Use Your Hands, Luke!

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away...

Or just this week, on a continent on the other side of the globe...

Hey, how come I have to be Leia?!

my boys are dressed in black and white, chasing eachother around the house with lightsabers.

Matthew, who has always had a predilection to power, is Anakin BEFORE Vader this morning.  He's dressed - to kill as it were - in black sneakers and jeans, an inside out black Spider-man Tee and a black plastic vampire cape we bought for them all when they went to school dressed as Harry Potter for 'Come As Your Favourite Literary Character Day' last year.

Aidan, as Luke, is wearing grey sweatpants and a white shirt. 

Defying the space-time continuum as only childhood can, Anakin and Luke team up to go and combat the real bad guys.

As I sit in the armchair breastfeeding baby Leia. 

Vader

(Harry Potter is spread across the sofa immersed in a Horrible Histories book and not taking part in the action this morning.  He's got his list of spells at his side and his hand-made wand at the ready.)

"I wonder who'd win, Darth Vader or Voldemort."  Andrew ponders.

"I guess it would depend on if the Force is magic.  Or if magic can defeat the Force."

Pause.  "I bet Dumbledore can defeat Darth Vader though."  And back to the history book.

We get questions like this all the time and so, as mother to a number of great and powerful Jedi warriors, I have one of my own.

Luke

What does it take to get ANY of you people to actually pee INTO the toilet bowl?

Not around it, not near it, not onto the rim and into the corner.

But actually INTO the bowl itself.

Quick hint.  That's what it's there for.

It is not there as a reminder or as a suggestion or as a "give it your best go" as you pull down your pants mid-battle with the enemy and take a vague general swipe in a vague direction.

I'm begging you people, stop peeing on my floor and pretending not to notice.

Ah hell, who am I kidding.  Noone's pretending. 

I'll even leave the lid up for you to make it easy.

But you do have to place your body part somewhere near the bowl to ever have a shot at it. 

That's right.  Slow down.  Put down the light saber.  Well, yeah, THAT light saber, put it down.

Do I have to make you people SIT to do it?  How utterly un-Jedi would THAT be?

Although, if you ARE sitting, because you know, sometimes you DO...how about aiming the little guy down in the right direction? 

Luke and Leia with two knights who later swapped head gear for lightsabers and became Jedi

I mean, I'm all cool with the whole "using the Force" thing, really I am.

But when you pee, how about giving it a go with your hands instead?

At least until the Force gets better aim.

I'll be Dumbledore can hit the toilet.

Jean Luc can DEFINITELY hit the toilet.

And as Trek creeps into Wars ( I really DO need to get more sleep).....

To boldly go where no man has gone before.....INTO the toilet bowl.

Faux Pas

I love France. We all do. I love the French. They seem to like me back. They let me practice my French instead of jumping straight into English or German. Mostly because they don't speak English or, god forbid, German. And the camping is fun too. Everyone is friendly; even the Germans. The sun is strong. The pool is heated. The beach surprisingly NOT crowded. And Sue was right, the public showers are really quite good.

I still have some issues with the French meat though. This is the culture reknowned for its cuisine – REALLY?!!! Or we can get the British stuff. Enough said. We're doing just fine with bar-b-que, rice and some cucumbers and tomatos. Breakfasts make up for it too – CROISSANTS and PAIN-AU-CHOCOLATE. It doesn't get any better than this. Tonight we are trying shrimp on the barbie.

I've been spending some amount of time getting acquainted with the public toilets here. (Mostly Matthew.) Although I WOULD prefer to be spending the time on the beach, or at the pool, I've gotten to feel quite at home in them. So much so that yesterday's incident was a little like having a stranger come into your home and....well....use your bathroom.

First off, I'm kinda assuming it's a unisex bathroom. Something I have a hard time getting used to, although it really doesn't bother me in theory. I'm in there with Matthew after all, and I'm used to sharing my ''privacy'' with at LEAST two little men at home. Still, I can only compare it to what a Muslim woman must feel like when she's in the wrong side of the mosque. Every time a man walks out of a stall, while I'm standing waiting outside of Matthew's, I feel like I shouldn't be there, like I've just encroached on some forbidden space.

Don't get me wrong, the men don't seem to mind at all. They generally flash a warm smile in my direction (Did I mention I LOVE France?!) and leave with a happy ''Bonjour.'' ''Bonjour'' I mumble back, shyly, gaze at the floor. Where is my burka when I need it?!

