Guess who's back...back again...with more of the same

Wow.  I don't know what's harder to believe -- how long it's been since I've been here, how much has happened and gone unrecorded in those two blog-less years or that I'm back whining about the same topic as my last post.

Are blogs even a thing anymore?

Well, regardless, I have shit to unload and I don't want to shovel it onto the real people in my real life so once again, I shall dump it here where nobody has to pretend to understand and we awkwardly avoid eye contact. #beentheredonethat

So things have been good.  Like, 65% good across the five Tobins and since that's an estimate from the quintessential pessimist, it means we are doing just fine.  By fine I mean the world's definition of "fine" and not mine which means "sure, it's barely adequate but I'll accept it without complaint because even slight conflict makes me vomit".

The kids are bigger. Life is easier. I volunteer even more than in the past which SUUUUUCKS but hopefully it keeps my karma clean.

I've been rolling along, coasting on autopilot, when two things hit me.

#1 -- This coming Friday is a Friday the 13th.

Always annoying (Motherfucker, no matter what you say, I've got a worse Fri13 story than you.  I'll see your flat tire on a dark road and raise you one murdered brother) but especially bad when it's a Friday the 13th in October, mirroring the day my brother died.  My mother spirals out even deeper, leaving me feeling extra ragey and useless. I CANNOT HELP YOU BUT I HAVE TO TRY AND IT KILLS ME A LITTLE MORE EVERY YEAR TO ADD YOUR PAIN TO MINE.

#2 -- Math has never been my forte but driving home from nowhere special earlier today... 

I realized that Friday will be the 22nd anniversary of my brother's murder and I'm 44 years old. That means that I have now lived exactly half of my life with the sorrow of losing him. Even now, when every part of my life has changed and bears no trace of his existence, that was enough to knock me flat.  The symmetry left me breathless. I had to sit in the car for a bit to calm down and process that information.

None of the people who are active in my everyday life knew him.  Not my friends, not my husband, not my nail lady, not my postman, not my children. If I never mention him, it's like he never existed.  That hurts more than you'd think, probably more than it should.

To highlight that fact, when I came in the house looking squirrely because my face is a mirror of my emotions, Tom asked what was on my mind and for once, with minimal coercion, I told him.  Then we stared at each other blankly for a bit and he went back to emptying the dishwasher while I went to my room feeling more alone than usual.  No hug but what do I expect after he's spent 17 years with a sad sack like me? I mean, I get frustrated with my mother's grief and I'm living with the same loss.  It's not his fault that he didn't know what to say. More time passed only makes it worse for him -- none of his attempts at comfort have ever worked so what is he supposed to do now, 17 years in with a wife whose grief is incomprehensible to someone who hasn't experienced it?

Why am I writing this down? I don't know.  No one will read this and even if they did, they wouldn't understand the pain that is choking me.  It's crowding my head and making me sad.  I drank too much and ate too much in a vain attempt to shut off my brain. Never works but old habits die hard. Just like hopes and dreams.

20 Years in the Blink of an Eye

It's 1:15 am on 10/13/15.  As of this date, my brother has been dead for 20 years.  He officially has been dead longer than he was alive.  There are so many things I feel because of that.

How has it been so long?

How can I still feel his absence like it happened yesterday?

Who would he be at age 39?  Who would I be if he was still here?

I've been dreading this milestone all year, worrying about how it would hit my Mom.  I underestimated the impact on myself.

I'm a mess.  How can I still miss him so damn much?  STILL???  I feel so impatient with myself.  My life is completely different from what it was when  he died.  I have a different job (NONE!), home (how he'd laugh at me stuck in the eternally sucky Dorkarware), boyfriend (husband!!!) and uterine status (3 kids! 1 miscarriage!  I like to think he would have been uber supportive when I lost my baby but the rest of the family ignored it so probably not.  However, in my mind he held my hand and cried with me.)  There is nothing I do now that ever involved him.  That should make it easier to move on, easier to forget.

