The Power of Potty Training

This is becoming a problem. Seriously.

"What is a problem?" you say. Other than the fact that you are a hair-tiny-bit crazy and you live in a house of crazy and Husband Numero Uno has these interesting expectations that involve high heels and immaculately coiffed children and self and spotless ruffled aprons as I rub his feet after bringing him a steaming plate of dinner which includes at least four sources of protein covered in some kind of sauce.

The problem is my sweet twincesses. They refuse, flat-out, refuse to stay clad. When I say 'clad', I mean wearing a single piece of fabric, beading, or swaddling wrap. We get up in the morning and after the haze of sleep fades away and I have ever so conveniently left the vicinity to harry their brother into his routine prior to school delivery, they perform the fastest strip ever! (This is taking into account the hampering effect diapers can have on the clothing disposal routine.) They are naked in two minutes or less. At this point, they will come giggling out of whatever corner they shred the impediments of clothing.

Savannah runs giggling up, "I'm NAKED!!!"
Abby is hot on her heels, "NAKEEEEEE!!!"

They streak across the house roughly five minutes before I need to load them into the car to take Drew to school. They laugh hysterically as I scramble to reclad them in some sort of apparel as the temperature outside is roughly negative 12 degrees which means our house is about 45 since NU is strenuously opposed to the concept of running the heater.

(Okay, it's not really negative 12 but to our Southern blood, anything below 40 degrees feels at least 30 degrees lower than the listed temp. At least until we can mainline some hot chocolate while wearing seven layers of clothes.)

I succeed in clothing them and away we go. Later, we return and the stripping cycle repeats. Abby has, with her amazing powers of observation or the stench of my desperation, managed to deduce my desire to see them "poo-poo in the potty" so after the 'nakeee' and the laughter followed by my closing in on them with the gleam of victory in my eyes and diapers/apparel in my hands, she shrieks, "Abby go poo-poo potty!" and runs away, as quickly as her pudgy toddler legs allow (which is pretty darn quick, just so you know) to the bathroom to perch on the big potty, not one of the pink training potties that Mommy went to the effort of acquiring.

"That's great!" you say. "You can finally get them out of diapers!"

Oh, yes! That was my exhilarated thought as well.

Savannah follows, never to miss the fun and we enter the bathroom, ready and enthusiastic to USE THE POTTY!!! HOORAY!!!

Savannah then climbs in the tub and dances around while Abby mounts the big potty, ready for conquest, and sits down, fully determined ........upon the toilet seat cover which she will NOT let me lift up.

Insert image of me banging my head against the wall after five minutes of toddler argument before adult capitulation. Keep an eye on 'em, okay? I'll be in the kitchen, refilling my crack, er, hot chocolate IV.

Try not to have bigger biceps than...

I am fixing Drew's bike. He has ANOTHER flat since somehow he rides through tire deflating material at least once every three days. I cannot lie. This flat has existed for about a week since someone under the age of ten left the bike pump behind my car tires and that required Mommy surgery and testing prior to tire application. Plus, I just didn't want to.

I FINALLY figured out where the hole is after dismantling the bike to get to the tube, holding the tube in a tub of water to look for those telltale air bubbles (unsuccessfully, I might add), and inflating the tube and holding it closely to my ear, rotating it slowly. Of course, it is tiny. Miniscule. So small that I am amazed I can view said hole without a microscope. I am amazed how sometimes it is the littlest things that put a damper in our day. After the patch job, (We go ghetto here with SuperGlue and duct tape.) I am putting everything back together when I feel someone standing over me. I haven't watched the Walking Dead this week so I did not scream and scramble backwards, hands seeking a weapon, prior to non-zombie status being established as I would have with recent viewing. Husband Numero Uno stood a few feet away, watching me tighten the bolts on Drew's bike.

Me: Hey. Are the girls ready to get down?

I'd left them strapped in to their seats, rejecting my carefully prepared dinner for chunks of pear.

NU: I'm going to need you to do stuff like this (gesturing at the bike, screwdriver, wrenches, and pump) in the garage with the door closed.
Me: (brief pause) Ahhhhhh.
NU: (standing there grinning)
Me: We would hate for you to be de-masculinized in the front of the neighbors when they realize you don't know how to operate a socket wrench.
NU: Duh. (As he sauntered back inside)

I promised I wouldn't tell ANYONE, except all of our closest friends and family. I'm kind of busy this week though. Would you mind passing along the message to them? Thanks. I knew I could count on you. ;)