Potty train they said! It will be fun they said!

Well, it’s Monday morning and that means it’s Mommy Monday. I sat down with my cup of coffee this morning and thought about all the possible mommy related topics I could talk about today. As I was lost in thought my son J, who is 3.5, came to me and said,

“Mommy I can’t sit down because I have to go poop and get the poopie out of my butt.”

This announcement should have taken me aback, or at the very least caused me to giggle in embarrassment, however since potty training, declarations like this are pretty much the norm in my house.

Now, I’m not going to lay out exactly what we did or even tell you what you should do. I’m a firm believer that every child is different and there is no one set way to potty train. I will, however, share with you the part of our journey that I hope doesn’t one day land my son in therapy.

We waited until J was three to really get the ball rolling. We had introduced the potty and the whole idea of if about a year before but he was just not ready, which was fine. Honestly changing diapers was probably the easiest part of parenting for me, and J never really fought me on it much. By the time he turned three he was done nursing, sleeping in his own bed for the most part, and was riding a bike so I figured it was time to ditch the last bit of babyhood and learn the potty.

When it came to pee, J caught on way quicker then I had imagined he would. By day three he was telling me when he had to go and sometimes even just going on his own. I was pretty amazed, and still am most days, at how long he can go without peeing. We didn’t really use any kind of reward system, just lots of praise and over excitement every time he went and that seemed to do the trick. I think in the beginning we had maybe three accidents total.

Number two, or poop as we openly call it in my house, was an entire different story. They say hindsight is 20/20 and let me tell you, they aren’t wrong. Looking back, I should have seen the signs that we would have issues with poop. He wasn’t regular, he would hide in his room when he pooped, and sometimes it felt like I was changing 3 or 4 poopie diapers in a row because that’s how long it would take him to get it all out. I guess I thought this was normal.

He didn’t poop or seem to need to the first two days of potty training. On day three, he asked for a diaper to poop in. I tried for a few moments to encourage him to use the potty, but it was clear it was not going to happen, so I reluctantly put a diaper on him and let him do his business. We operated like this for a week or two before I thought it was time we really push the potty. Spoiler alert, I was wrong. Really wrong.

I don’t know if there is a Guinness Book of World record holder for holding your poop in the longest, but if there isn’t, I should submit my son. He held his poop in for a total of 7 days. I offered a diaper, a pull-up, we gave him prune juice, apple juice, even MiraLAX. None of it worked. We even tried bribery with chocolate and toys and anything we could think of. He was not going to go. I’ll be honest, I was pretty impressed with his stubbornness.

He would clearly get the urge to go, but instead of just letting it out, he would concentrate and hold it in. I had never seen anything like it.

Finally, on the seventh day, after a week of meltdowns because his tummy and butt hurt, him not wanting to eat, and just general unpleasantness, he went. It was not on the potty. It was not in a diaper or a pull up. It was on the bathroom floor, standing, while he cried into my arms. It was like a scene from a badly written horror story. It took about an hour for him to get it all out.

From that point forward I stopped pushing the potty for poop. He would go in his undies, every time, and for me that was okay because at least he was going. Sure, we went through a lot of underwear (sometimes they weren’t worth saving), and yes, there was that time where he had climbed to the top of the tallest slide at the park and announced that he had pooped and I had to climb up there and get him, but it was still better then him holding it in. He didn’t want to go back to diapers, which was something that was recommended to me in a few mom groups, he wasn’t doing it out of spite which is something I thought for a moment, he was just getting the urge to go and going.

This lasted for about a month, and man I never thought I’d see the end of it. One day though, he sat down on his little potty, and pooped. I have never celebrated something like I celebrated that poop. I would have had it freeze dried and gold plated if I didn’t think someone would call the people in the white coats on me. After about 20 minutes of cheering and jumping up and down I asked him what he wanted, that he could have anything, and he said he wanted a Happy Meal so that’s what I got him.

Since that day he has faithfully gone on the potty every single time. Along the way I had made up a few poopie songs, one to the tune of Frozen’s Let It Go that went something like,

“Let it go, let it go! Don’t hold the poop anymore! Let it go, let gooooo. Let it go into the toilet! Here you stand, neeeeeeding to pooooop! Let it goooooo. Don’t it to bother your tummy anyway.”