I'm also getting an inside look at the private workings of a male bathroom. ''Wash your hands,'' I want to scream. ''Lavez votre mains.'' For crying out loud. There are some things you KNOW – like that most men aren't going to bother to wash their hands if they aren't being directly observed by their mother – but that you just don't want to SEE. Let the women of the world dream that you've retained a modicum of what we're been trying to teach you since childhood.

Back to yesterday. Matthew and I were at the -one, tiny- sink washing his hands. Only because he had so much dark, Mediterranean sand on them that it was going to be hard to....uh...take ''things'', or ''thing'' rather....''in hand'' unless he washed some of it off. (I don't have one but, from what I've heard, you don't want to be handling it with sand paper.)

We headed back to what I had assumed were the kiddy potties only to see men standing in front of them using them as urinals.

Faux pas. Faux pas. Had I been seating my child on the men's URINALS all this time?!

''Bonjour.'' ''Bonjour.'' Both men turned around at about the same time and left. Without washing their hands. I had to close the doors a bit to look at the front. (Do I even need to mention that neither of the men had bothered to close the doors?!) Both doors had a giraffe on them. Both doors only came up about two-thirds of the way of the ''normal'', what I had been assuming were adult doors. Was I supposed to know that the giraffe is some sort of universal sign for men's urinal? Or was it just the French sign for it? Does two-thirds of a door signify ''urinal'' in a public mixed-sex bathroom?

I'm a beginner here. Any camping I've done before this was in the USA, mostly in Alaska. Let me just clue you in, ''camping'' in Alaska does NOT include public toilet facilities and a pizza shop and grocery store! (More like melting the snow for water, checking for bears and bringing your rifle just in case. And oh, either backpacking up a mountain or rowing over in a kayak, to get there.) But I'm not complaining. Honestly, I like the ease of ''camping'' in Europe. Remember, I've got four kids. I need a convenience store in the vicinity more than I need my own private island and shotgun practice with our ''empties'' on the beach. (Ah, those were t

So I asked Damon what he thought. Had he been putting the kids on the giraffe potty? Or had he been using the giraffe potty himself?

I think I've gotten to the bottom of it. (So to speak.)

The giraffe potties here are the first ones on either side as you walk in the door. The only way you are going to get men to stop using the children's toilets as urinals is to put the children's urinals at the END of the line. (Or in a separate room.) It's nothing personal. It's just a guy thing.

I've also learned that, if I ever have to use a men's bathroom in an emergency, that I should use the LAST stall in the room.

I'm not complaining. I love it here. The men have other, better, qualities – like eye contact, and a smile, and this look that hints that they don't mind so much that you've got four sea urchins in tow behind you – that I'm going to forgive them for peeing on the kiddy potty. Cést la vie! And it's a good one.

Danger: High Water

Going to the bathroom at our house isn't as easy at it looks.

The other day I was helping one of Aidan's and Matthew's friends. He's not yet four, so he was more than happy to stand still for assistance. He stood perfectly still while I undid his zipper for him. Stood still as I took down his pants. Undies next. I was kinda waiting for him to, well, take things into his own hands but...no..still standing there. Hmmm. Could be he wanted me to hold it for him too - been there, done that, - but I didn't want to offend.

He just stood there patiently waiting.

Turns out he sits to pee and was waiting for me to arrange the toilet seat and step-stool.

No sweat.

At least he was able to make it out of the bathroom on his own. Only because noone had told him about the high water.

Matthew has to be lifted off the seat and onto the bathmat because he doesn't want to fall in and get his feet wet. OH you don't know? The water. The water that is the bathroom floor and requires an intricate maze of bathmat and stepstool to cross.

Aidan just has an issue with stepping on "the lines" but is usually able to tiptoe out on his own.

They tell me I'll miss the simplicity of these days, but right now the simplest things are looking mighty complicated!

Post Potty Training

Ran into my friend Sue the other afternoon in the "Ladies." Had time for a nice little chat, the two of us. If any explanations are necessary, Sue has a three year old daughter. Would have had time to order out for pizza and order a six-pack.

Aidan and Matthew were so suprisingly easy to toilet train (apparently one of the advantages of twins) that it has come as a complete shocker that I now spend more time on their toilet habits than I did when they were both in diapers.

