Your favorite poop spot

Where's your favorite poop spot?

Yes, I just asked that question. So where is it?

For my youngest Bryce, it's sitting (and squatting) on her little bedroom chair in front of her little table with the farm house and animals. Or, it's on her little stool in front of her little kitchen set in the

What? She wears a diaper. C'mon.

Same with Beatrice, although we are in a fast-track transition with her finally going pee-pee on the potty! Next stop is poop train to the toilet! Until then the poop spot means quiet time in her bed.

What are you looking at? Get out!

Again I ask you -- where's your favorite poop spot?

Your main bathroom?

The guest bath?

The half bath?

The out house?

The guest house?

The back yard? (Keep that one to yourself.)

The hotel room bathroom when traveling for business alone?

The hotel lobby bathroom when traveling for business with colleagues?

The hotel room bathroom when traveling with family (and room spray)?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work -- on another floor?

The corner stall of the bathroom at another office building down the street from where you work?

A quiet place to reflect, read, meditate and/or pray, to blot out an otherwise business-as-usual stress-filled day?

Mine is our master bedroom bathroom. Or, the male/female single shared bathrooms at work (one at a time, thank you). This may be too much info for the Mama, so I won't speak for her.

Hey, there's a Zen sense of animistic liberty when we poop -- having ownership over a specific bodily function in an otherwise cruel, chaotic world.

For at least as long as we can, baby. We can go out just as we came in, so let's pay homage to our favorite poop spot.

Ahhh. Nirvana…

A global family failure

I trusted him. I didn't know him, or him us, but I still trusted him. He had a kind face, like my grandfather. Warm and sincere, he gave me a sense of real security, like I could tell him anything I wanted to and he would listen and provide the right counsel.

My sister and I sat in his chambers listening to him ask us questions. I felt awfully small sitting in there, sinking deeply into a large leather-bound chair, but again I trusted him. I was about 12 at the time, my sister 10.

The judge began to ask us questions about our abusive birth father, what we did with him when it was his turn to do stuff with us, how we felt about it, and why we no longer wanted to do stuff with him.

I remember the judge asking me directly, "Do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No," I answered.

"Are you scared when you're with him?"

"Yes."

"Does he drink when you're with him?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you think he'll hurt you when he's drinking?"

Pause. "I don't know."

Similar answers from my sister. The entire time the judge enveloped us with a sobering warmth, one that gave me the confidence and comfort to be completely honest.

"Again, I ask you -- do you want to spend time with your father anymore?"

"No."

After that visit, we were no longer forced into visitations with our birth father. A year later was the last time I saw him.

I'm sure that because my mother worked for the police department and our soon-to-be stepfather was a cop, that helped get us face time with the judge, probably circumventing the family court system somewhat.

But it could've failed for us, the entire global family system that included our parents, other family members, friends, the police department, the court system, the social workers -- everybody.

It failed for Charlie and Braden Powell and their mother Susan and the millions of other victims of abuse.

No matter how "evil" we claim the Josh Powell's of the world are after the devastating facts come to light, we all failed in the end because we didn't protect our children and all the victims of intimate partner violence.

We didn't give them a voice. We didn't give them safe harbor. And then we have to bury the victims and mourn the loss that could've been prevented.

It was a global family failure that could've failed us all those years ago. Thank God it didn't.

And thank God the B-hive will always have a voice. The Mama and Daddy promise you that.

Pee and pride of another kind

With guys it's easy: we can pee anywhere we want, appropriate or not, legal or not. And we're damn proud of that fact.

With women, not so much, although when the Mama proved to me how utilitarian she was soon after we were dating, my heart swelled with damn proud manly love.

She had me at hello, wearing a baseball cap and peeing in the woods. Mercy me I love that woman (and it is almost Valentine's Day).

But now we're dealing with pee and pride of another kind. The B-hive kind. The toddler potty training kind that boggles the adult mind.

I've written before about how Bea has a slight speech delay, and now her speech therapist's evaluation has confirmed it's more than likely auditory processing disorder (APD), which affects less than 5% of school-aged children.