I’m a writer but not a song writer okay and he loved it. To this day he still runs around singing it.

Somethings that I learned from this entire fiasco was that you can not force a toddler to do something they don’t want to do and sometimes trying will make it worse, singing about going poop at the top of your lungs, even in public, is completely acceptable as long as you have a small child with you, and to be thankful that I have hardwood floors and not carpet.

———–

I hope you enjoyed reading my Mommy Monday post! If you’d like to follow me for some non-mom related blogging, head on over to my new blog, worddbyfallon.blogspot.com, and check it out!

Thanks for reading!
– Fallon xo

I do not want to have more children.


From the moment J was born, multiple times a year, and of course every year on his birthday I am asked the same question: When will you be having another?

The question is almost always phrased in a way that makes it seem like I will undoubtably be having another and the only thing to thing about is when. I hate this question. It’s personal, it’s probing, and my answer almost always leaves the person who asked it looking at me like I’ve just fully offended them.

The answer is simple though. I will not now, or ever, have more children.

I have wanted to write about this for a while but always found it difficult to put my thoughts and feelings down in both a witty and readable fashion. The fact is, the way I feel about this isn’t witty, or fun, or probably even enjoyable reading material for most. It’s just facts.

I’m not good at motherhood. I do not say that so that you will pity me or comfort me or even tell me I’m a great mother. I know that I’m a great mother. J is sweet, smart, well-behaved, and all around an awesome kid. That didn’t happen by chance. His father and I worked very hard and continue to work very hard to parent him and teach him to be a good person. Parenting and motherhood are not one in the same.

There is this saying that goes something like ‘you can’t pour from an empty cup.’ The basic idea is that if you have a cup, it’s physically impossible to pour a substance from it into another cup, if the first cup has nothing in it. It’s a metaphor for life I guess. You can’t give love, affection, time, energy, and whatever else if you don’t have any of it to give. It’s a great saying and generally pretty true, but it’s missing something.

For me, what I think is missing, is that fact that sometimes your cup just might not be big enough. It doesn’t matter how full your cup is. If it’s only 6oz you can not possibly pour out 18oz (I hope I’m making some kind of sense here.) This is how I feel about motherhood.

My cup is only so big and is almost never full. If I had to pour out more to give to more cups I’d be left with nothing.

I am not good at balance. Figuratively and literally funny enough. I can’t balance taking care of my son, my home, and giving attention to my significant other while also trying to tend to my own needs. Someone/something (usually myself or my partner) is always left with less than what they need or deserve.

To add to that, I don’t particularly enjoy motherhood. I love my son. He is my heart walking around outside of my body and the thought of never having met him crushes me. I wouldn’t trade him for anything. He is not the problem. My general lack of joy for motherhood is.

Something they never tell you about becoming a mother is that you ultimately will lose yourself to it. You will become defined by it. When people see you out without your child you get asked “where is ____” before they ever ask you about yourself. (Some may say the same is true for all parents, however in my experience fathers are usually asked “how is ____” because it’s not unusual to see a father out without his child. This topic is a whole other blog post, I could go on for days. Fathers aren’t defined by fatherhood, mothers are.) When talking about you in conversation it’s usually pertaining to you AND your child, almost as if your name and their name become one. You are no longer asked about your hobbies, interests, or even your career if you have one, it’s all about the baby. I know some woman who grow to resent their child because of this.

I am not saying that every woman experiences this or feels this way. I know multiple woman who absolutely love every aspect of motherhood and I think that is wonderful. I am not that woman and I don’t need to be. Womanhood and motherhood are not one in the same either.

I think the expectations that society places on mothers are almost always unreal and unattainable. I do not know one mother who feels like she has it all. Who isn’t lacking in at least one aspect of her life. I feel like that is a pretty universal feeling. The thing is, for some woman, that’s okay. For others, such as myself, it’s not.

When I tell people I do not want to have another child I usually get a mix of responses. I’m going to lay those responses out for you and give my thought.

