After 24 hours of having the three chicks residing in our living room, my husband came home from work today bound and determined to finish the coop sooner rather than later.  Major progress is being made!

Don’t be jealous.  Our garage is always clean, no thanks to me!

Steve has lots of good helpers and with any luck, no one will loose an eye or toe in the process!

Day 2, Chickens

The chicken in the above picture is Millie.  She’s a 1 week old Welsummer Chick.

This little girl’s name is Charlotte and she’s a Cuckoo Maran.

And the final chick we got is named Margot and she’s a Buckeye.

Let the fun begin!

Chickens!

Thank goodness Chris and Claire have adventurous spirits.  They try on each church with excitement.

I was a few minutes early to the service today, giving us enough time to use the bathroom and find the Sunday School room.

As we walked down the hall we passed an amazing sight.  There were thirty to forty elderly women and men standing together in bright white cotton robes with white sashes lining their collars.

One man in particular was breath-taking.  He stood over six feet tall with white hair and a long white beard.  Picture Santa but taller and thinner.

At this sigh my son, Chris, looked up at me and said with as much clarity and conviction as an almost six year old can muster, “Mom, that must be where all the angels gather.”

Maybe it was because the sight was so amazing.  Maybe it was his innocence.  But my breath caught in my throat and my eyes began to sting.

My boy saw his first angels.

At that moment I knew today was going to be a great day.

Angels on Earth, or at least at church

OK, let’s be honest, most of the time I still pretend know everything…but I digress.

My son was extremely easy to potty train.  So easy, in fact, that by the time he was 2 years and 4 months old he was wearing big boy undies during the day and was dry most every night.

Nice, right?  Well, then came my daughter.  She was also day potty trained by two and a half.  But nighttime training was a whole different story.

Claire sleeps.  Like really sleeps during the night.  There’s no waking her.  And although this is great in so many ways, it is rotten when it comes to her ability to recognize her body’s cues during the late hours of the night.

Fast forward to February.  Claire had recently turned four and was still happily wearing her large pull-ups to bed each night.

One day we accidentally ran out of those damn absorbent pads forcing nighttime potty training upon us.

Hold me now.

At an utter loss as to what to do, I reached out and asked for help.  I sent a message to one of my high school friends who has potty trained all six of her darling children. I asked what she did with any of her reluctant nighttime potty trainers.

Here’s what she said:  For both of her difficult-to-train children, she decided to take the diapers off all together and equip the bed with those potty pads.  She said she prepared herself for a month of nightly sheet changing.  At the end of the month, both children’s bodies had adjusted to the new routine and there were no more accidents.

While mentally preparing for this month-long pee fest I found myself googling variations of the phrase, “nighttime potty training” again and again.  On one blog post a woman was asking for advice and help training her daughter.  A lady who had found success in an odd way left an obscure comment on her post.  (I wish I still had the link..)

Here’s what she said:  She successfully potty trained her daughter by (get this) increasing her daughter’s water intake during the day.  Let me say this again… She made her daughter drink more water during the day.

Crazy, right?

Well she went on to say that she realized her daughter was never really feeling that “I gotta pee really bad” sensation and therefore her body never learned which muscles were needed to “hold it”.  When that sensation happened at night, her body did not know how to respond.

Something in her comment resonated with me.

I was supermom with son and always made sure he was hydrated…But my daughter?  Not so much.

My Plan:

Starting in the morning I required Claire to drink as much water as possible, refilling her cup as many times as necessary.  I became vigilant.

After four o’clock, liquids were off limits with the exception of a small glass of water directly after dinner.

At nighttime I’d have her go to the bathroom two to three times prior to laying down, ensuring that she appropriately drained her bladder.

I’d take her to the bathroom just before I went to sleep.

I prepared for a month long ‘battle’, so to speak, by making her bed with two waterproof mattress pads and two bottom sheets and one additional waterproof pad directly under her body.

Claire, true to form, began peeing herself with regularity.  We (both Claire and I) changed her sheets and pajamas when that happened.

After two weeks, as if by some sort of miracle, Claire was dry almost every single night.

Dry.

Nightly.

Amazing.

Now I’m a believer.  Once Claire was forced into the potty dance during the day, her body began recognizing the cues at night and responded by not allowing her to relieve herself all over her sheets.

Now it’s your turn.  Send me your parenting questions and I’ll let you know what’s been effective for me.