God how I wish it did.

People expect that the more time passes, the more healing occurs.  Heading means forgetting, by the way, to anyone who hasn't experience catastrophic loss.  Even the most well-meaning person wants healing to mean forgetting so they can stop worrying about you.  What they don't understand is that the more time passes, the better you get at pretending to be fine but the more you miss the person who died.  I mean, 5 years, 10 years, 15 years, haven't you been punished enough?  Isn't it time for them to come back now?

But they don't and you know they won't but that doesn't stop you from feeling like the universe turned sideways and stayed that way. Every year that passes makes the pain more acute.  How the fuck am I supposed to go on TWENTY YEARS without my best friend?

I don't know how and yet I'll do it because I have people who depend on me. People who won't understand why I'm snappish and weepy today.  I could explain but they still wouldn't understand and thank God or whatever for that.  I never want them to understand bc if they did it means they are walking in my shoes.

I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.

Judgement from the Kindergarten Crew

Just finished volunteering in Bon's class. Nothing like having your life choices attacked by 6 year olds.

Leora:  are you going to work now?

Me:  no, I'm going home

L: but what about your job?

Me: I don't have a job. 

Evan:  YOU DON'T HAVE A JOB???

L, looking poleaxed:  But what do you do for work?  What is your job???

Me: my job is being Bonnie's mom. 

L:  yeah but what is your REAL job?

I wasn't going to get into a philosophical discussion of how all parents' "real" job is being a parent and that some have paid employment as well while some don't. 

E: does your dad have a job?  I mean, Bonnie's dad. 

Me: yes, he works  

E:  but why don't you???

Didn't feel like the time or appropriate audience to explain why tom and I made the choices we made before I was even pregnant. 

Me: because I don't have to.

At this point, they were looking at me like I was an exotic creature from deep space, something maybe interesting but mostly bizarre. I stared back, waiting to see what was coming next. 

Finally, Leora:  only really old people don't work.

Me: well, I guess I'm old. Let's clean up the sawdust now. (We were making particle board.) 

By their standards, I'm really old. Does this mean I can get the senior citizens' discount at Kohls?  That would be SWEET. 

Speechless

We're a chatty bunch, us Tobins. Tom could talk to a wall. One on one, the only way to shut up is to shove a candy bar in my mouth. Natalie would love to tell you all about her friends and if you even mention something Star Wars-related in front of The Boy, you better have a few hours to spare because Jack will talk until your ears bleed.

Bonnie is just like the rest of us, running her mouth all day long. The only difference is that you won't understand most of what she says. Chances are, you'd only be able to pick out Hi, Mama, No and Guy (her name for Jack.)

Bonnie's gibberish talk has been a growing concern for Tom and me since her first birthday. Unlike Jack who was introducing himself as Trevor, his favorite engine on "Thomas and Friends", at 18 months old and Natalie who had a firm grasp on language by the time she hit 12 months -- the better to berate you with, my dear! -- Bonnie did not pick up language effortlessly. She could run, jump, hop, throw and kick a ball long before she looked big enough to do. Her physical prowess far exceeded her verbal prowess from the start.

She said Baby once or twice last winter but stopped using that word within a week of first doing so. Same for Cat and a few other words that I've since forgotten along with her. She kept up a steady stream of chatter all day long but it was nonsense. One minute it sounded like Chinese, next minute she was clicking like one of those tribes in Africa. She obviously could hear and knew what we were saying, following directions well and materializing at my side if I even touched the snacks cabinet door. We just didn't know what she was saying. The inflection, the hand gestures, all of Natalie's speech patterns were there in Bonnie but Bon's words were gibberish.

I took her for a speech evaluation through the county in October. Although she clammed up the minute we walked into the room, the team decided that they saw enough to say that she was only mildly delayed and therefore ineligible for intervention services.

