a bonus. Thursday’s nuts like Mondays.
Currently I have 26 timeslots filled on my weekly schedule. I’m liking the income, but not the rigid structure.