“You say that now but once he’s off to school you’ll miss having a baby that needs you!” The truth is that I do not enjoy being needed that much. When my son goes off to school I’m going to celebrate by lying around in my pajamas all day doing absolutely nothing. I’m going to go to the bathroom with the door shut and take day showers completely uninterrupted. Perhaps I’ll go to a diner and eat completely by myself. Now I’m sure at some point I will miss having a routine or a purpose, but that can be easily resolved with a part-time job or volunteer work.

“But you have to give him a sibling! That’s not fair!”
When I spent four hours in agonizing pain to push my son out of my body, and the cord was cut, that was the end of him having any right to my body and what it does. The idea that I HAVE to give my son a sibling is something that fills me with rage so much, it’s hard to have a clear thought. Just because I consented to having one child, doesn’t meant I consent to having another. Just, no.

“You’ll change your mind”
This is probably the one that bothers me the most. The right to change my mind is my prerogative, however, so is the right to have my mind made up. It’s a sexist stereotype that paints woman as people who are constantly changing their minds and can’t make a decision. It’s false and it’s harmful. It’s the reason I can’t walk into a gynecologist office right now and get my tubes tide. Most doctors won’t perform the surgery unless you are at least 30 or have had more than 2 children. The fact that society as a whole doesn’t seem to want to trust woman with making decisions about the bodies and their families is frustrating. I promise you, my mind is made up.

“Don’t you ever get baby fever”
Absolutely. The smell of a new-born diaper, the baby clothes section at Target. All of it triggers a little part in my brain that makes me go “Dawwww look how cute and sweet!” But it ends there. Babies don’t stay babies. They turn into toddlers, who turn into preschoolers, who eventually turn into teenagers. The decision to have another child based simply off of baby fever is baffling to me.

If you’ve stuck around this far I have the feeling you might be thinking I’m selfish or that maybe I’m just doing this whole motherhood thing right. Honestly, you might right about that. I am selfish in a way. I love my free time and freedom and I’m not willing to give it up to have another child. Perhaps I’m not doing this whole motherhood thing right, but this is the only way I know how and having another child wouldn’t fix that.

At the end of the day the decision is mine, and mine alone (its my body, not my partners). Motherhood for me like skydiving for some. I’m doing it, I’m experiencing all of it, but I have no desire to do it again.

Thanks for reading!

 

Why the 1’s are the worst age!

 

 

If you ask any parent of a young child what their least favorite age is you will usually get the standard answer of “the terrible two’s”. You might get “threenager for sure” and some may even tell you that they didn’t really enjoy the newborn stage and found it to be the most difficult (they are lying, run away from them). I’m here to tell they are all wrong, the worst age is from 12 months to 24 months and if you keep reading I’ll explain why in a nice convent list!

1. Tantrums
My child was not an early talker. He wasn’t necessarily a late talker, but he wasn’t saying any more than like 5 words when he turned a year old. In fact, he didn’t really start talking until he was 2 years old. For him, not being able to properly communicate, meant lots of tantrums and meltdowns. The thing about tantrums with a 1-year-old, there is no helping them to reason. Now that my son is almost 4, tantrums are few and far between, but when they arrive, he’s able to communicate and tell me whats going on, at least for the most part. At a year old, that was impossible, and everything set him off.

Toy not doing what he wants, tantrum. Missed his mouth while eating, tantrum. Can’t knock down all the books on the book shelf and then pull the bookshelf on top of him, tantrums. I’ll be honest, that whole year is a haze and all I remember is screaming and bending down a lot to pick my flailing toddler off the group so he doesn’t give himself a concussion. Luckily, the tantrums stopped as soon as he was able to talk, which again, was about when he turned 2.

2. Running away
Yes, my child was a runner. Holding hands was like some kind of torture for him, or at least that what his screams made it seem like, and any chance he got, he bolted. From the moment he got the walking thing down, he was running. Parks were out of the question unless they were fenced in because he could care less about the jungle gym and would run off in nay direction he could. I met up with a bunch of other moms once for a walk and after we finished all the moms with their darling little infants sat down for a much-needed break. I of course wanted to enjoy a break myself but my son was already screaming and climbing out of his stroller by the time my butt touched the bench. I will never forget that day, chasing him around the park while all the other mothers sat and talked and enjoyed being outside with their little ones who couldn’t walk yet.

