I’m tired. Not just physically tired but mentally. I am unofficially mentally exhausted.
People like Demi Moore can afford to check their mentally exhausted yet freakishly toned and surgically enhanced bodies into posh facilities to rest. They can melt down in private or under the care of a well- trained psychiatrist. One who is able to decipher the frozen expressions of those unable to move their botulinum toxin-filled faces.
The rich and famous check themselves into retreats in Malibu to examine their feelings, kick their habits, and lament about their man-child’s infidelities. Call me cynical but I imagine there are some massage treatments and gourmet meals included in the package. Someone makes the bed, cleans the can, and washes the dishes too.
Well around here we take a nap when we’re exhausted. Then we wake up, suck it up and confront that which exhausts us. For me the culprit is poo.
I am tired of poo. It’s been seven years. Seven straight years of tending to the fecal waste of other human beings.
Kate will turn three in February and so far Kate has shown no real interest in using the potty. She has gone through weeks where she successfully tinkles/wee-wees/pees/pee-pees (or whatever fun word I can think of to inspire her) on the potty. Then she decides that she’s over it, craps in her training pants and demands that we “wipe her butt.”
I’ll admit that I haven’t really pushed the subject lately. She’ll go when she’s ready right? After all, I highly doubt she’ll be crapping her pants at the junior prom. And if she is, who’s the freak? Not me.
One of the joys of having three children is that by the third, you’ve stopped comparing your child’s development to other kids. When competitive mommies ask, “Is she potty trained yet?” I nonchalantly say, “Nope, she’s still crapping her pants.” (I don’t really say it like that…or maybe I do.) Then I quietly enjoy the looks of confusion, horror, and pity that come my way. It’s usually newbies who get caught up in the whole “Junior crawled/walked/spoke/pooped at 2 months” rigamarole. Who the hell has time for that business?
Well, yesterday morning Kate conned me. She actually listened to my half-hearted instruction to go sit on the potty then minutes later, nonchalantly entered the room and announced that she’d pooped. Gwen and I stared at one another in stunned silence. Then we ran to look.
And there it was. A little nugget in the Baby Bjorn.
We danced and clapped and wooped it up and then I said, “What kind of present do you want, Kate?”
“I want poo-poo beans.” (That’s Kate-speak for M&M’s.)
After dropping Gwen off at preschool, I drove my tiniest child to the grocery store to buy those poo-poo beans. I also figured I’d get a little shopping done while I was at it. Halfway through the shop Kate asked, “Is dere a bafroom in dis store?”
“Yes, do you have to go?”
“Yes, but I go at home.”
So I cut the shop short, picked up a bag of poo-poo beans at the register and high-tailed it out of there so Kate could crap in the comfort of her own home.
In the car she happily popped poo-poo beans into her mouth after hollering out the color of each one. She laughed and sang and kicked her little feet. Oh, we had such fun!
Then she got home, decided to hide in her room and proceeded to poop in her pants. She conned me. She threw me that little nugget with the sole intent of procuring a bag of poo-poo beans. Go ahead and doubt me, but I’m onto her game. She’s diabolical.
This morning I saw a clip on the news about Demi checking into a facility and immediately thought of myself. Mostly because I’m selfish like that. With my head still cradled in my pillow, I imagined the news anchor telling my version of the exhaustion tale…
Kelli, the world-famous mother of the foul-mouthed toddler, Kate, has checked herself into a rehab facility citing poo exhaustion. Sources say that Kelli has recently been seen popping poo-poo beans and chasing them with pinot grigio. Her publicist denies the reports.