A Tale of Two Mommies

…because more seems excessive…

Tag Archives: animals

Growing Relief

It’s always interesting to me that big events are buried among mundane daily experiences…easily forgotten if it weren’t for a conscious effort to immortalize them. We went to a small localish fair that included a petting zoo today. Usually such things are more appealing in theory, but this one was pretty swanky. There were oodles of chickens my son adored. Some had rather interesting head feather assortments that reminded me of my high school freshmen existence before I understood the purpose of gel and allowing thick curly hair to remain thick and curly.

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(The Mama Load clearly knew me in high school.)

There was a mighty handsome turkey looking for a hook-up…all plumage and boisterous gobbles.

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(I bet you’re hard pressed to consider any other fowl with greater sex appeal…)

There were couple meandering goats within the small pen bumping into confused roaming children…a pony, some rabbits, ducks, and a pig. Hard to deny a good time had by all, and generally I’m a profound fan of any attraction that entertains a three-year-old Mr. Man.

I was wearing Warrior Queen. Currently, she lacks the gumption to walk…rather indifferent to cruising around furniture, but she is an ambitious crawler, so there’s that. I consider this stage of babydom annoying for outings. Warrior Queen isn’t quite mobile enough to be part of outdoor gallivants and some indoor diversions, but she isn’t the portable lump of last year either.

The site of this fair included an impressive playground. Warrior Queen isn’t old or sturdy enough to enjoy anything but the swings, but at least I had a few minutes to rest my shoulders. My fierce sprite loves a swing almost as much as her brother. But, to be fair, I don’t think anyone has a passion for swings like he. Most occasions it doesn’t matter how fabulous the surroundings for this exceptionally active toddler, often he wants to be pushed for forty-five minutes before going home. Warrior Queen enjoys the wind in her hair and the thrill of the pendulum, but unless the swing includes a snuggle on my lap with her gripping my shirt, she tires of the experience within ten minutes.

Surprisingly, we remained at the fair for an hour, Little Man trotting about with me and my husband maneuvering behind him. My son enjoying a shoulder ride on Daddy while returning to the car. I wasn’t even sweaty once I buckled into the passenger seat of my car…It was perfect!

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(That amount of moisture including an impressive amount of boob sweat is hot, right Daily Mail?)

Returning home I attempted to wait on my son’s bath until after Warrior Queen was fed…no such luck. Immediately upon entering the house, Little Man made his way to the upstairs bathroom, efficiently dropping trough in his procession. My husband was planning to mow the lawn, but there is no arguing with the pre-trantrum of a little boy in desperate need to shed petting zoo funk. Mild spritzing rain outside hinted at foiling my husband’s effort at exterior maintenance anyway.

I’ve been telling anyone who asks that I plan to have Little Man go to high school in diapers. It becomes an awkward joke because I’m not entirely kidding. There have been marvelous technological advances in adult diapers of late, and the prospect of potty training terrifies me.

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(Diapersamerica.com agrees such a thing is totally reasonable and would in no way cramp my son’s emerging adulthood style.)

Generally, I see the process of potty training as a development milestone, rather than me formally and hard core teaching my children to use a toilet. So, per discussions with my children’s physician, we have a plan to include unpressured offers to use the potty periodically or enter the restroom for his required privacy while pooping. But, such actions are more about planting a potty option seed in my son’s brain than formally training him to use the toilet. And, really, there is no rush. In my state it is against the law to require children be potty trained to attend school…either private or public. The belief behind this mandate is that there is no way to determine if the continued need for diapers is due to a special need/disability. Depriving a child of their education for an inability to use restroom facilities is considered a discriminatory practice.

It, however, doesn’t matter my rationale. In increasing frequency I’ve been on the receiving end of judgment by family elders regarding my potty training approach. Apparently, if I don’t get on the stick immediately, my son will be ten-years-old, and still in diapers. But, family pressure aside, my friends with threeishish-year-olds are getting their heads in the game, which provides its own unnecessary guilt ridden head trip. Fortunately…or unfortunately…my son hasn’t had much interest in the potty…until today. Big Little Man used the potty for the first time scant hours ago. My husband following my son up the stairs for his post fair bath was asked to use the potty. For the past couple months or so my son declined when asked. Even on the rare occasion when he’s agreed to sit on our custom seated toddler throne, he’s never actually accomplished anything. But, today was the day! After his bath, my growing boy entered our multipurpose playroom beaming and telling me, “Daddy hold my peanuts.” He was so proud…apparently he hasn’t quite grasped that he needs to push down his junk when using the potty, but it seems Mommy has some new work cut out for her…decidedly before high school.