I often spend what seems like all afternoon in the bathroom with one or the other. I even have a little perch, on the corner of the bathtub, with my feet placed up on a stool, right across from the throne itself. It beings when one of my little princes announces, quite delightedly, that he has to go potty. Or pee-pee. But the star attraction is a poo-poo. Because, you see, for this phenomenal event I am expected to drop all that I am doing, rush delightedly into the bathroom and take my seat breathlessly for the thrilling moment. My prince proudly sits himself upon his throne, a serious process that involves getting the training seat off the hook on the wall, lifting the toilet seat, positioning the training seat, hauling out a stool, and finally perching proudly atop the seat.

Next comes the moment of entertainment. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that my prince now has my undivided attention. Hands folded, eyes gazing directly into mine, he proceeds to engage me in deep, meaningful conversation. "Matthew potty" he begins. (To be honest, is IS usually Matthew!) "Yes, Matthew potty" I wearily reply. "Matthew no poo-poo in his pants." he continues, either completely unaware of my disinterest or choosing to disregard it. "No, Matthew no poo-poo in his pants. Matthew poo-poo on the potty." I elaborate. "Matthew big boy." he proudly asserts. And it continues in the same vein until I finally ask if the deed has been accomplished. Usually not, the conversation having been such a scintillating diversion. And so I wait. To be perfectly honest, I have tried bringing in a bit of light reading to pass the time. No such doing. "No Mommy read book." my prince complains, "Matthew potty."

With both of them content to spend such quality time with me, and two other kids besides, the bathroom turns into something resembling Grand Central Station. Ryan comes in with a paper for me to sign for school. Andrew wants help with his spelling homework. And often Damon pops in with a question on afternoon schedules, to find me still perched on my corner of the tub, surrounded by my perfectly contented children. Honestly kids, we DO have a sofa. Which is where the dog spends his time.

Closing the bathroom door happens so rarely that I'm almost insulted when I do find it shut. How are we supposed to coordinate the weekend activity calendar with the door shut? I've tried to close it once or twice myself, but the dog tends to panic if I'm in there alone. And then one, or both, of the twins find me out, running quickly, calling to oneanother in their excitement. "Mommy potty, Mommy potty," they shout down the hallway, just in case anyone has missed this astonishing series of events. One can perch on the seat of honor at the corner of the bathtub and engage me in dialogue. "Mommy pee pee?" he begins. I believe the definition of privacy begins with not having to outline your toilet habits to your three year old.

It's better when I have them both in there with me, standing at my knees, once again completely entranced by what is going on. "Mommy pee pee, " beings one. And the other bends down to make sure. Great. As if the birthing process weren't degrading enough. "Mommy big boy." answers the other. But I really don't feel like getting into it right now and simply agree.

The alternative to having them in there with you though, is NOT having them in there with you. As in when you have two one year olds who refuse to go into the public restroom with you. Which leads either to an awkward meeting with a complete stranger, as you sit with the door open in a vain attempt to keep an eye on the kids, or to meeting a complete stranger carrying one or both of your kids in their arms and wondering what kind of a mother would let her kids wander around the ground floor of the mall on their own like that.

Quality time wih the children. I just didn't think it would mean so much time with our pants down.

The Pants Of Shame

Matthew came home from kindergarten on Tuesday with FOUR pairs of wet clothes in the "bag of shame."

This is a term freely stolen from my friend Holly, whose daughter came out of our kindergarten one day two years ago wearing this horrible, 1970s, very German, pair of rainbow colored striped jeans, a pair that Ryan and Andrew had worn home often enough in their potty training days. She laughingly called them the "pants of shame" because it was just so obvious that whoever came out wearing them had NOT made it through the morning dry.

I have since discovered - mostly through Matthew - that there are a variety of pants of shame - and that they come with socks, T-shirts - and even pink flowered girls underwear if you wet yourself often enough to start deleting the stock. You should have seen the look on Damon's face when he saw Matthew in pink underwear.

Funny thing is, shame only works if you let it. (For the record, Holly's term is a joke, and the kindergarten isn't intentionally shaming the kids either. They just have a rather horrid selection of second-hand clothes.)

Matthew certainly doesn't care about the pink underwear. And now that I've decided to give up things like guilt (I swear, I shook it off in yoga class the other day!), and anger and shame - well, the clothes my kids come home in don't bother me either. Honestly, if I am going to let a pair of soiled pants ruin my day, I might as well give up now.

I'm learning that it's not about being perfect, it's about dealing with it as it comes.