Same deal when I took her for a private evaluation at the local children's hospital a few weeks later. (Let the record show that the evaluator there also worked for the county and was none too pleased to see that I was "second guessing" the county's findings.)

We went back to the children's hospital for a formal hearing evaluation -- I knew she could hear but the speech teams wanted proof -- and she passed with flying colors.

Christmas came and went. Girlfriend had added a few words but if you didn't know her, you probably wouldn't recognize them.

At her follow-up appointment to check on her tubes, the ENT was outraged that the county denied her services. He urged me to push the issue. I did and the county agreed to see her again once she turned 2 when the criteria for acceptable speech changes.

Our beloved pediatrician, normally a "wait and see" kind of guy, was concerned about her speech delays when we went in for her 2 year old check-up. He thought the reevaluation with the county would be slam dunk and that Bonnie would be getting help in no time.

He was wrong.

The evaluating team came out this morning, first the speech therapist followed by the social worker handling our case and someone else who wasn't introduced but was most likely an occupational therapist.

I shot a video of Bonnie this morning so they could see her babbling in action since I knew how she clams up with strangers. The speech therapist wasn't interested in seeing it. Instead, she set up some toys and asked Bonnie to feed a baby doll, give a bear a drink from a cup, point to sneakers, a cookie, a sleeping child in a book.

Ummm, hello. I said she can't speak, not that she can't understand. Maybe the county folks are the ones with the hearing problem?

Of course, she could follow all of the directives thrown her way like a good little trained monkey. She stacked blocks, she put pennies in a bank, she pointed to pictures, she hopped up and down. You name it, they asked her to do it and she did.

At this point, I'm steaming. WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SPEECH???

The county grades children on two types of speech delays and roles them up into one score. Expressive delays are the inability to generate speech (Bonnie's problem) and receptive delays are the inability to understand the speech of others (sooooooo NOT Bonnie's problem.)

Basically, Bonnie did poorly on the expressive tests but did so well on the receptive tests that it threw off her score and shows her as having only a mild delay. She came in at having the abilities of a 20 month old rather than the 24 month old that she is.

Okay, I'm no expert and I'm well aware of that fact but why in the FUCKING HELL does being able to put blocks in a tea cup on demand mean that her garbled babbling is "normal"??? She can DO the tasks presented but she can't TALK about them. How is that not a problem? How is that not something she needs -- DESERVES!!! -- help fixing?

The speech therapist concluded by comparing Bon and me to her brother and his autistic child. Apparently, her brother and his wife ignored their son's problems (hi, kind of the opposite of what I'm doing) and made his life too easy by making him comfortable with his difficulties rather than seeking help (again, that's the antithesis of me as I battle to get my child help with her issues.) They "over loved" him and I'm "over loving" Bonnie by not forcing her to talk.

Both the speech therapist and the rest of the team want me to go to several months worth of classes called "It Takes Two to Talk" which will begin by filming me interact with Bonnie so that they can show me all of the things that I'm doing wrong with her.

Besides "over loving" her, I guess.

In a nutshell, it's my fault. Seriously, though, when isn't it the mother's fault?

If she was my first child, I probably would have dropped her off at a neighbor's and then come home to kill myself out of the guilt and grief over ruining her speech growth. This ain't my first rodeo, friends, so no worries about me offing myself. Instead, I have to laugh. I mean, Mr. Jack Tobin could talk the paint off a fence and The Madam is no slouch in the communications department either. I'm not doing anything different with their little sister than I did with them so obviously it's not all on me.

I just make an easy target. Isn't that lovely?

Speaking of my other children, the speech therapist said that they are probably speaking for Bonnie, keeping her from speaking for herself (over lovers, every last one of us!) Okay, seriously, I expect that kind of "explanation" from well-meaning friends but from a speech therapist? Come ON! Jack and Natalie are away from home from 8:00 a.m. until almost 4:00 p.m. Monday through Friday. Does she think they send me text messages from class, letting me know when Bonnie wants lunch or something? Dumbass.