Nighttime Potty Training

A lot has happened in seven years.

Year one, we planted an awesome garden at our rental condo and celebrated Christmas in the middle of the night to honor your crazy work schedule.

Year two, we bought a house,  a dog, and I got pregnant all in the same week.  Good time!! 

Year three, we remodeled our house in one month’s time, with a 10 month old and a baby on the way AND our marriage survived!!  How ’bout them apples!!

Year 4, our darling daughter was born.  We had an 18 month old and a new born. Your work schedule was horrendous.  Remember that?  Ya.  Me too!  This was also the year you tested for a promotion. 

Year five, you were promoted!! That was a HUGE deal but unfortunately we had to miss your promotion ceremony because you had the plague, or Ebola, or the flu.  Whatever it was, you were down for the count. But as a promoted man our life became much easier. For that we were grateful.

Year six was a doozy. You tore year shoulder and were out of work and at home for seven months… our small home.  But somehow we managed and thrived and grew closer all while co-parenting with the best of them.  This was a good year!

Year seven has flown by.  I’ve gone back to school to get my Master’s degree.  But unfortunately, this is the last year I am able to work part time.  Life has been busy, but our hours and days off have coincided so we’ve had a lot of time to be together.  Additionally, we bought our first tent trailer, a purchase that both of us were genuinely giddy about!

Our eyes have more smile lines, our bellies have more cookie lines, and our love is still going strong.

Happy anniversary baby.  It baffles me that you love me so much!

But you should know…I still love you more!

We’ve been legal for 7 years, baby!

I tend to be an extremest, just ask my husband!  And when I wrote, “This internal dialogue haunts me daily,” I may have been over exaggerating… just a tad bit…sorry for that. 

These posts were actually inspired by an activity we did at church a while back where you had to write down your negative internal dialogue in hopes to change it into something positive.

I thought it would be a nice activity to turn into a series of posts.

Sigh.  I was wrong.

My mom, who is like the nicest person in the entire world, gently suggested that I might want to end this post on a bit of a happier note.    That made me laugh!!  But she’s right.
Even though I kinda regret exposing my inner demons to my closest family and friends and really feel like crawling in a hole and hiding for 6 months, I will finish what I started.  Brace yourself for one more downer…but tomorrow’s post will be way better, promise!!

Part 3 of 3

Too Young and Naive.

This internal dialogue haunts me, daily.

Too Young & Naive

I began teaching at twenty one.  I wore my hair in two braids, like Julia Roberts did in The Firm.  My principal frequently shook her head at me and said I looked like one of my students.

When I spoke up at team meetings, my excited, new, hopeful ideas and beliefs were quickly discounted.  “That’s nice, Nanette.  But here at this school, we do things differently.”

I was too young and not taken seriously.

An internal dialogue I’ve repeated to myself each day since.

Now I’m thirty two.  My hair is big and poofy.  I have wrinkles and love handles.  My virtually non-existent breasts actually sag.  I’ve been teaching for over ten years, and somehow still feel that I’m viewed as too young and naive.

But then the that begs to be asked, “Who views you this way?  Others?  Or you?”

I think it’s the latter.

And it’s going to change.

**************************

Yeay!!  Yippee!!  Whoo Hoo!!  I LOVE puppies and butterflies!!  Weee!

How was that?  Happy enough?

No?

How about an adorable picture I just took of my fantastic chocolate lab, Kayla!

I knew you’d love that!

Tomorrow is my anniversary.  And I’ve got the greatest picture of my husband.  One you won’t want to miss!!

Thanks for the cookies, phone calls, emails, and love.  You guys are the best.

Too Young & Naive.

Know It All.

This internal dialogue haunts me, daily.

Why are you so opinionated?

Nanette, you are such a nag!

Why are you so controlling?  Bossy?  Why can’t you let it go?

You are so blunt, you need to soften your words!

See, the funny thing is, I am bossy, controlling, opinionated.  I do speak my mind.

However, if I let you behind the brick facade I’ve constructed throughout the years, you’d find out that I’m terrified–to the core–to find out what people really think of me.

I fear the truth would confirm what I’ve said about myself for years.

I’m not terribly easy going.  If I’m mad about something, I let you know.  If I feel that you are not being sincere with me, I tell you.

But inside, I cower.  I fear that I’m viewed as a controlling know it all.  Not as Nanette, a clear communicator.

