300 lbs of Poop, Flames and Daggers of Broken Glass.

Yep, it was an ordinary week at our house. It all began with potty training and 300 POUNDS of POOP. These two weren't actually related, they just happened to be on the same day. The poop was even on sale! 99 cents for a big bag. All that glorious, composted steer manure ended up in my garden. We had a fantastic time, digging around, mulching and weeding. The little boys were enchanted with all the worms, and made a meal of deciding which box would be home to each one.
Potty training began on Monday, and boy was this little guy excited! He kept naming all the kids he knows who wear underwear, and how he'll be strong like them. If I remember to take him potty every 30 mins or so, he does just fine. I don't think the whole concept of holding it until you're on the toilet has reached him yet. All but one of my boys did it in a week, three months before they were three. The other one was a special case. I'm crossing my fingers that he'll see the light, and I'll see the end of diapers.

Flush! We are now an official two-holer family. As the toilet and vanity were installed, I was seized by anxiety that they didn't match. I chose both of them, so it would be all my fault if they didn't. I made a frantic call to my decorating guru, and waited on pins and needles until she could make it over for an emergency visit. She came, relieved my distress, and told me they look just fine, that all the details haven't been wrapped up yet. So we looked at my plans for wall art, and I could breath again.

Remember how happy I was to get a closet door in my entry way? Then remember how it was mutilated almost immediately? Well, it's dead. After a few short months, the boys have successfully pulled it completely off it's hinges. How? By piling their instruments into the closet and leaning really hard until it closed. By swinging on the doorknobs, by shutting the door with all their weight when there was a wooden sword between the door and the jamb. That's how.
The very same day that the door died, I received another blow. A few months ago, I bought a beautiful bedding set for my new room. I'd squirrelled it away to keep it safe, but changed my mind after my big room breakdown. "Why wait?" I asked myself. "I might as well enjoy it now!" I told myself. Then one night I put the baby to bed, and he wasn't tired. What did he do? He stood on a picture frame, broke the glass, and somehow, without a single cut to his hands, fashioned a dagger out of a shard of glass, and stabbed my comforter to ribbons. Why, you ask? Because he's a boy, that's why. I'm still in the process of hand sewing the gaping holes together.

I got a call first thing in the morning from my aunt who lives next door. "I just thought you'd want to know, that Jill killed a squirrel and left it at your kitchen door." "Thanks.... yeah. Thanks." So out I go, in my red snowflake jammies to dispose of the body. It was surprisingly heavy. And wet, because apparently Jill played with it a lot and drooled all over it. I sent it on to it's reward, and luckily it was garbage day. That night for dinner, my eight year old wouldn't eat some bottled plums. "I can't," he said, "they look like the squirrel intestines Jill left on Aunt Jeanne's lawn." I stifled a laugh, and counted myself lucky to have just had the carcass.
And then there was last night, when I almost became a flaming torch of death. No, it didn't look like this, but it could've! Some sweet child left a candle on the stove, where it promptly melted and left me with a big mess. This particular mess can only be cleaned up when the stove is hot, so while dinner was boiling away, I grabbed a napkin and wiped up the melted wax. I came too close to the burner, so it burst into flames. I had all the boy's immediate attention at this point. I blew on the napkin to put it out, but it only made the flames bigger. I think the wax had something to do with it. "Drop it, drop it!" my level-headed 11 year old instructed. I did, and then I stomped on it. Again, the wax proved more clever than me. It stuck to the bottom of my sandal. Every time I brought my foot up to stamp it again, flames reached higher and were licking at my jeans. I'm shrieking and stomping away. Luckily, at this point the napkin became unstuck, and stayed burning on my tile. "Just leave it there, it'll burn out," instructed my wise, calm son. It did. Then we all looked at each other for a minute thinking, "did that really happen?" And then we burst out laughing.
Finally, some good news. My husband is tiling the tub, and as soon as he's done (in a day or so) we'll be able to start using it! We're not going to wait till the floor is done, we need the relaxation now.