So, I will keep over loving my child as we await the neurology appointment our pediatrician wants her to have. He doesn't expect any surprises, just wants to rule out any neurological issues that could be keeping her brain from working with her mouth.

Here is the video I shot for the therapist who didn't care to watch it. Does that sound like a 2 year old to you? Truly, I want to know. Maybe my older 2 are gifted or something and I never realized it. Stranger things have happened, I guess.

If You Find a Mouse in the Washer...

You better believe I'm going to freak out.

So today.  The first Monday after Daylight Saving Time and the weekend of Swap Shop, a four day marathon of volunteering at the kids' school for me.

I was tired.  So very tired.

The kind of tired where I almost wept with joy when Tom offered to take the kids to school for me.

I don't have to change out of my PJs?  YES PLEASE.

So off they went and there I was in a staring contest with my bed.  My big, glorious,  king-sized plush perfection of a bed.

Did I mention that I had to pick Bonnie up out of her bed and dress her this morning?  That Natalie slept so late that she ate breakfast (a Fiber One brownie) in Tom's backseat on the way to school?

I wasn't the only tired Tobin on the first morning after the time change.  I was, however, the only one with access to a bed in prime time.

Doesn't matter how long you stay away from church.  Catholic guilt is Catholic guilt.

Knowing that I couldn't climb back into bed for a glorious nap without my conscience bitch slapping me, I stripped the sheets off to remove temptation.

Didn't feel like enough.  I'd totes curl up on the cloth mattress cover. Desperate times, desperate measures, that whole spiel.  Potentially cozy mattress pad had to go too.

Stripped the bed to the plastic mattress cover and dragged the comfy parts down to the washer, feeling very martyrly and self-satisfied (also a completely Catholic reaction.)  Dumped it in the washer and it was good to go.  Reading some chick lit on my kindle didn't feel self-indulgent because hey man, I was absolutely not sleeping and I was definitely doing chores.

When the washer dinged, I trudged back to the laundry room to move the mattress pad to the dryer.  I pulled it out, tossed it in the dryer and...what the fuck?

What is that?

Jesus take the wheel, there is a DEAD MOUSE stuck to the side of the washer basin.

I may have screamed.  I may have tinkled in my pants a bit.  Can't really say; I was in a fugue state of terror and stress.  I mean, there was VERMIN in a place that was supposed to take my not-really-dirty stuff and make it perfectly-clean.  What in the ever loving FUCK???

How did this happen?  Was it an accident?  Was it ISIS?  Any and every possibility ran through my mind.  Didn't matter though.

Regardless of how it got there, a dead mouse was stuck to the side of my washer basin and there was nobody home but me to remove its carcass.

I texted my nearest and dearest, the friends who would freak out with me but not more than me, the ones who would not judge me to be forever unclean (a verdict I'd already passed on myself when I texted my husband to say we were throwing out the mattress pad, our washer and our house.)

S responded in sympathetic horror with mouse stories of her own.  T responded with the same as well as practical suggestions for disposing of the dead intruder.  

Seriously, I have the best friends.  Way better than I deserve.

I got rid of the mouse.  Eventually.  After a prolonged period of sitting in a chair with my feet up -- the better to protect myself from mousie family retaliation, natch -- I decided it was time to take TSwift's advice and shake it off. Time to gird my lady balls, arm myself with six target bags and remove Monsieur Mousie from his watery grave.

Holy Mother of God, he's not stuck to the wall anymore.

While I was dithering, he'd plopped onto the floor of the washer basin.

This shouldn't make any difference.  But it does.  Dear sweet Jesus, it totally does.

See, I was prepared for the one thing and then I was faced with the other.  

Good at rolling with the punches?  Sorry, never been my cup of tea.

I retreated from the laundry room.  I cursed.  A lot.  I wondered what I'd done to deserve this horror.  (The index of possible offenses is too long to list here.)