Other signs that I am learning not to care about what other people think:

1. I let the kids go home from the pool with wet hair (within reason; in the winter we use the hairdryers a bit and then make sure everyone is wearing a hat or hood - or in some cases, a towel over her head - on the icy way to the car.) They also run around in wet bathing suits - a big German no-no. No signs of the bladder infections or kidney disease this is supposed to cause and they have fewer colds than most kids I know whose mother's dry their hair. I suspect a strengthened immune system. See #4 below!

2. My kids are the ones running around without jackets on when everyone else's are wrapped up in hat, scarf and mittens. Or wearing mittens in April.

3. I'll wip out a bag of cookies at the playground when everyone else is feeding their children peppers and cucumbers.

4. Damon and I used the "5 second" rule in Legoland the other day when Matthew spilled the 3 Euro bag of lego-shaped french fries on the ground while in line for the train ride. I briefly thought of the dirt, and of what the others in line would say, and then I thought of the 3 Euros for 15 fries - and we scooped them right up and handed them back to Matthew. Gross. I wasn't going to eat them, but....noone in line said a word, whether out of shock, understanding or because they attributed it to the fact that we were American.

HAVE YOU NO SHAME? No, I'm glad to say I gave it up this summer.

Connor Moments - Potty Training

I'm going to call them "Connor moments", moments that so perfectly define the craziness in my life as wife and mother.

Since I've kept my own last name legally (frankly, I never found the time to bother with changing all the school certificates and passports) - this also conveniently separates the real, true me from the absurdity of my present life.

Connor moments don't define as much as point out the ironies of life in the day-to-day struggle for perfection. They bring me back to earth just when I think things are going well, make me realize that things ARE going well even if they aren't perfectly, and make me laugh at myself and the world. I don't know if I grow from them, but I certainly find myself dying to share them with family and friends.

I had my fill of them last week.

Imagine our English playgroup with the twins on Wednesday. For those who hadn't read my blog on potty-training, it became fairly obvious pretty quickly, since Aidan and Matthew and I spent a good amount of time out of the room and in the bathroom. Aidan DID have to go once, the rest of the trips were outings of interest. "Oh, are you potty training the twins?" - this after our third trip to the mysterious and exciting world of bathrooms outside the home. I couldn't help bragging - a pretty sure sign a Connor moment is bound to follow soon. "Yes, and we've come home from kindergarten wearing the same outfits we went in, two days in a row now, both of them." I fairly beamed and considered myself the model of moderm motherhood.

Next imagine the end of playgroup, one and a half hours later. No - both twins are still dry - an ending that simple wouldn't be worthy to call itself a true Connor moment.

The crowning moment arrived when the older children join us for the end of the session, and my seven year old walks into the room with the telltale wet spot down the front of his shorts - and T-shirt.

Irony, humility, and perspective all in one - that's what defines a Connor moment.

I'm going to assume the irony and humility are clear; but the perspective took a minute to hit me. You see, for me, that wet spot in Andrew's pants was as clear as day, as big as a house, as obvious as....well as obvious as my failing parenting skills. Sue was next to me laughing the whole time - and I had to laugh with her figuring we were both in on the same secret. Let's face it - it WAS funny. But when I said something to her about it, Sue looked confused. Turns out she was smiling at my son, not noticing the stained pants he came in in. And when I pointed them out, it really didn't make a difference.

Turns out I - or my children's toilet habits - are not the center of the universe.

Karen had been in charge of leading the older children, and HAD noticed the breach in etiquette. Her take on the whole thing was a shrug of the shoulders and a perfect imitation of Ryan's reaction when SHE had noticed her brother's indiscretion. Well, it was Ryan with a British action but the actions were identical. Resigned shrug of the shoulders, deep sigh, rolled eyes and a tired, knowing "Oh Andrew, you are going to be in SO much trouble with Daddy."

"Perfect imitation of a mother." said Karen.

So I laughed and we went home. The afternoon wasn't ruined. My self-image wasn't harmed. And life went on peacefully, undisturbed by a wet stain, the world still revolving on its axis and around the sun.

Connor moments are the kind of moments you could right a sit-com episode around, but deep down they are moments of perspective, where I remember to treat it all lightly.

Playing With Guns

As I've mentioned, potty training has become a lot easier now that I don't take it as seriously as I used to.

There are some other signs of my maturing motherhood.

I like to think it's not as much a matter of slipping morals or of giving up as it is of a light heart and a happy meign.

