Sneaky McSneak

Today is the birthday of a wonderful friend (Woo hoo 29, Bob!) and his equally wonderful wife, also a wonderful friend (Hi Holls!) asked me to bake some cupcakes to celebrate. So last night, I baked up some moist and buttery cupcakes and a batch of dark chocolate buttercream for her to pick up today and set a few aside to share with my students...and a few for our household. Now, usually we like some fancy-schmancy cupcakes here at our house, but sometimes nothing hits the spot like an old school style cupcake. We're all suckers for cakes here and H.Bomb is no exception; despite his running amuk last night, he still said he *needed* a cupcake. Who could blame him, really? I tried to be the strong-armed parent and said he could either take a whole cupcake home to his mom's house to save for today or he could have half of one now. Most Americans have a tendency to want instant gratification and four year olds are no exception (gasp!), so he opted for half now. I didn't want E$ to see him eat the cake, though. The boys had just had a bath and it was bedtime for E, so I cut the cake in half and told Halsey to eat it in the bathroom. I gently pushed him in and closed the door. When he came out a few minutes later, with chocolate frosting smudged on his lips, I winked at him and asked him how his trip to the bathroom went. He looked at me with twinkling eyes and simply said "it was great." It is pretty cool to share a secret with a preschooler.

Poop

FYI-- The following post is about poop, farts, poop jokes, and my own experiences with poop and/or pooping. If you are easily grossed out, please stop here.


Years ago, when I was in college, I had a roommate who had a boyfriend who was a bit on the squeamish side. See, the bathroom that we shared was actually in my bedroom and he didn't like for anyone else to know the going-ons of his bowels, so I would usually leave the room. He was also squeamish enough to not refer to these going-ons as pooping, sh*tting, taking a dump, etc. He called it "grumping." It's not so much that I'm squeamish, but rather sometimes modest (for example, I still don't fart in front of my husband). But I managed borrow this term and so in our house, we grump.
The catch is that I lived with boys. All boys. Boys find great humor in words and events such as pooping, or farting or any bodily function/excretion. It got so bad that we created a rule for these jokes: Potty jokes and remarks could only be said in the actual bathroom. So you'll often find H.Bomb grabbing a hand, pulling of us into the bathroom so he can shout out words like "poop!" or "penis!" It's a riot at our house, I'm telling ya.
Here comes the most important part of the story-- my renewed realization the my bathroom time will never be the same. It started last year when I was in the labor and had to have Jason's help as my body cleared itself of everything. I became a fan of colace for several weeks after Ethan's birth and had to discuss my poop with my ob/gyn when I went in at 6 weeks postpartum. Changing diapers was never a big deal, but man did I learn a lot about poop. And now, I've officially helped to potty train one son, working on number 2, I have wiped a lot of butts. But the bathroom, despite H's rule, has always been a place where I could escape and have a few minutes of "me" time (is it sad, that my chance to go to the bathroom also counts as alone time?). Not anymore, though. Toddlers and preschoolers have once again reminded me that my pooping, or not pooping, or trying to poop or too much poop is EVERYONE'S business, as just the other day, I had to quickly get home so as to use my own toilet as opposed to the one at the park. H was with me, so I turned on the tv for him and raced back to my bathroom. I was relaxed until I heard the tiny preschool sized fingers tap-tap-tapping at my bathroom door (quick-- what poem and/or poet did I just allude to? First person to comment with the answer wins a candy bar!). My space had been invaded; I couldn't even poop in peace. Do you have any idea how hard it is poop whilst a four year old is dancing in front of you, asking you how you're doing at "getting that one out?" I guess I need to get a lock.

Grouch.

Mabye in my old age, I've gotten inpatient. Yes, that must be it. Or-- it could be that I am trying to hold others to the high standards that I've set for myself. I'll admit, I have very high standards for friendship. I'm not always a perfect friend; hell, I'm sure there are times when I'm not a good friend, but I try really hard. I make efforts to stay in touch with people because I know that our lives have changed and hanging out, spending time together, isn't as easy as it used to be. I offer to have people over; I make phone calls. I reach out and try to communicate, especially when there's some sort of issue (by the way, I hate using that word, "issues." It just makes me think of magazines, specifically, Rolling Stone and for this, I have no explanation). I do my best to feel compassionate towards others, to be forgiving if I need to be and to realize that people are making decisions for themselves and that generally, that has nothing to do with me. My problem is that I take things personally and feel things deeply. I don't want to change this so much, at least the feeling things deeply part. Maybe the taking things personally part; yes, that should change.
In the end, I'm hurt because I have friends that I am assuming are upset with me because they are either not responding to my phone calls and/or emails or because they turn down repeated offers to hang out. Of course, I'm assuming and the reality of it is that their actions have to do with them and how they feel and it's not fair for me to be as self-centered as to make this about me. What's that quote-- I can't change others; I can only change myself. I will continue to love these friends and just hope that whatever the conflict is, whether it's with me or within themselves, that it resolves soon.

To everything, turn, turn, turn

I used to hate fall and winter. I hated the cold; I hated the time change; I hated the way life seemed to slow down as the temperature dropped. But I have gotten old in the past few years and I've come to appreciate this time of year. I love living in our valley, surrounded by the mountains. The leaves are spectacularly colored and my drive to work is beautiful (but to be honest, I also think it's beautiful in the spring, as the world comes back to life again). I love the scent of autumn, the one that appears in the air sometime in mid-October, just before Halloween. I love apples and pumpkins, mulled anything and warm soups. I love hunkering down and wearing sweaters, pulling on thick socks to keep my toes warm and pulling my turtle fur down over my neck.
I am nearing 30; just 3 months away from starting a new decade. Coincidence?