Regardless of the pity I felt for myself, the facts remained the same.  There were mountains of laundry to go before I slept and a dead mouse was a piss-poor excuse for avoiding it (or so my stalwart Mom would say.)

Again, I girded my lady loins.  I did a little jabbing-jumping like Rocky before fighting Apollo, put on some kickass music (Pretender's "Precious"), slapped on the Target bags and approached the washer.

I grasped that vermin motherfucker up into as loose a grasp as possible, reversed the bags and tied the handles into a knot, not that he was going anywhere, RIP mousie.

I ran out the front door, dumped him into the trash bin and high stepped back into the house like the zombie apocalypse was on my tail.

Next step?  Rewash the mattress pad.  And again.  And again. AND AGAIN.

Is it back on my bed?  Yes.  I'm too cheap to throw it out; a quality king-sized mattress cover is expensive and I saw for myself that Monsieur Mousie was intact so it was clear that he didn't spill his blood or guts on it.  Still, vermin is vermin...

Are four hot washes enough?  Maybe.  I'm adding a bottle of Malbec to the equation to stack the deck in favor of me getting some sleep tonight.

If I can't drift off on the site of Monsieur Mousie's watery grave, there is always Jack's queen-sized so far vermin-free bed.  Is it weird if I climb in bed to sleep with my 11 year old son?

Don't answer that.  I'm going to assume the answer is "Of course not. Fair play.  He lived in your uterus for 32 weeks; you can sleep in his bed for one night."  After all, my rest depends on your agreement and anyone who knows me knows that a well-rested Christy is a critical part of any equation.

Masquerade

It's been 10 years since I moved to Delaware and almost 13 since I got married. You'd think by now I would have accepted the changes. 

You'd be wrong. 

Please don't misunderstand, I love my husband and making a life with him is the best decision I've ever made. 

Still, where I live is not my home and my last name feels like an alias. It's like I'm in witness protection, living in a strange place where nobody knows me and calling myself a fake name. 

In my heart, I remain Christy McGowan, proud Philadelphian. 

Annoying Words and Phrases I'd Like to Banish

Man Cave

Teachable Moment

Date Night -- when used by childless couples, that is, because it makes no sense. Your life is one long date night if you so choose. Stop rubbing it in, jerkfaces. 

Everything Happens for a Reason -- say it and I will punch your face until you're dead and it will happen for a reason but NOT EVERYTHING DOES. 

Douchebag -- why do so many insults trace back to women? I'm talking about bitch, you throw like a girl, etc. DB is the grossest and I hate hearing women say it. We are better than that, ladies

We're Pregnant -- congrats on being a medical miracle, dude. 

Lover

All Boy/Boys Will Be Boys -- excuses, excuses. He's just an asshole; no reason to be proud of that. 

Philly

Uber

High Energy -- just say undisciplined and I'll respect you so much more for owning your mess. 

FML -- shut the fuck up, whiner. 

True Love

Even though my children are young, from time to time I speak with them about love and what a good relationship should have. The girls especially are bombarded with all kinds of mixed messages in television shows and music about how love should be dramatic and passionate, fraught with constantly tempestuous breakups and make-ups. That may make for exciting TV but Lordy, what an exhausting way to live. 

Instead, I tell them, a good partner is someone who cares for your feelings, enjoys your happiness, comforts your sorrow and supports your goals. While passion is an important part of a relationship, it's not the key ingredient to long-term happiness. I'd argue that equal parts kindness, patience and humor are what makes a couple committed to staying together despite the inevitable bumps in the road. 

Flower and chocolates and grand gestures are nice but they only take you so far. 

True love is a thousand little things unique to each couple, private jokes and shared memories. It's the sparkle in your happy times and the glue that holds you together in dark times. 

It's preparing his favorite dinner, making the bed because she can't sleep if the sheets are messy. It's sitting through a chick flick without complaint or listening to him go on and on about his fantasy football team. 

