Sorry posting has been so light. It’s spring break here, which means that I’m trying to fight the inertia that inevitably (and deliciously and deservedly) sets in when I don’t have an immediate laundry list of daily job-related tasks to do. Why fight it, you ask? Oh, because I have to design two new courses by, say, now in order to teach starting next week. Which means any computer time has been spent designing course shells rather than blogging. Plus, I heard Tracey Ullman on “Fresh Air” and (insert snarky, derogatory comment about Terry Gross’s breathless Cult of Personality-mongering here) and she was saying something like this:

“The bloggers! The #@&*^!@!! bloggers! I’ll tell you, Terry, one of these days I’m going to shoot the bloody bloggers. Sitting in their mother’s basements making snarky, derogatory comments about other people’s efforts as if they ever did anything themselves. The !(*@!!! bloggers, I swear!”

This inspired a few moments of soul-searching. I’m not really too thrilled with the blogosphere lately; it is snarky, and petty, and annoying, and I’ve quit spending time places like Bitch, Phd. because I’m tired of the whole “more thoughtful, considerate, and mature than thou” routine B. pulls, such as in this post where she chides people not to take it seriously when she characterizes all Clinton supporters as “old white women” and then tells everyone they lack a sense of humor if they try to discuss it further.

(Yes, the originator of the “silliness” was me. And yes, I think it’s ironic that Bitch is both considerably older and immeasurably whiter than I, so really, she’s slagging herself. But I’m gonna take the high road and not belabor that point.)

Anyhow, the snarkfest has been getting me down, and so, while I’ve gotten attached to blogging as a medium, I’ve been a bit too disenchanted to keep up my normal pace. But enough of that. It’s clear to me, from checking my blog stats, that you, fair reader, are here for one reason, and one reason only:

You love to read about pee.

And boy, am I not going to disappoint you.

Anyone who co-parents has probably had the experience of playing “Good Cop, Bad Cop.” But yesterday’s events brought that routine to new levels.

It was early evening, after an abortive attempt at dinner in which Thing One refused to eat anything but capers picked out the of the pasta/salmon/capers/fennel/avocado dish I’d made after having spent the afternoon — the first sunny, warm afternoon — in exile in a north-facing coffee shop, attempting to work while he and his aunt whooped it up at the local park. Kayo and I inhaled our portions, and then I announced that I had had it up to here with juvenile whining and belligerence, after which I performed the classy move of dumping K.’s wine into mine and taking the whole glass, plus my book, upstairs. I got to enjoy the setting sun and an escape into fiction for at least five minutes before I heard K.’s voice through the floor yelling at Thing One.

This in itself is not that shocking an occurrence; it happens at least once every time they’re alone together. K. is more of the “exhibit your displeasure” type of parent, I’m the “calculate and manipulate, at least until Vesuvius froths over” type. Anyway, even through several layers of plaster and fir I could hear that K. was shaking with rage, that he had never sounded that pissed off at our son, who was wailing hysterically in response.

So I sighed, put down the book, and came downstairs.

Where, gentle reader, what did I find but: 1)Thing One screaming “MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY’ as he clung, limpet-like, to my leg; 2)Thing Two, who is six months old now, placidly getting her head wiped off by a red-faced and furious K.; and 3)A suspicious-looking pool of wetness in the middle of the dining room rug.

My husband explained to me the source of his ire: Thing Two had been peacefully enjoying some “tummy time,” and Thing One had been dancing to “Bodysnatchers” (again, !&@^%%^&!! Radiohead, I am so over In Rainbows), so K. had decided this was an opportune time to go to the bathroom. And because K. is a sensitive, New Age guy who sits down to go, and because our bathroom looks directly into the dining room, he had a front row seat for the ensuing transgression, in which Thing One stood directly over his baby sister…

…and urinated, quite deliberately, straight onto the crown of her head.

Oh, the frustration, the impotence, the paralyzed fury! To be imprisoned by your own stream of urine, as your son wreaks havoc with his!

What to do, what to do. Since K. had clearly taken on the “bad cop” role, I decided it was Natural Consequences time. I calmly asked Thing One to get a towel, which he did, and to wipe up the pee from the rug, which he did. Then I took it outside to hang in the sun (this neutralizes any odor — works for pets, too) on the front porch. Everyone was still sitting there in shell-shocked disbelief, so I asked Thing One to lie down on the floor. He complied. Then I took Thing Two from her father and calmly, methodically, stripped off her diaper and held her over my son.

“No! No! No!” he cried, thrashing.

“Thing Two is going to pee on your head now,” I said calmly.

“No Mama! No! No pee! Noooooooo!” he wailed.

“But I thought you liked it when people pee on your head,” I rejoined.

“Nooooooo! No peeing! Don’t pee on me!” he screamed, feebly pushing at his sister’s bare bottom.

“Oh, you don’t like that?” I inquired. He shook his head, chin trembling. “Oh, okay. Well, you’d better not do it to other people or they might think you like it.”

My infant daughter was very tolerant of this whole little charade. I handed her back to her father, helped up my son, and proceeded with bedtime. And I’m not entirely sure of whether I handled that right. I have fears that I’ve ruined water sports for my children forever — or that I’ve predisposed them to a lifetime of pee fetish. But really, we’ve established that screaming, however necessary in the moment, doesn’t really get your point across.

At least not as effectively as the threat of a faceful of pee.

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