J is still a runner, but in a good way. He’s now capable of listening and stops when you say “red light”, and he even enjoy holding my hand now.

3. Touching everything
If you walked into my apartment now you’d never know a toddler lives here. Well, I guess the toys everywhere would clue you in, but that’s not what I mean. I have stuff, on tables, and end tables, stuff that is breakable and in his reach. Two years ago my apartment was a bare as possible because if he could reach it, he would grab it. When J was about 1.5 I had a candle on out bathroom counter that I thought was far enough back that he couldn’t reach. Nope. He grabbed and dropped it on the ground, where it obviously shattered into a million little pieces, before I could even finish the word NO! We had a small book shelf in out living room that I had cleared the two bottom shelves off of when he stared crawling. Once he was walking I had it almost barricaded between the couch and a chair, he still got to it. Pulled almost every book down and had I not stopped him, probably would have pulled down the whole shelf as well (cue a tantrum). Taking him to a friend’s house was out of the question. He would scream if I tried to keep him in my lap, but letting him down to roam free was just asking for trouble.

Eventually as he got older he learned what he could and couldn’t touch. Now he doesn’t even seem to notice all the breakables in his reach.

4. What is No?
One is an interesting age when it comes to discipline. They are too young for time outs, too young for reason, and just too young in general. I can remember saying telling J “No, please do not touch that” and without hesitation, he would touch that. It’s not because he was defiant, it’s because at that age they truly don’t always understand no, and have absolutely no impulse control. I would find myself redirecting him from the same thing over and over and over again before I would give up and just put away whatever it is he was trying to get to (hence the extremely bare apartment at that age). Baby proofing was a never-ending task as once you thought everything was out of reach or safe, you’d find him in the bathroom splashing around in the toilet and having the time of his life (a toilet lid lock was purchased from Amazon that very second). I think I said no so much in that time that he may have thought his name was no!

Now that J is 3 he responds to all different sorts of discipline! He even fully understands the word no, and I know this because he so often tell me no when I ask him to do something (every age has its pitfalls).

5. Lack of Communication
Like I mentioned in the beginning,  J didn’t talk much before he turned 2. This was frustrating for him and I for so many reasons. While the tantrums were definitely exhausting, just simply not understanding him was almost worse. He would point to the cabinet and say something that vaguely sounded like a word, so I would repeat what I thought he said and if I was wrong he would fall to the floor. We started picking him up and letting him show us exactly what he wanted because it was just easier. When he did start talking, some words didn’t make sense or they sounded like something else. He would become so frustrated with us when we couldn’t understand him.

Still this day if J is trying to say a word and we aren’t understanding it, he get annoyed. However now he’s able to explain himself or show us without any help what he means.

I stand by it, the 1’s are the most frustrating, most difficult, most exhausting age. I know at this point you expect me say “but they are also the sweetest and most fun”. I’m not going to say that though, because I’d be lying to you and I don’t think you’d appreciate that too much. The one’s are tough, but they don’t last, so guess we should cherish them or something at the very least. I don’t know. J is 3 now and his favorite thing to do is run up behind me (and other people) and say “big butt, big butt” so maybe I’m wrong and 3 year old’s are really the devil.

Thanks for reading!!
– Just Your Average Mom

 

Boogers.

*As the title implies, we will be discussing boogers today. Nothing to detailed, but I figured a warning would be nice.

I am a mom. I have cleaned up baby puke. I have dealt with massive poop blow outs. While potty training my son I cleaned up more pee and poop then any one human should ever have to do. When my niece was born she would spit up on me at least 3 times every single time I held her. Basically, I know all about the nasty stuff that comes with having kids and I handle it all pretty well.

All except boogers.

Boogers, snot, flem, mucus… all of those thing give me that queasy feeling in my stomach that makes me want to head for the toilet. Especially boogers.