It's picking up beer because his friends are coming over. 

It's visiting people you have never met, honoring their memory because she loves them and you love her. 

It's what I am blessed to have and what I pray my children will find. With the example their father sets, I doubt they will settle for anything less. 

The End of an Era

So.

Yeah.

Bonnie goes to kindergarten tomorrow.

What's that, you say?  Why am I acting like it's a huge big deal?

Well, because hi, IT IS.

My youngest child, my baby -- "even when I'm a grown up, I'll still be your baby, momma" -- is going to kindergarten.  All day.  8:12 am to 3:46 pm.

Without me.

Okay, I know it's the natural progression.  Kids are born, have a few years in daycare or at home and then they go to kindergarten.  That's how it works.

But, but, but...

What am I going to do now?

I left my career and I never looked back.  For me and for Tom, having one of us home was paramount.  More important than fancy vacations or a McMansion or BMWs, raising our children without outside help was what we chose even before we had kids.  We planned, we saved and we made it happen.

And now it's done.  More waking hours than not, my kids are going to be away from me.

The big kids are fine and, except for my perv paranoia, I was okay with them going to "real" school.  Now, though, it's Bonnie's turn and I'm, well, not so okay.

Jack and Natalie's early years were all about juggling the happiness of two little ones with very different interests.  Chances are, I was only making 50% of my audience happy at any given moment unless there was candy involved.  That's not a great approval rating, folks.

With Bonnie, I've had years of just her and me all day.  I could please 100% of my audience.  What a heady feeling!  It's addictive to be someone's favorite person, the source of their fun, the genie who makes wishes come true.

Tomorrow, nobody will want me to do a puzzle, go to the playground, bake cookies.

I'll put her on the bus, trudge home and be deafened by the silence of an empty house.

Holy crap.  No wonder I cried when I packed her lunch tonight.

I know, I know, there are people with real problems, she'll only be gone on weekdays and only for 7 and 1/2 hours and...

Seven and one half hours.

I could volunteer, I could get in shape, I could get a job.

I don't want to.

For a little while, I'm going to mourn the passing of the baby days.  Never again will I be the mother of young children.  Never again will I be someone's whole world because let's face it, once kids go off to school, the outside world starts turning their heads, bending their ears, changing their opinions.

Trust me, that is worth more than a few moments of silence.  TRUST ME.

I'm going from Best Actress to Best Supporting Actress.

Downsized.  Made redundant.

Never again will I do something as important as I've done the last eleven years of being home with my children all day.  Whatever they are, good or bad (and I'd like to think it's way more good than bad), is pretty much because of me.

So tonight, I'm going to shed a tear, raise a glass and take a bow.

No matter what I do for the rest of my life, my children are my greatest contribution to making the world a better place.  Their generosity of spirit, their love of learning, their manners, that's all me and and I am damn proud of them and hell yeah, I'm proud of myself.




But I'm still going to cry and want to chase the bus down the street tomorrow as it carries my baby away from me.  Hello, I'm a stay at home mom, not a saint, after all.

Still Breaking the News

Wow, I know.  Long time, no blog.  Just haven't been feeling it.  Too much going on, too little time.

Tonight, though, I'm feeling inspired.  An old neighbor friended me on Facebook.  This boy -- actually a man now! -- was several years ahead of me in school.  We never interacted.  I was afraid of his brother and in awe of him.  I think I went to his going-away block party when he joined the Coast Guard but that was decades ago and memories have a way of warping so maybe I did or maybe the block party in the driveway was something else entirely.

*ahem*  Anyway, I digress (as usual).  He saw me post on a mutual friend's page and as a result, sent me a friend request.  Figuring he probably wasn't a pedophile intent on learning my location and stealing my children, I accepted his request.  He immediately sent me a private message, telling me how lovely my children are (he's obviously very wise) and asking how my mom and dad are.

