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Step 1. Convince your employer it’s a good idea to let you work from home…
It has come to this moment. Mini Speaker7 has hit the age where he needs to find a pot to piss in or be resigned to a life full of diapers, so sayeth some parenting blog that routinely makes me feel I fail as a parent. I probably am more of a C-minus kind of mother.
Mini Speaker7 is a few months past 3. He’s a boy, and apparently boys are harder to train than girls, dolphins and some species of monkey. It has been slow-going, which I partially attribute to my laziness, but, hey, those reality television shows aren’t going to watch themselves.
For the past few months, I’ve been regaled with success stories of child-size shitting and urinating on other “friends” Facebook pages. These children–much, much younger than my son–are pooping prodigies:
This has been discouraging because while reading my Facebook newsfeed for two hours, my son shat through another pair of underwear.
I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, and was hoping that my skilled toilet use would be enough. In fact, I recently earned a doctorate in urination from the University of Phoenix.
Some potty training experts say you should just lay down some tarp and let your child act as if he was a drunken idiot at an all-day outdoor concert, glowsticks included. Others exalt the potty “sessions” where the child alternates between screaming “I’m not wearing underwear! I’m not!” and “I’m not wearing diaper! I’m not!” until you suffocate yourself with a diaper genie.
This headline is a bit of a misnomer. A better one would be “How the fuck do you potty train a toddler because, seriously, have you met a toddler? They are out of their fucking minds.”
This is what I’ve attempted:
My son screamed “Take it off! Take it off!” when I stuck on a sticker.
My son has consistently been a late-bloomer. He arrived early, but has since taken his time in doing many tasks. He walked at 20 months. He crawled at two. He learned to jump about a month ago. He will get there. It is likely he will know how to spell “toilet” before he actually uses it. But he will get there.
As my father likes to say: “Small kids, small problems. Big kids, big problems.”
That is true, but small kids can really produce some massive turds.
So it begins again, dear reader. On May 27th, ABC will roll out its stained red carpet and gas up its dirty limo for another installment of The Bachelorette or what I like to call The Loss of Hope.
This season’s “star” is Desiree, a woman tossed aside by Bland The Blandest Bachelor because her brother called Bland “a player.” The correct verbiage is “douchetool.”
I watched a promotion on ABC’s “news” website because all news is entertainment at this point. Another ABC product churned out by Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-Off Machine (re: American Idle) autotunes in the background while we glimpse Desiree’s “journey.” It’s as inspiring as a turd’s journey from bowel to sewage treatment plant. As to be expected, there is this:
I already know what will happen. Men will call each other “bro.” Desiree will profess “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do” while she sends home a man as remarkable as a used tissue. And Chris Harrison will earn substantially more money than cancer researchers for saying things like: “There is one rose left.”
This got me thinking about my own “journey.” In the past, I have watched the rectal sausage produced by the ABC meatprocessing plant, and produced recraps that some find enjoyable and some find lead to acute gastroenteritis. Am I ready to start all over again and accept a mildewed rose?
I guess it comes down to my vision for this blog. It began as a mechanism to force me to write. I would continually say how much I wanted to be a writer, and then plop myself down in front of the TV for hours.
Unlike my other blog, The Official How To Blog, this blog seems rather rudderless. Do I want it to be a recrapping blog? A commentary on current events? A marketing platform for the Shakeweight™?
These are the questions that keep me up at night–or at least until 8:30 p.m. when I crash because I have the constitution of a newborn.
So I leave the question to you, dear reader. I will put forth the effort, but only if you desire it, and I won’t feel hurt if you have reached your limit.
Do you want to read the alcohol-infused ramblings of brainless meat sacks on their “journey” to find “love” and guest appearances at wet T-shirt contests? Have you grown tired of my recycled jokes where I describe the multitude of objects I will use to bash in my skull? Or is it time we moved on. . . maybe to more serious topics like Tanning Mom’s music video?
Before you decide à la poll, I present you with this:
My knowledge of stuff seems limitless.
Is limitless the right word? No, no…I’m thinking limited.
Anyway, here’s a post on how to date because why not?
No, it’s not on this blog.
Click here goddammit.
Spring is here, and with that the obligation to do things outside and make property look acceptable to judging neighbors.
A few months back, I purchased a home in a family-friendly neighborhood. My previous home fronted a four-lane state highway and was a block away from the local hospital. This passed for landscape design:
It set the perfect backdrop for the time my neighbor's daughter decided to pour gasoline onto my driveway.
I’m over at The Official How To Blog today, posting something about….hmm….I forgot. Oh, right. Writer’s block. I might have it.
Hey, look! A monkey and a chicken!
Mother’s Day is quickly approaching.
Before you resort to yanking a handful of dandelions out of the yard and purchasing this card:
consider taking Mom here:
Hooter’s is offering moms a free meal on Mother’s Day as long as they bring proof of their mommyhood like a child or a photograph of their stretched out uteri, which will then be placed on the Hooter’s Loves Your Cooter bulletin board.
Apparently Hooter’s is having trouble attracting a female client base. Hm. That’s puzzling. Maybe ladies aren’t into the oversexualization and objectification of the Hooter’s girls or the rape den-like atmosphere?
But a free meal!?! Well then get me a white T-shirt, spray me with a hose and let me wrestle in jello because I am so there, buddy. With my child too!
Let marketing wizard Dave Henniger explain: “We know you don’t think of Hooters as a typical place to take Mom, but we want to make it more appealing for Mom to come in. We view Mom as a pair of tits with legs too.”
“And we have salad, ladies, so you don’t get all fat on us!”
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.