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(National Retail Federation knows how to celebrate an official first toilet use!)


Days Unlike Any Other

Today was one of those days that reinforces and allows me to value all the days spent with my son.  An unusually warm day for November begs for us to visit a local apple orchard before any thought of remaining outside for more than necessary becomes a notion of the insane.  Driving up we were greeted by signs informing us that all the apples have been depleted, which pleased me.  We’ve met the owners of this particular orchard and it’s comforting they had such a good season.  Often things still had some movement closer to Thanksgiving.  We parked as the solitary vehicle in the grassy lot, and walked to the grounds.  Further signage informed us the store is now closed on Mondays.  None of this mattered, of course, our purpose was to visit the animals that are available all year.

Usually when we spend time at this particular farm, it is packed with families seeking the overrated cider donuts that, I’m sorry, pale to any Dunkin’ Donuts variety…even jelly.  Yet, because these are fancy shmancy donuts, they merit triple the price…all the better the store is closed…one less argument from the little man.

Today, however, it was only us, which surrounded me with an eerie sensation walking to the goats…my son’s favorite.  I set him down, and he begins his eighteen-month-old toddler run that alludes to a catastrophic fall for anyone with fully developed bones.  Alas, my son reaches the goat pen unscathed, trotting back and forth in search of one of their many housed in the enclosure.  It took a moment before I realized they were all lounging up high at the top of the bridge structure, basking in the remaining comfortable days of the season.  Fortunately, a couple spied my little man and meandered their way to the fence, probably hoping for food pellets.  Delighted, Little man thrusts his hand at a short white tolerant goat, patting his nose.  Mr. Man did not appreciate the goat returning the greeting with a tongue swipe on his delicate digits.  My son retracted his hand, nursing it like a wounded soldier and looking at me with pleading eyes.  Realizing I was unsympathetic to wet fingers, he moved on to the other goats congregating a little further along the perimeter.  Some goats preferred to remain in the sun, but more began their migration in the direction of their only visitors.  My son was thrilled.

Following the complete length of the fence, Little Man discovered the sheep, which did not hold the same interest for him.  He did, however, want me to hold him, repeatedly requesting that I sing the partial lyrics to, “Baa, Baa Black Sheep.”  This is what I can expect from spontaneity and seclusion…random nursery tunes that I don’t realize are incomplete in my memory until midway through.  Fortunately my son doesn’t care; he just enjoys the effort.

It was in my arms that he noticed the chicken coop.  The determined pointer made an appearance, so we moseyed our way to visit the two eye level enclosures holding a couple of roosters and a whole mess of hens who didn’t seem to approve of the masculine addition to the atmosphere.  Mr. Man, however, was entranced and decided the rooster aggressively charging his coop-mates around in circles was his favorite…I figure he appreciates any living entity partial to chases…

The rooster had quite a bit to say, hovering in front of my son, likely throwing insults in chicken-tongue akin to what one would hear in individual cars marooned in traffic.  My son was captivated with the clucks of the rooster, fervently signing, “more,” while whacking me in the face.  At that point, the rooster turned an about face, displaying his hindquarters so there would be no mistake what he thought of my son’s joviality.

Finally, we visited the pigs who clearly appreciated the quiet.  I had never seen them roaming about with the crowds present, choosing instead to sleep in their themed, Three Little Pigs houses.  With only the two of us present, all three greeted us with excited snorts, but my son liked my snorts the best.  I released him to the ground, and he subsequently jammed his finger through the fencing, picking the nose of one of the pigs who embraced such a gesture as one of intimate friendship…or the pig had something lodged up his snout and thought this was likely the soonest opportunity to experience relief…

We remained at the orchard in solitude for thirty minutes before my son exhibited his trademark, “farewell,” wave consuming five minutes of continuous spastic motion, only completely ceasing once we returned to the car.  We headed to a nearby local café for lunch; one of the few commercial establishments in the town that is totally overpriced, but it is a local business owner who designed well appreciated effects to the physical plant for those of us accompanied by small humans.  Mr. Man murdered a twelve ounce chocolate milk and stole some of the home fries off my plate.  By the time we began our journey home, my son was covered with remnants of our adventure.  I was left with quiet musings of each moment, hoping they will be immortalized for easy retrieval when my son no longer takes interest in the novelty of the world or my company.

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