It all started with what happened a few weeks ago - Jones, FINALLY, got a loose tooth! It's probably been loose for two weeks or so. Every nite, I'd wiggle it as I sang to him at bedtime. Well, tonite, as I wiggled, it came almost all of the way out. It just dangled there, stuck by a single root. At that point, Jones took over. He popped it out, like a man with nerves of steel, without so much as a single whimper.
Did I tell you you wouldn't believe it?
It's probably easier to imagine his excitement in the aftermath of the loss. He proceeded to FaceTime most everyone that he knows to give them the news. Those he didn't FaceTime, he asked me to send his picture to (Luke, "Mrs. Holly Clackett," for instance).
He bounced around the back half of the house, Tigger on a pogo stick, until, finally, placing his lost tooth in the orange, plastic case Dr. Bill gave him two years ago. It went under his Captain America pillow. According to him, the Tooth Fairy brings golden coins. Where he got that idea, I don't know, but we'll find out if he's right first thing tomorrow morning!
Yes, you read that right, and no, I'm not even trying to potty train him.
He's said several times in the last few weeks that he wanted to pee pee. When he does, I'll take him in and let him sit on the "ducky potty," which is the padded seat that goes over my big potty. He's never actually peed, though, so I figured he didn't know he needed to go; he just wanted to sit on the potty.
Well, this morning he said it, and I put him off for a few minutes, figuring his request was just a boredom buster. He kept asking, though, so I finally took him. He took off his diaper ("I do it myself"), and then I placed him on the potty, assuming nothing would happen ... until it did, about six seconds later.
I'm not sure I'm really ready to train him - I mean, I want him trained by the time we go to the Bahamas (end of November), but I'm not sure he has the bladder control (Jones can go for DAYS without going) to make potty training anything more than a complete headache that involves potty stops in quick succession on car trips. I just don't want to rush it. Jones was amazingly easy to train - at almost 3.5. I'd planned to wait until closer to 3 with Freckle.
It's beginning to look, however, like Baby Brother may force my hand.
Stay tuned.
(UPDATE - 55 minutes later: Freddie and I were reading a book when I noticed him straining. I said, "Do you want to stinky in the potty?" And sure enough, he did. Are we doing this?!?)
(UPDATE - end of the day: I decided to try Freddie on the potty training method that I used for Jones this afternoon. He never went in the potty again. I noticed, though, that he still pees really frequently, so I'm not going to force it - especially not with my plan to put them in the same room soon. I'm thinking we'll get through that, and then we'll focus on the potty.)
I don't even want to talk about the rigamarole and hissy fits that we went through to get these pictures taken (except to mention that it's saying something, Rite Aid of Waynesville, when I get better customer service at WAL-MART than I did in YOUR store), but still, having your first passport photos - and, soon we hope, passport - seems like the sort of noteworthy occasion that ought to be documented on the blog about those parts of your childhood that your mama isn't too tired at the end of the day to write about.
So now, The Day Jones and Freddie Had Their Passport Photos Taken has been written about.
The Countdown to watch Kentucky in "Catlantis" can begin!
Well, just like the whole big-boy-bed thing kinda just happened one day, it appears that potty training is upon us way sooner than I'd expected it to be.
Assuming that Jones would be late training (because, Y'all, let's face it. In spite of his early arrival, he's been late at most EVERYTHING else), I'd not really thought much about potty training, except to dread the constant fear of inevitable accidents.
I know he's physically ready. He definitely knows when he's going and shows all the signs of being where he needs to be from a physical standpoint. I just didn't think he'd be emotionally ready. Or maybe I'M not emotionally ready to give up the convenience of diapers. Either way, I was planning to put it off for another few months in hopes that, maybe, I could train both boys at the same time.
Then, yesterday morning, Jones woke up with a COMPLETELY DRY DIAPER. I couldn't believe it. Neither could Jeremy who thought Jones must be dehydrated (he filled his dry diaper BIG time a few minutes later). That's when I started to think, "Okay. My window of opportunity is opening. Maybe I should seize this day."
The problem is, though Jones has the fireman potty he picked out after watching multiple demo videos on Amazon, and though he has "big boy underwear" in a myriad of designs, he's never shown much interest in either. He LOVES his "Even Firefighters Go to the Potty" book, but I don't think he's mentally connected the dots to going himself.
Or so I thought.
