Her balls are so big she doesn't even know she has them

Tonight Sarah went to a swim meet in the rain. I brought the boys home early, as a friend agreed to watch Sarah. When the meet ended, she called to tell us she was on her way home.

"Hi Mom," she said. "I did really well; I got first place in freestyle."
"Great!" I replied.
"I'm leaving in a minute; could you please run me a hot bath for when I get home?"

I did not answer, because I thought it would be unkind to ask what madam cared to drink this evening, so I could have it ready upon her arrival, and, would she also like her towel warmed?

I like to think the service is excellent here, but this was a bridge too far.

When she got home not five minutes later, the first thing she said was, "Is my bath ready?"

"No."

"But I'm really cold, and I asked you to run it for me!"

I thought about laying out the distinctions between a house and a hotel, but instead, I laughed, and suggested that perhaps her energies would be better utilized if she drew herself a bath.

I often marvel at how effortlessly bossy my daughter is; it is my fondest wish that this will serve her well one day, when she is running the world.

A weaker woman would have caved by now

In the past week, I have been verbally abused, bitten, and hit. One night, as I was getting him washed up for bed, Sacha adopted the telltale male stance, and let loose a stream of urine on my bathroom floor, mere steps from the toilet. It was so deliberate that any doubt I may have had that he perhaps he wasn't yet capable of controlling evacuation was erased. I could practically hear him thinking, “Fuck you, Mama.”

To cap it off, on Friday when arrived to I pick him up from camp, he more or less ran screaming from me.

“Sacha, Mom's here!” called a counselor cheerfully.

Sacha turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.

“Come on, Sacha, Mom's waiting for you!”

Sacha feigned great interest in the sandbox.

She sent someone to retrieve him, and that is when he dug his heels into the mulch, and had to be dragged in my direction. He was so resistant that the counselor had to pick him up and carry him to me, and when placed by my side, he turned on his heel and ran back to the playground.

I take it as a sign of faith in me that camp did not alert DYFS.

A weaker woman would have called the whole thing off by now.

Although I regret that we are locked in an epic power struggle, there is no turning back. In retrospect, on the subject of toilet training my most stubborn beast, there may have been no way of avoiding this. I have dangled many positive incentives, from candy to prizes to privileges, but he cares not a whit for any of them. At this point we have the pole wedged so far up our ass that we cannot take a step in any direction.

So while Sacha may not like me very much right now, I know that he loves me, and at this point in his life, love is preferable.

I have seen a few signs of softening on his part; after a week and a half strike, he finally decided to enjoy himself in the baby pool, and when he is in the mood, he not only pees on the potty, he asks for his Skittle when he's done.

In the mean time, I am contemplating outsourcing the whole affair, and have begun composing my classified ad: Seeking strong willed individual to toilet train adorable stubborn bastard. Must have proven record of success, the patience of a saint, and ample sense of humor. Generous compensation, and all the Skittles you desire.

Domestic dispute

I recently took a big step forward in housekeeping, and freed myself from the tyranny of the dish drying rack.

Ever since we moved house almost two years ago, and were advised to clear everything from our kitchen counters for house showings, I have become slightly fascist about kitchen clutter. While our old house was on the market, it was a pain in the ass to go to the basement to retrieve the toaster, but there was something so serene about the empty expanse of kitchen counter.

When I set up my new kitchen, I did it with an eye toward keeping only what I use daily on the counters. Although it may make me seem like a shallow person, I am not afraid to admit that it gives me a thrill to see so much white (actually, almond, to be accurate) space.

The one thing I was not able to give up was the drying rack.

And yet, every time I walked into someone else's house where there was no drying rack, I was a bit awed. How did they do it? Surely the wooden spatulas cannot go in the dishwasher? To say nothing of the over sized items, the wineglasses, and the fragile, but attractive, and impressively inexpensive drinking glasses, that have been known to shatter when they jostle up against other items during the wash cycle?

Last month, I had a vision of me, sans dish rack. I mulled it over, and last week, I went for it. I put a hook on the side of the cabinet to hang a towel, which I lay on the counter for hand washed items. After washing the dishes, I dry and put them away, and hang my towel out of sight.

I cannot tell you how this small adjustment pleases me!

Last night, David revealed that he does not like this new arrangement.

He cleans up after dinner, and so while I have less clutter, he has more work, as he can no longer leave the dishes on the counter to dry overnight for me to put away in the morning.