What this means is that Beatrice has trouble processing the information she hears in the same way as other kids because her ears and brain don't play nice together. That in turn affects the way her brain recognizes and interprets sounds. Also, loud background noise or any sudden loud noise really bother her, and that further complicates and distorts the sounds in her head and the processing responsible for composing speech.

Although it hasn't slowed her academically (for a toddler), it has slowed some of her self-care progress, primarily potty training, but look out world -- Bea's on a pee roll.

For months now, getting the elder B to pee in the big T is what the Mama and me have been working on. Actually it's been more Mama than me, but I help with consistency when I can (I've been working on that previous rhyme, though).

We're focused on the child-centered method, which means, "I'll go on the potty when I damn well ready to." If you've ever experienced potty training, you know that forcing or pushing only leads to meltdowns and breakdowns -- and the kids suffer too. Seriously, forcing them to go when they don't "own it" is a bad scene and doesn't work. At all.

Back to Bea pee -- at first we started bribing with chocolate chips, a variation of the M&M payoff. But then our preschool discouraged the bribing and instead encouraged encouraging the positive behaviors of sitting on the potty, etc.

Which we did. And it kinda worked to get her to sit on the potty, to then still pee in her pull up.

Screw that. Back to bribery. One of her favorite toddler shows now is Super Why!, a show about learning to read (which she's close to doing actually). In this show are four primary characters, each of whom become a reading and problem-solving superhero in Storybook Land.

So the idea was to start putting stickers on the calendar each time Beatrice went pee on the potty, and when she got to 5 stickers, she'd get a Super Why superhero character.

As of last night, she's collected two of the four characters (we're gonna have to get more goods). And just the night before when she went pee she then stood proudly from the potty and said:

"I did it!"

Right on, baby. We are so damn proud of you!

One little victory at a time

"The measure of the moment
In a difference of degree
Just one little victory
A spirit breaking free."
--Neil Peart

Progress is incremental, made up of a series of failures to little victories, revisions and hourly referendums. But it's the daily white noise of everyday life that keeps the progress veiled until something pulls it back.

Like speech clarity, dexterity and peeing in the potty.

These little victories are highly visible connections on the toddler evolutionary lattice. Beatrice has had a slight speech delay and although we're still evaluating it, she seems to be a better visual learner, which in turn affects her dexterous learning. Her therapy and exercises to date have paid off however and she is catching up. Plus the preschool she attends is amazing -- she loves her friends and teachers and the interaction has been invaluable. Of course the Mama is the most patient teacher of all.


Hey, Bea can walk a balance beam, spoon yogurt into her mouth (and all over her face), sew yarn into a paper mitten and work an iPad better than most adults.

I have trouble putting on slip-on shoes. Jeez.

Just this morning she named all the animals on the animal show we watched together and what they were doing. Come to think of it, so did Bryce. Kind of.

"That's a duck swimming," said Bea.

"Dok!" cried Bryce.

Then without my knowledge, Bryce typed in a secret code on my Macbook:

,.;' ppp


Translation: Just one little victory, a spirit breaking free.


Right on, Baby. Except when you eat Play-Doh rather than play with it. Oh, and even though it's funny, Bryce also warned to be careful when teaching her older sister to say funky chicken.

(Queue the recent Modern Family episode.)

Please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today

I went along with it. At first I said no, but he convinced me otherwise. He said it was a game she'd want to play, that she would think it was fun. That girls liked to play these games.

I was six. He was seven or eight, a neighborhood kid, a friend of sorts, one who led and I was a follower. She was only four and still in diapers, or some early iteration of pull-ups (the year was 1971).

I felt uncomfortable. It was late August making everything hot and sweaty. I knew it was wrong, but I remember not knowing what to do about it other than go along.

We didn't touch her or hurt her. The other boy, my sort-of friend, told her to pull her diaper down. She looked scared. I looked away. She pulled it down, he laughed and I stared.

My mom had watched the whole thing from our dining room window and immediately came outside, made us apologize to the little girl. My friend fled, the girl ran away crying (I don't remember if she talked with the parents of the girl or not, but nothing ever came of it).