After his nap, I asked if he wanted to put on his big boy underwear. I assumed he'd say no. To my SHOCK, he said, "Yes." He picked out a pair with both Donald Duck AND Mickey Mouse on them. We then took the fireman potty into the den, where he ran around in nothing but his drawers, playing for 45 minutes at "taking a potty." "I have to go take a potty," he said in an endless loop of sitting on the chair and running in circles around the den.
He never actually TOOK a potty during his game, but the fact that he played it was WAY more than I'd thought he'd do, proving that, as I did with the Big Boy Bed, I had WAY underestimated my child.
After playing around for a few minutes, he said he needed his fire helmet. I got it for him; he put it on and sat back down in his red plastic chair. "It's working!" he excitedly announced. "It's working!" (It wasn't). When we went to get Freddie up, I saw Jones grab himself and then go hide in the folds of Freddie's accordion-style closet doors. I knew what was happening, so I rushed him to the potty seat. It was too late, but at least, I knew he'd gone, so it was probably safe for a trip to Wal-Mart to buy Pull-Ups for night time and a potty chair to keep in the car.
So that's what we did.
checking out his Donald drawers
Jones stayed dry the entire time. He very proudly held a package of Mater Pull-Ups, as we wheeled our way through Wally World. On the way home, we dropped by Nan and Pop's. As soon as we got out of the car, I could see he needed to go again, so I pulled his pants down in the driveway and said, "Just go, Buddy." He couldn't. Well, he wouldn't. I sat him on the car potty. Again, he wouldn't. Finally, he went a tee-tiny bit (like, MAYBE 1/4 teaspoon) in the potty. I was so proud and took the boys in the back yard to play.
He was pushing his lawnmower around the driveway ("I haffa cut grass," he always says) when he stopped and got a terrified look on his face. Again, I knew what was happening, so, with the help of his Nan, I cleaned him up, and we headed home. A little later, he went to bed, and I developed a strategy.
Knowing Jones, I think the way to play this is to talk about it a lot for several days - let him live with the Pull Ups at nite and the potty chair in the den - let him get used to these things in the same way that he took six days getting used to the big boy bed before he finally slept in it himself. I'm learning that I can't just spring things on a boy who hates change, so normalizing the implements of potty training may be the secret to a successful transition for him.
Or maybe not.
Time will tell, but this is where we are today. My boys are getting bigger every single day!
Well, Jones's transition to "big boy bed" has begun.
I say it's begun, because we've put the bed in his room, but he's yet to actually sleep in it. He's surely excited about the wood stained twin that belonged first to his great great grandfather Stultz and then to me, but each of the two nites that my childhood bed has been in Jones's room, he's finished singing with me and walked right over to his crib, no matter how much he talks about his new "tractor covers" throughout the day.
This transition was inspired by my friend Jennifer. She's expecting her second son in September, which means her just-turned-two-year-old got bumped to the guest bed earlier this week. Talking to her made me realize that we need to get a move on this upgrade, too, but I know Jones well enough to know that it's gonna take him some time to get used to the idea of sleeping some place new.
I thought that, maybe, some new sheets may sweeten the deal. Thursday morning, I showed him pictures of Thomas sheets, Paw Patrol, and "Wahken." "Oh! It's so cute," he'd say (as he does). I'd ask, "do you want Mama to put those sheets on your bed?" "No" was his answer every time ... until I showed him the John Deere tractor set. He went a little bananas, so he went down for his nap with the promise that, after he got up, we'd go to Wal-Mart.
In Jones's words, "Oh, boy!"
But before we did, he saw the actual bed put together. Immediately, he ran into his room and said, "A new bed! Cool bed, Mama! Dat cool bed! ..." I asked him, "Could you SLEEP in this bed?" He looked at the floor and said, "BOOM!" Then I asked, "Do you like it?" He responded, "I like it, Mama! Awww. How cool!"
Then came the promised trip to Wal-Mart, which was just as exciting.
I have truly NEVER seen this child so excited about ANYTHING. Later, when I got his bed made, he jumped on it. He laid on it. He couldn't talk about anything else.
Still, I knew his staying in the bed all nite was a long shot - which is why I'd left the crib up to begin with. So after singing our songs, Jones jumped out of my lap and walked straight to his crib. I didn't even try to dissuade him. First, I knew it'd traumatize a kid as averse to change as my boy is.