The most noticeable sign is the water guns. Yes, guns, the four letter word I kept hidden from my older two children as long as I was able. Poor Andrew had to go and get the Fisher Price ambulance and paramedics everytime he tried to start a gun fight between a couple of his play figures. He was fashioning weapons from Legos and sticks by the time he was three, something I had read was perfectly healthy and normal. But then he also had to hear the talk on war and hurting eachother and how it was sad that people couldn't get along without fighting. Go ahead and play, I'd say, just remember that in real life real people don't hurt other people.

So far he has shown no signs of damage.

And when he said he wanted to stop judo class - something I'd encouraged because the teacher is a fantastic guy who incorporates Japanese philosophy into his class and is great with kids - because he didn't want to fight with people, well who could argue with that? Certainly not the teacher, who was so cool about it that I wished he was teaching street dancing or something else instead.

Andrew walks away from an argument - something which really pisses opponents his age off to no end - but will fight back to defend himself, or as importantly, others. It's a tough recess here in Germany - apparently the teachers go for coffee and leave the kids to fend for themselves - but Andrew has had no problems.

Until two weeks ago when we visited our friends, the Raibles. And were greeted by three kids toting Super-Soakers. We returned the following week armed and ready, but our dolphin and seahorse mini-squirters were no match. I hit the dollar store this week for the twins' birthday and came up with two crocodile Super-Soakers and two versions of the real thing. We are ready for a rematch!

Kids do know right from wrong. The twins don't know what to do when an 18 month old girl takes their toy away from them, they cry and look confused and concerned, but they do know not to hit, especially someone smaller than themselves. (Which is not to say that they wouldn't throw in a good push if I didn't step in and intervene immediately!) And man can they punch the crap out of eachother if I leave them in the car alone - and that's the older two.

They're going to play soldier and they're going to play knights. (I admit it's a little funny that I don't like play pistols in the house, but swords and axes somehow seem less violent! Like why let them pretend to shoot at eachother when they could REALLY be hitting eachother over the head with the swords instead!) And now, they are going to aim water at eachother too.

I do take things less seriously than I used to. Not war. Or injustice. Or violence. But I am learning what to take seriously - like war and injustice and violence - and what not to. Like having a good time and playing and pretending. Being a kid. (God bless Harry Potter video games though for allowing Andrew and Ryan to play a cool action game using a wand instead of a gun as a weapon!)

So, the next time you come over to the Connor house, you may just find yourself stepping in something wet. Probably from the water fight. Or not. In either case, feel free to grab a paper towel. I'm busy maturing as a mother at the moment.

Milestones: Potty Training

I had really been dreading potty training the twins.

You see, unlike other children, my children find absolutely no delight in being allowed to use a toilet, do not mind a dirty diaper OR soaking wet underpants, and quite frankly, have plenty of better things to do than to take time out do their business.

True to form, Matthew has already learned how to put a diaper on himself. He and Aidan do NOT like wetting themselves or the floor and have lately taken great pains to wait until their diapers are on.

They CAN do this, it was just a matter of convincing them that they would LIKE to. I swear, the little guys boycotted M&Ms when they realized these were only given out as potty treats. Nothing doing.

But our kindergarten wanted to give it a try. And so we took the diapers away last weekend, practiced a bit at home, and then sent them on Monday in underwear.

And it's been fine. They come home at noon carrying a plastic bag full of one or two changes of clothes. Each. I am doing laundry every night in order to keep them in undies and shorts. (As we become more environmentally friendly through our decreased diaper usage, we unfortunately up the water and detergent usage.) We do it all over again the next day. Cheer the successes. Wipe up the misses. And messes too.

And it's okay. By the end of the week Aidan had made it almost every time and Matthew had decided to ignore the whole thing. And it continues.

The difference this time around is that I don't see it in terms of success or failure. Every wet diaper isn't proof that I have failed as a mother, that my child isn't managing something that everyone else's child seems to master on their own within 24 hours. (I swear I know children who decide for themselves not to use a diaper anymore and then never have an accident thereafter. My friend Karen has a two year old boy BEGGING to use the toilet. Absolutely KILLING ME!)

It's not about me at all this time. It's about a process the boys are going through and it's not a validation for or against my parenting skills.

There's a little piss on the floor, someone's underpants are stained. Honestly, what's the big deal? (If only we could convince the dog to come out from under the table whenever he sees a wet spot!)

So we have a few weeks of running away from our urine stream, of learning to pee in the woods and peeing on our ankles, of carrying our own personal potties to the pool since we only like our own...it's funny this time around.

I honestly can't remember what all the fuss was about the first two times. But then again, it's only been a week. I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime I've got laundry to do.