Feelin’ Marsha Brady

I’ve brought the lap top to my bed and am lying on my stomach typing away.  Chewing gum, crossed ankles – très high school girl, except I have to glance out the window from time to time to make sure none of my children is out in the street.  Do you remember that terribly dangerous trick where you and a co-conspirator popped up on opposite sides of the road and pretended to pull a rope when a car was coming?  How horrible!  How rife with potential disaster and tragedy!  It makes me shudder to think of all the dangerous things I have done in my life, the rope trick being about a 4 out of 10 on the danger scale. Maybe a 3.  

Survival is such a crapshoot.  We should all be dead ten times over and yet we continue to squeak by.  For now, anyway.  

Not so Marsha, this line of thinking . . . a tad morbid. Perhaps time to change the channel.  In other news, Devil Baby is making huge strides in the potty-training department and if I can crumple her up and swoosh her into the “done” basket in the next couple weeks, I am going to write a book and then I’m going to go on Oprah.  I will become a potty guru and I will share my pithy tips with a benevolent smile.  I will debunk the myth being perpetrated by BIG CORPORATE DIAPER, who, through shady and unethical means get pediatricians to proselytize the message that kids aren’t ready to be toilet trained until three years old, and even then, you shouldn’t push them because . . . o.k., all together now . . . every child is different.

Well I’m here to say that there is a definite potty training window at age two and if you seize the day and believe that it can happen, that’s one whole year less of diapers choking our landfills and, more importantly, one whole year less of cleaning smeared smelly shit off your child’s ass.  If I’m wrong, that means my kids are defecation geniuses, pissing savants, which would be a bit of a waste and a pity,  so I’m sticking to my theory.  

Again, I’m way off the Marsha vibe. This stomach typing is killing my back anyway.  Must move to a chair.  Anyway, that’s my message, and Devil Baby is my ticket to paradise because I’m going to get rich when people figure out that I know the secret to potty training . . . it has worked for me . . . THRICE . And if you try my simple (and fun) techniques, it will work for you too.

What I haven’t figured out is how to keep my kids from engaging in risky behavior.  Even that seemingly innocuous camp trick where you bent over and took ten huge breaths then someone pretty much choked you against a wall until you passed out is SO FUCKING DANGEROUS!!!  Kids have DIED doing that!  We did it all the time at Black River Farm and Ranch, a girl’s horse camp in Michigan – we’d eat Doritos and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, clean the dust off our faces with cotton balls soaked in Sea Breeze, paint our nails with glitter polish and strangle each other for fun!  You felt like you were gone for hours, when really it was just a few seconds of eye rolling and twitching.  Oh. God.  I can’t believe I’m not dead.  Nothing like letting another twelve year old decide how long to deprive you of oxygen. 

My guys are little – the risky stuff hasn’t even begun yet.  But if it takes one to know one, I’m going to say that Supergirl is going to be a little speed freak, a devilish risk taker.  We put her on a kneeboard when she was three and her face when she climbed back into the boat took my breath away.  There were sparks flying out of her eyes.  Literally, she was electric – buzzing from the adrenalin, the noise, the water, thespeed.  This is the kind of kid who will drive very fast, who will try to outrun the cops, who will think herself invincible, who will run around downtown Detroit at night giggling and screaming with her little girlfriends in bermudas and madras miniskirts . . . oh wait, that was me.  

I need a secret, a ticket to her safety . . . some trick . . . a prayer, some voodoo, some mojo . . . a miracle . . . or maybe . . . just a little luck. 

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