Secondly, I'm not sure I'M ready for the big boy bed. All afternoon when I'd walk by and see it set up in there, I'd feel all funky inside, which is a weird feeling for the kind of mama who prefers "big boys" to babies. I've never been the one to think, "Stay small." But this bed thing is throwing me for a loop.
It reminds me of when Jones turned about 18 months old. All of a sudden, I had the awareness that we no longer just had to keep Jones ALIVE (fed, safe, clean, etc.). We, all of a sudden, had to start teaching him how to LIVE - how to be a good and decent human being, a functional member of society and all that.
This is another one of those parental turning points, where I'm seeing the transition from crib to bed as a giant metaphor for the fact that he's growing up and out of the safe little space where I can enclose him and protect him, and though I most definitely want him to grow up, I don't really like this suddenly-vulnerable feeling at all.
So while Jeremy didn't understand why I didn't force the transition that first nite, that's why. I'm not ready to make the leap myself. Maybe Jones gets his aversion to change from me?
Not surprisingly, Jones's first words this morning were "big boy bed." He's repeated the phrase a thousand times today, and he and Freddie spent I don't know how long sitting on it, reading books this afternoon. In spite of that, Jones still went to sleep in the Jenny Lind la-la land that he's called home, since his first nite home from the hospital.
I'd kinda like to crawl in there myself.
It never fails. Freddie ALWAYS "reads" upside down.
He started standing just before he turned one, and though he's been cruising like crazy since then - and standing more and more - it wasn't until this morning that Freddie Bear TOOK HIS FIRST STEP! He took ONE step, mind you. He stepped towards the maraca (of course) that I was holding just a few few in front of him (he didn't do it, I'll have you know, when I was holding a train or my cell phone. It was only the maraca that made him move). When he did it, I cheered so loudly that he quickly sank to the ground, and he's not tried again since. But still. It's a *step* in the right direction (ba dum dum), and I could not be more excited ... mostly because Brooke's planning to take the boys' pictures in Nashville next week, and I'd really prefer for Freddie to be on his feet in his.
So fingers crossed that he really takes off between now and then!
He's got a cold and two teeth tearing through his gums, and he's just about as miserable as a boy can be, which breaks my heart, both because he's so out of sorts and because, when he's out of sorts, I'M out of sorts, and Jones hasn't exactly been on his best behavior here lately, either, and poor (wonderful, patient) Jeremy bears the brunt of all our angst (I'm sorry, Sweetie. Thank you for being so wonderful. And, especially, patient).
In spite of Freddie's feeling bad, we tried to make things as merry as possible. The day began with a chocolate donut, picked out the nite before by his daddy and his big brother. I put a single candle on the donut, and the three of us sang to our tiny fourth. He, of course, had no idea what I meant by, "blow it out!"
All he knew is that the little flame in front of his face was absolutely fascinating, so immediately after I blew out the candle for him, he touched the wick and got hot wax on his finger. As if his day weren't already bad enough - what with the snot and the drool, and the eye teeth giving him fits ... he did, however, seem to enjoy the chocolate donut (because: DONUT), and then, he opened his presents.
And then we took him to have his first hair cut.
We took him to a guy who has cut the hair of every Pressley man back to Jeremy's great grandfather ("Daddy Robert"). Jeremy had wanted to take Jones to this guy, but my insistence that he have his first haircut on Main Street USA won out. Unwilling - and unable - to take Freddie to Disney World for his first birthday, I agreed with Jeremy that the Pisgah Barber Shop would be the most logical second choice.
I had envisioned that his first haircut would be a lot like Jones's. There'd be a sweet little snip and a spray of pixie dust and then the ceremonial lopping off the crazy curls that make our boy look a lot like Ed Wynn (my sister came up with the comparison, and I think it's a really good one). Where I thought "snip," however, our barber thought "shear." As in "with a razor." As in "like a sheep."
Poor little, miserable Freddie Bear went in looking like Ed Wynn and left with the business card of an Army recruiter who wondered when he'd be enlisting.
Bless his heart.
The rest of the day was pitifully unremarkable. In fact, I can't remember anything else - except that Freddie continued to be totally out of sorts, and I started wondering if he was "getting mean" like my Mayme always used to do after she'd had her haircut.
Anyway, here are some pictures - and the hope that tomorrow's birthday party will be a whole lot happier than the birthday itself was.
Did I tell you you wouldn't believe it?