She then took me inside and began to explain to me the differences between boys and girls, what a vagina was and what a penis was and why it was so wrong to do what we did. And why when I was older, I needed to respect women and never force anything upon them, never hurt them or belittle them in any way.

This coming from a woman who experience years and years of physical and emotional abuse, of which I had witnessed, who desperately wanted to instill in her son the self-awareness of knowing the difference between mutually respectful personal responsibility and the utter human failure of perpetrating intimate partner violence and blaming the victims of abuse.

Young men and boys need this education today more than ever. According to a recent article I read in Ebony online titled Stop Telling Women How to Not Get Raped:

"Telling women that they can behave in a certain way to avoid rape creates a false sense of security and it isn’t the most effective way to lower the horrible statistics which show that 1 in 5 women will become victims of a completed or attempted rape in their lifetime.  The numbers for African American women are even higher at nearly 1 in 4."

For those of us who have little girls, please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today.

Because we grow up and innocence is so fragile and fleeting.

Queue the blues harp, Bea

"Get Daddy!"

"Get Mommy!"

So it begins. Evening playtime with the B-hive is sacred, regardless of how tired we are or how busy we've been.

And we've been busy; even the Mama is taking on some new work projects beyond the woefully underpaid child-raising. (I have put in a good word for her, though.)

Being busy for me means more time away from home, and 2012 is shaping up to be just that.

Considering we're still 6 million jobs in the hole, we're very thankful we can provide for our family. Amen, pass the work please.

Seeing and talking with my girls and the Mama on Skype or FaceTime video calls is great when traveling for business, but it's not the same as running around the house rough housing with the girls and the girls giggling and chasing each other as well (which they're doing more of now).

Rounding out the day bonding in B-hive honey love makes the time away worth it, although there's a point when the wayward silence of a hotel room breeds more loneliness than I can bear.

*sigh*

Queue the blues harp, Bea.

Of giving and loss

It's enlightening when you're three-year-old is such a sweet giver. Sure, she melts downs when she can't watch Wonder Pets, The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore or the Yo Gabba Gabba Christmas special -- two weeks after Christmas (please, I can't watch it anymore, help me, it's already January 8).

But from Christmas Day with Nonna to the week after when my unwell folks (Nana and Papa) actually made it here for a few days, Bea reveled in us opening our gifts, some of which she picked out herself, like my Santa Raider ornament and Bryce's toy cars, and like the earrings I had specially made for Mama titled "working them angels" after Mama and the B-hive via the artisan Katy Bransfield at Between Sun & Moon.

And just this last week when Bryce was having a nuclear meltdown during dinner, with both me and the Mama throwing our arms up in surrender, Bea did her best to make her little sister smile and laugh. It didn't quite work, but she tried, the misdirection helped, and we thanked her for that.

Bea's still got some work to do in other areas, but mercy she's fast becoming a smart little girl (again, only three, right?). In fact, nothing tops defining the ultimate toddler giver as what happened one night during the holidays. We had put Beatrice to bed (Bryce was already asleep), and about 10 minutes after that Bea called for Daddy.

I went up and said, "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Take this," she said, reaching out her hand.

"Take what?"

"Take this."

She pushed her hand into mine.

"Is that a booger, Bea?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She smiled then laughed.

"Thank you, sweetie." Thank you. Really.

From sweet giver to learner of loss -- that's been a fascinating window on what it means to have to say goodbye to those we love. For Beatrice, that means our nanny/babysitter Elyse after two and half years and Nana and Papa after a few days of visiting over the holidays.

Elyse leaving was the biggest blow, but the one-two punch of her moving away and then my parents being in and out really took it's toll on Bea. Watching raw grief spill from a toddler who doesn't fully understand what she's feeling, but understands she doesn't want to say goodbye, cry-howling and red-faced, it's bittersweet for adults who have been there more than once, who've experienced it on more levels than wished to remember. We told her she'll see them all again, but it's no consolation in the moment of grief.

After surviving not quite a Christmas miracle, the lessons of giving and loss have been invaluable, even for an old Daddy who's been there, done that (and will again and again and again).

Happy New Year!