Songs that make you go poop

Everyone who knows me even moderately well has heard my tales of woe regarding toilet training. Even one of my interns, a college junior, has been offering advice. She was gracious enough to share with me the lyrics from a song her mother used to sing for her during successful potty incidents:

Hooray For Nico
He pooped in the potty
And we're so proud of him.
Yea, yea, yea

He is such a good boy
We love him everyday
Hooray, for Nico, Hooray!
Yea, yea, yea

Maybe pretty much always means no

Even though Nico is only three years old, he's already figured out that when I say "maybe", what I really mean is "never".

I don't recall ever playing Jack Johnson/Ben Harper's song "Might Just Let It Go" for him, but it seems that he totally relates to the lyrics:

It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
And often times we're lazy
It seems to stand in my way
Cause no one no not no one
Likes to be let down

I didn't realize it but I say "maybe" a lot to him. He'll ask if he can go see the stegasaurus outside the Cleveland Museum of Natural History Museum and I'll say, "Maybe". Then we don't go.

It's so early for Nico to become cynical and I hate that he thinks my word means nothing. He's started to turn the tables on me now too. I'll ask him if he wants to use the potty and he'll say, "Maybe next time". To him, that means "never" too.

Oh no, my sister may be going to hell

My sister has a wicked sense of humor and tends to be brutally honest - a dangerous combination. She's very talented at ripping someone to shreds with just a few choice words. Even when she's not trying to be mean, she is. Sometimes I'll go on and on about something I feel quite passionate about and she'll cut me off and say, calmly, "This conversation is not important to me."

So anyway, over the holiday break, she came to visit from San Francisco. She brought with her a stack of celebrity gossip magazines. One day, she pointed out a magazine article to me and said, "If I ever look like this, kill me." It was a story about a woman who survived a major skydiving mishap (maybe "mishap" is an understatement?).

The woman's parachute had malfunctioned and she ended up hitting the ground at 50 MPH ... FACE FIRST. She lived and is doing well now, skydiving again even. But the magazine published a photo of her soon after the crash when her face was TOTALLY jacked with an entire row of teeth missing. I think her eyes were out of place too. She kinda resembled Cookie Monster, but not nearly as cute.

Anyhow, I think my sister is totally gonna burn in hell for saying that. I got her all paranoid by shaking my head and saying, "Karma, dude. Karma." Now she's afraid to leave the house.

Friends, family, funeral

Our friend Zaid's mother passed away and we attended her funeral yesterday.

It was an emotionally intense day. Two of our friends flew in from out of town - Bill from North Carolina, and Will from California - and all of us went to the funeral together. It's always great to see old friends, but we wished this reunion had been during happier circumstances.

Zaid's family is Muslim so the service was held in a mosque. Even though the day was very sad, it was also culturally enriching for me. It felt kind of like visiting another country. Experiencing a culture different from your own can be enlightening and also humbling. I felt like a child, ignorant of the customs and traditions around me and powerless in understanding my surroundings.

I had never been in a mosque before. Everyone must remove their shoes before entering the prayer hall. Women must cover their hair; I didn't have a headscarf so I had to borrow one from the mosque. Women and men sit separately, men in the front and women in the back. There are a few chairs in the back of the room, but besides those, everyone sits on the floor.

I was herded into a row where I was the only non-Muslim. I didn't count, but I'd estimate that there were at least 150 people in the room. I felt awkward not knowing when to kneel, stand, or pray. I felt self-conscious and worried that my ignorance would offend the believers around me. There was a beautiful young girl near me, who looked to be about seven years old. She kept looking back at me. She must have wondered, "Who let this idiot in? She never knows when to sit or stand."

One of the women in front of me was crying and kept hugging the woman next to her. I realized that I was standing directly behind Zaid's sister. I couldn't stop my own tears from falling.

I expected a eulogy honoring the memory of Zaid's mother but it never came. Instead, the imam delivered a message reminding us, "Death comes to all of us." Even though it was a sobering thought, it was also strangely comforting. The imam told us to prepare for death and to judge ourselves and our deeds.

After the service, we got into our cars to caravan to the cemetery. Someone stuck funeral procession flags with Arabic writing on all of the vehicles. Zaid's mother was buried in an Islamic cemetery. The gravestones were written in Arabic and English and I noticed one where I was standing. It was for a four-year-old child who passed away last year.

During the burial, the men gathered in the front once again, while the women stood behind. I couldn't really see too much. It was cold and muddy. Zaid's mother was lowered into the ground, with her head facing Mecca. Then, Zaid and his two brothers began shoveling in dirt to fill the grave. Other men were invited to assist, so Vic, Bill and Will also took turns with the shovels.

I had never seen Zaid look so sad, nor so serious. Most of us who know him think of him as a fun-loving friend who likes to joke and tease. Making him laugh is so rewarding! Watching him lead the men in filling his mother's grave was heartwrenching.

At one point, Zaid, his brothers, and his sister all stood around their father. I'll never forget the image of Zaid's father standing before his wife's grave with eyes closed, his four children surrounding him, crying, with their arms around him. You couldn't help but feel the intensity of their family bond.

Zaid's mother was not just the matriarch of her family, but she was also a leader in her community. She will be missed.

Toilet training really stinks

Project Toilet Training is going quite horribly. I think Nico may be the oldest in his class now. He has seen many a friend move on to the advanced class but he doesn't seem to mind at all.

Right before Christmas, we heard some great news. His teacher called us at home one morning. Vic answered the phone and was alarmed. "What happened? Is everyone OK?" Vic asked. Miss Maria said she had good news to share. She put Nico on the phone and he announced quite proudly, "I pooped in the toilet. I pooped a BIG one."

We were thrilled.

Even though he never repeated the act again, Miss Maria instructed us to bring Nico in underwear after Winter Break. So I thought I'd do a test run first. It didn't go too well. Here's the breakdown:

- Underwear 1 (Thomas the Tank Engine): Soaked it with pee
- Underwear 2 (Finding Nemo): Soiled it with a "BIG one"

I was so annoyed about the second pair of underwear. Nico had not had a bowel movement in two days and I finally said, "I've got to go to the bathroom. Wanna come?" He politely declined and while I was gone, he took the opportunity to unload his baggage, so to speak, in his pants. I couldn't have been gone a minute, but he took care of business very quickly, apparently.

When I hauled him off to the bathroom to change him, I guess he decided, what the heck. So as he stood in the bathtub waiting for me to figure out how to remove his poopy underwear, and possibly, pants, he peed himself. I swear, I think he did it just to spite me. It was as if he were saying, "Ha. You may think you call the shots, but I will decide where and when I'm going to take a dump, thank you very much."

Vic and I don't understand why Nico would rather walk around with poo smeared all over his butt cheeks than just unload in the toilet. It's like he would rather suffer extreme discomfort just to have this smelly moral victory over us. Why is he so stubborn?

I had called a hotline about a month ago. The woman told me to tell Nico, "Now that you're three years old, it's your responsibility to keep you body clean and dry." Then he was supposed to remove his soiled diaper, wipe himself, and put on a new one. That advice was terrible.

Man. I was really hoping to avoid posting any more stories about toilet training. I was hoping that 2006 would be about new adventures, new frontiers. I guess I'll have to wait a while longer.