My husband is highly accomplished domestically. He may have better maternal instincts than me, is an excellent cook, has no compunction about cleaning the bathrooms, or doing laundry. (He can't fold for shit, but I think this is a genetic flaw.)

So although I know it is unfair to lay a greater share of domestic responsibility at his feet because I am aesthetically controlling I have a highly refined aesthetic sensibility, as the one who spends more time at home, I decided that my vote counts twice, and so I'm afraid he's going to have to suck it up.

Thanks for understanding, love.

Chutzpah

It is becoming apparent that my rogue nation does not like the new world order. In other words, he is pissed off at me.

It began with subtle remarks that, not coincidentally, entered the lexicon this week. On Saturday morning he was watching TV, and as I bent down to give him a kiss, Sacha turned to me and said, "Could you please go away?" and went back to watching his show.

I laughed this off, and came back a few minutes later to sit with him.

His response was, "I don't want you."

I've been hearing variants of this all week, always delivered with utmost politesse. I take this a good sign of my parenting; even when being rude, my children are exceptionally polite!

But civilly expressing his discontent was not getting Sacha anywhere. And so tonight, he took up arms against his oppressor, and BIT ME.

We were having a quiet moment snuggling, and apropos of nothing, he leaned over and sunk his teeth into my forearm. The shock, not to mention the pain, caused me to jump, and I gave him a slap on the back to dislodge his jaws from my flesh, and express my discontent.

When I released him from jail the step, I handed him over to David to bathe and put to bed. He screamed so loudly through his bath that David had to get Guantanamo on him and splash him with cold water in order settle him down long enough to hear that it is unacceptable to bite anyone, and he would not be watching television tomorrow.

Tonight we caught the tail end of The Incredibles on TV. In light of what I am dealing with, I thought it fitting that when Jack Jack's superpower emerges, it is, essentially, an awesome tantrum.

He can take as long as he likes to toilet train, but I will not revoke my fatwas. What a hard case I have!

Battle of big pool

Since my failed attempt at toilet training Sacha, I have turned to tough diplomacy. Specifically, I have begun to isolate him from the community of nations by denying him two coveted privileges. It has become apparent that I am dealing with a rogue nation who knows that the U.N. has no real power.

Put another way, I am attempting to kick him where it hurts, and I am not succeeding.

I drive a minivan (surprised?), and the seating arrangement has always been big kids in the back row, Sacha in the middle row, because it is easier for me to buckle him in this way.

Lately, Sacha has become fascinated with sitting in the back with his siblings, and since I won't move his car seat, Sarah and Gabriel have been alternating sitting in the second row with him.

I was touched that Sarah and Gabriel came up with this idea on their own, so that Sacha didn't have to feel like the odd man out in the car. But not so touched that I was unwilling to upset the status quo.

And so I issued my first fatwa: Big kids in the back, babies in the second row.

Ouch.

So now, we ride around town with Sacha pleading, "Back seat? Back seat? BACK SEAT!!!" This has really made me appreciate how long this town is, as I drive from one end to the other listening to this.

My second strike has hurt even more. Two weeks ago, Sacha discovered he could let go of me in the pool and swim by himself with his life vest on. He is intoxicated by his new found swimming abilities, and wants nothing more than to swim in the big pool ALL DAY LONG.

Which led to the second fatwa: The big pool is for big kids. Children who wear diapers must confine themselves to the baby pool.

It has been a week since I issued this decree. SACHA HAS NOT GONE IN THE WATER ONCE. He does, however, repeat, ad infinitum, "Big pool? Big pool? Big pool?!" I generally ignore this, and watch him have a fit as Sarah and Gabriel go for another swim.

Since it is unseasonably cool this summer, no big pool has been win-win for me. I do not have to make constant trips to the bathroom with my newly toilet trained son, and, I no longer have to brave the cold water. So when Sacha finishes tantruming, I can actually relax and watch him on the playground. And, I don't have to be quite as fearful about him drowning, since he never goes in the water!

I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be buying a case of diapers on my next trip to Costco, and may very well be doing this for quite some time.

As with most parenting endeavors, patience is what is most required. And so, we wait.

But if we get sick of waiting, David has a radical idea that may work. He suspects that if we tell Sacha that he cannot poop on the potty, he will make a beeline for the toilet.