On any given day my son hands me about 20 boogers. In all different shapes and sizes. If booger digging was an Olympic sport and they allowed toddlers to compete, you bet your bum he’d be taken on the gold. If they are in his nose, he is finding them, digging them out, and announcing it to the world.

Once while standing in line at War-Mart he said very loudly, “Mom I have a booger!” and proceeded to stick his tiny index finger with a giant green sticky booger (to many details?) right on his fingertip right in my face. I felt my face turn red as I searched my purse and pockets and every area around me for a tissue or something, anything I could wipe this booger on. Of course, I didn’t have anything. So, I grabbed his hand and wiped it on his shirt (not my greatest parenting moment, not my worst either though.)

Most booger pickers are also booger eaters right? Well not my son. In fact he’s probably just as grossed out by them as I am, which means as soon as a booger touches his finger or hand, he freaks out (one would think this would prompt him to stop picking his nose, but yet here we are.) He will run from his room with his hand stretched out in front of him screaming “Ew booger!” until I rush to wipe it off.

I’m hoping this booger picking thing is just a gross phase that he will eventually grow out of. Kind of like the goth or punk phase he’ll go through when he’s like 15. Of course, this could a life long thing. I may need to come to terms with the idea that my son will forever be a booger picker. There are definitely worse things right?


If you came here for serious quality content I hope you were satisfied!

Thanks for reading!
– Just Your Average Mom

Welcome to my blog!

Let me introduce myself a bit! First, my name is Fallon. Yes it’s pronounced the same as Jimmy Fallon, and yes that is exactly what I tell people when I first meet them. Believe it or not I’m named after a really old soap opera character. Fallon Carrington Colby was a fictional character on the soap opera Dynasty, and apparently my dad was in love with her. I’ll admit, I’m not very fond of the name, never have been, but I guess it’s better than the name my mother would have given me… Billy Joe *stars blankly into the camera like on the office*.

So now that we have that weird name stuff out of the way, let me continue.

I’m 27 years old and I live in good old New Jersey. I could make some kind of remark here about how we are nothing like the cast of The Jersey Shore but honestly it’s so overused, so instead I’ll say this: yes it’s true, I don’t know how to pump my own gas.

I’m what they call a stay at home mom, or for short SAHM. If you don’t know what that is, basically I’m a mom and I don’t have a job. Well I don’t have a job that pays me money (I do but that’s another post for another day). My job is to stay home and take care of the kids, well kid, I only have one. He’s 3.5 and right now he’s sitting on the ottoman next to the cat tree watching a show on his iPad call Ryan’s Toy Review. It’s a YouTube channel where a 6 year old boy is filmed while playing with toys, opening presents, playing with slime, and lots of other fun things I wish I could get paid for doing. This kid’s YouTube channel has over 7 million subscribers and over 13 billion views, and my son is responsible for like a quarter of those views (sarcasm obviously, I would never allow him to be one his iPad that much.. never…*cough*).

Lets get to why I’m starting this blog.

There are A LOT of mommy blogs out there on the world-wide web. Each one with its different purpose. Some are satire, some a serious. Some are there to give you great advice, and some.. well some give you not so great advice. There’s funny mom blogs, and sad mom blogs. Big mom blogs and little mom blogs. Mommy blogs over there.. mommy blogs over there… Okay I’m gonna stop now because I’m not Dr. Seuss and there’s nowhere to go after that. You get the picture anyway. I want this mom blog to be.. different. I’m not going to give you advice, or tell you what the best brand of diapers are (target, always target). I’m simply going to write about my day-to-day life with my 3 year old and try to find the humor in all of it.

If you are into that, or if you just need something boring to read to help you fall asleep, then this is the blog for you. I’m not promising anything but honesty (no really, I’m not even promising that I’ll post regularly or use proper grammar), and hopefully that will be enough. I’ll end this post now, mainly because my son has just asked me for the 10th time if we can get a gum ball machine (thanks Ryan’s Toy Review) and I’ve got to figure out a way to explain to him why we cannot get a gum ball machine, but also because I don’t really have much more to say.

Thanks for reading!
– Just Your Average Mom