My...what?  Sure, my mom but...my dad?

Whoa.

Okay, we were neighbors in the 80's and maybe 90's.  Like I said, he was older than me and we weren't friends.  Maybe his family moved away from the old neighborhood before mine did and he didn't hear about The Big Terrible Tragedies that the McGowans endured so he innocently asked about my family.

You know what?

I loved it.

This topic that is So Big and So Scary to people who were there, he had no idea and threw it out there like it's no big deal because to him, it wasn't.

Of course he wouldn't have mentioned Dad if he'd know what happened with him and Jon.  Wild horses couldn't drag their names off the tongues of most people and I totally get why.  This former neighbor, though, he thought everyone was alive and well so he asked the question without realizing the minefield in which the answer resided.  It was a great reminder for me that The Big Terrible Tragedies that are always at the edge of my mind are smaller than they feel.  Not everyone knows.  Not everyone cares.  That's okay.  That's how it should be because while I am the star of my own show, I'm not the center of the universe.

My favorite part of this whole crazy thing is the newfound realization that there are people who knew my Dad and my brother but are unaware that they died.  Unlike me, they haven't missed them all these years because they didn't know they are gone.  Instead, in the heads of those who don't know, Dad and Jon have been out there somewhere all this time and in a small weird way, because of that my guys remain alive, at least in those people's minds.  Sure, those people may not think of them once a day or even once a year but when they do, Dad and Jon are alive and well, living an ordinary life like the rest of us.

What a bizarre but beautiful thought.  It makes me really happy and if life has taught me anything it's that we should grab happiness by the fistful wherever we can find it.

Here's to old acquaintances becoming new friends, never forgetting where you came from and celebrating whatever joys one might find along the road of life.

It's Not Right but It's Okay

Sometimes I think, "Okay. Tonight's the night I have to act like I was before we had kids because I know he misses that girl." 

Guilt over the tired, old woman I've become chokes me. 

But...

Then I see the dishes he left in the sink, dishes that held food I cooked from scratch while he relaxed in the recliner.

Dishes he dropped off on his way to bed. 

Dishes I have to rinse and load into the dishwasher after I pack lunches and supervise kiddie bedtime and vacuum the floor for the second time in 12 hours. 

Then I think, "Nah. I'm good." 

And I climb into bed, conscience clear, and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. 

If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle...

Me earlier:  "Everyone is walking in your pee!"  followed, steps later, by, "ACK!!!  It's in two rooms!How did you do that???"

The Bon had an accident.

Again.

Seriously, she's almost 4 and completely potty-trained but more importantly, completely lazy.  If she doesn't feel like leaving what she's doing, she lets go of the flow, so to speak.

I am most definitely sick of it.

Short of installing a toilet in every room (the issue aside from laziness is that she won't go unless she has someone to "be company" in the bathroom with her) or tying her to the one in the bathroom, I'm at a loss for what to do.  She never has an accident at school or anywhere except our house.

It's all laziness and the knowledge that, at home, she has a half dozen pairs of jeggings to replace the ones she soaked.

She doesn't worry about wet underpants because, more often than not, she's going commando but that's an issue for another post, another time.

M-O-M Spells Home

No matter how soft your pillow or how cool your sheets, there's no place like Mom to sleep.

Argh, Matey

Bonnie:  Is it time to play our game?

Mommy:  Yes, let's do it.

B:  Okay, where are the things the pirate ship shits?

*crickets chirping*

M:  Ummmm, what?

B:  You know!  The things the pirate ship SHITS!

Okay, what?  I know I may have slipped a time or two while driving but if she picked up bad words from that, she'd be saying "idiot" or "moron" so I'm not taking the blame for this one.

The thing the pirate ship shiiiiiiii...OH!

M:  The thing the pirate ship SHOOTS?

B, exasperated:  That's what I said!  Where is it?

Left unsaid but obvious from her tone:  Moron.