I, as a thirty two year old woman, now believe that one of my greatest strengths is speaking truthfully, directly, clearly, about what I want and need.  I don’t play games, and expect you won’t either.  If I ask your opinion.  I want the truthful answer.

Likewise, if you ask mine, I’ll give it.

And even sometimes when you don’t.

I’ve been told to temper this.  To ease up.  Be softer, kinder, lighten the blow.  I’ve been told that my communication style is not the right one…

However, for me, I’ve decided it is.  But then there’s this nagging voice inside, “Nanette, you are such a know it all.  No one really likes you.  They just tolerate you.”

Know It All.

This internal dialogue haunts me, daily.

I was a pretty girl.  A pretty blond girl. Blond jokes were a constant from the time I began middle school.  I use to pretend they didn’t bother me.  I use to pretend to be the girl that others wanted me to be.

I use to pretend to be dumb.

When I was fifteen, I remember a cute boy patting me on the head after I said something he though was foolish.   “It’s OK Nanette, you’re blond.”

This comment, a comment that had been said to me hundreds of times, hit a chord.

That was the last time I took blond crap from anyone.

That was the day I stopped pretending to be dumb.

Funny thing happened, I began pretending to be smart.

I never forgot the words people said about me, though.

And at thirty two, I still believe that I am dumb.  I pretend I don’t, but I do.

My logical left brain says, “That’s stupid.  You are very smart.  You are an incredible teacher, great mom, and a good partner.  You are not dumb.”

But then someone pats my head or gives me a look of pity after I spell something incorrectly, or say something that wasn’t so smart…and I feel, well, dumb.

My internal dialogue, “Nanette, you are not smart enough, lucky yes.  Smart, no.”

Not smart enough.

We finally got one last month! Squee!

This was our first of four planned trips for the summer.  Let me just say that camping in a tent trailer beats tent camping by a mile and a half!  Especially when one decided to camp in Northern California near the beach.

It was cold.

During the day we expored local tide pools and in the evenings Steve and I played games as the kids slept away.

The game of choice?  Boggle.  A game that I fondly refer to, in my head, as Suck-oogle.  Because I SUCK at that game.

It would be one thing if my meager brain was pitted against another meager brain, but unfortunately that’s not the case in my family.  Steve’s super power brain ran mental circles around me.  It’s probably because he was a spelling bee champion in 4th grade.

DAMN whole language!!  You cursed me!

Anyway, we pretty much came out of the trip unscathed minus a few broken pieces on the tent trailer, and ready for our next adventure.

Camping in style

Panty lines.

Like, as in Granny Panty lines.

Not good.

That was the day that I decided it was time to try out the thong, again.  They’ve never been comfortable, yet I seem to remember hearing, somewhere, that they could be.

And so I began my mission to find the perfect thong, for cheap.

My search took me to Kohls where I found signs that said things like, “Barely There.” or “You’ll never know they are on!” and, “No panty lines!”

That sounded good to me, so I began to investigate.

The fairly benign looking panties looked really thin.

check.

No tag.

check.

Cottonish.

check.

Inexpensive.

check.

I was willing to try fork over the cash to these girls out. But just to be sure, I bought a pair that was a size bigger than I would usually buy.  (THE KEY TO A COMFORTABLE THONG, I discovered!! Trust me girls!)

I got home, washed them, and then tried them out.

The result?  I swear.  It’s like I’m not even wearing underwear.  They are so comfortable.

AND no panty lines!!

I began strutting around the house, work, and play with an extra skip in my step and bounce in my errr butt.

Feeling good, I began changing out of my work pants and into my sweats as I bent over, barely covered with my newly donned thong, when my son said, “Wooo Mom, your butt has really gotten BIG!!”

.…

Um, excuse me?  Oh no you didn’t!!  I turned around and asked for him to repeat himself.

And he did.

So, as any good mom would do, I walked up to him, smacked him in the back of his head, and promptly changed back into my granny panties.

Ahem.

Kids.

I’m telling you, he is wrong.  My butt is NOT getting bigger…I think.…I just feel more comfortable in a bigger size panty.… I swear! It’s not my butt… it’s the cut.  I hope.

Despite the size of my rear, I’m thrilled with my new find and my lack of lines.

And there you have it folks… my first post in months, about my booty.  Gotta love that!

I’m back, Bitches…let’s talk panties!