The Factory

The other day at my office, while using the toilet, Elliot asked me why there was a factory in his tummy. 

I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly, so I asked him to repeat the question.

"Why is there a factory in my tummy and in the toilet?"

I was a bit stumped and so I asked him what he was trying to ask.

"Like, like ... why ... when you eat something does it go into you and then come out as poo?"

"Oh, you mean why when we eat food does our body change it into waste and get rid of it?"

"Yes.  Like why does the factory make poo?"

"Why are you saying factory?  Where did you hear that?"

  
"What factory????"

"That's what I'm asking ... where did you hear it called a factory?"

  
"Nooooo.  Like, like, WHY is there poop that comes out when we have food why does it come like poo out again and into the toilet?"

"Yes, I get what you're saying ... and that's what you mean by `the factory'?"

(Blank stare)

"You're asking about the factory that makes poo inside our bodies?"

(Blank stare)

"I'm not getting any answers on where the factory came from, am I?"

  
(Blank stare)

"Well ... when we eat, our body only uses what it needs for energy and whatever it doesn't need is either stored or our body gets rid of it ... as poo or pee."

"What are you saying?"

"Well it's a little hard to explain honey ... it's all very scientific and I'm supposed to be working right now not watching you poo so can you please hurry up so Mommy can get back to her desk and do some work?"

  
"Nope.  I'm still pooping"

"Fantastic ... please hurry up."

  
"But, but, like, can you just tell me why does the factory ... how does the factory make the poop?"

"Really?  We're back on the factory again?  Well ... lets say you eat four carrots but your body only needs two carrots for energy, it will use the energy from two carrots and store the energy from the other two and when the energy from the stored carrots is used later in the day your body will get rid of all the stuff from the carrots that it didn't need and I guess that will come out as either poo or pee."

"Yes.  And so your BODY doesn't like to eat all the carrots so it just eats the two carrots and then my tummy crunches up the other two carrots that it doesn't want to eat and then it makes it into poo and I poop it out JUST LIKE I AM RIGHT NOW (he says grunting as he gives another big push and I'm praying he's wrapping things up)."

"Yup ... you got it.  Basically.  Like I said, it's all very scientific but you seem to have the basic gist of how this whole process works.  Now ... Mommy really REALLY has to get back to work.  Are you finished?"

"Yup ... alllllll done."
 
Elliot hops off the toilet and has a long look at his poo.
 
"Mommy?"
 
"Yes, Elliot?"
 
"What is my poo made of?"

Trouble

I swear I can dance.

I used to go out dancing all the time.

Not in like mini skirts and tube tops and high heels or anything like that ... just good fun dancing at good fun clubs with my friends.  One summer my sister-in-law and I spent our entire summer dancing every night, laughing at anyone who tried to talk to us, and eating ice cream and cake for supper.  For real.

Don't even get me started on how much I miss that metabolism.

Anyway - that's not my point.

My point is that I was a REALLY good dancer.  I swear.

I had all the moves and always looked totally awesome.  Because ... well ... I just did.  It's just a fact.

And I've always reminded myself of that as the years have passed and age has set in.  I tell myself that at least at ONE point in my life I was hot stuff and could dance like crazy and the reason everyone always watched ME at clubs was because of my pure awesomeness.

So on days when the muffin top is puffier than usual or my tall boots are harder to pull up or my arms wave goodbye long after I've stopped ... I remind myself that I used to be ... well ... hot.

And I could dance.

Which is really something because not everyone can.

And Charlie - who is so much like her Mommy (and that warms me to my core) - loves to dance.

So this morning when she asked to dance I couldn't resist and switched from the morning news channel to a music channel and Taylor Swift was singing away about someone being trouble when they walked in (hey Taylor, love you, but they are always going to be trouble if you can't hold your cards a BIT closer, k?) and Charlie jumped up and started dancing.

And I was like wow ... whaaat is up with that dancing.

It was horrible, terrible dancing.  Feet stomping, arms doing some weird Biggest Loser meets Bollywood action, bum out, upper body convulsing and head flinging side to side ... smiling the whole time.

Now, before you mentally jump all over me for being critical of her dancing, know that I was only thinking these things ... inwardly ... outwardly I was smiling and dancing with her and saying the proper Mommy things like, "Charlie, what a great dancer you are ... you have all the moves."

And then I said "wow, Charlie, where did you learn to dance like this?"

And Charlie said, "I dancing"

And I said, "I know you are!!"

And Charlie said, "I like dancing Mommy."

And I said, "that's nice ... you like dancing? with Mommy?"

And she said, "No ... I dancing like Mommy."

WHAT?

I don't think so.

I said, "NOOOOO Charlie, Mommy doesn't look like that when she dances.  Don't be silly.  You're doing a funny dance.  Mommy doesn't dance like that!!!!"  

And Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan in perfect unison replied, "yes you do Mommy."

Killer.

At least I still have good memories of the cake and ice cream.

It's Time ...

It's time to get back into the swing of things and start blogging again.

I'm rusty.

And a little more arthritic in the fingers.

My thoughts are slow.  I have so many stories I should share - I just don't know where to begin.

The most recent addition to our crew is now almost 2 years old ... I'll call her Charlie.  Jackie Chan is 10 (and a half...) and Bruce Lee is a fresh new 5.

Life continues to be wonderful and complicated all at the same time.

As I fumbled around in the fridge for something to take for my lunch today I glanced again at all of the sweet Christmas pictures we received in the mail from much more "put together" and "organized" Mom's and it served as a reminder that I haven't got the foggiest idea what I'm doing as a mother of three children.

Are other kids in more organized, less frantic homes than ours happier?

More adjusted?

Do they fight with each other less?

Are they quieter?

Getting out of the house is as much as chore as ever - this morning no exception as Bruce Lee announced more than halfway to school that I'd forgotten his running shoes so he would have to have "hot feet" all day because he would be in his winter boots "in-SIIIIDE".  I sighed.  We'd already doubled back twice for other forgotten items and additional layers of winter clothing because it was COLD outside and my kids weren't dressed properly on our first attempt.  So I told him I was sorry but he'd be OK.  Then I remembered Charlie and Jackie Chan too ... no one had shoes.

It's a hot feet day.

I did remember all the papers I needed for my meeting.  But not Jackie Chan's permission slip to have more eye examinations done ...

I was angry at Jackie Chan for being "spacey" and almost walking into a jogger wearing fluorescent pink ... and he responded rudely and we fought about his attitude and he said he didn't want to talk about it and I said we were most definitely going to talk about it because I was the parent and he was the child and the fight ended with him saying "I didn't want to talk about this right now because I didn't want to start my first day back at school by walking into the schoolyard crying."

Wow.  Mother of the year.  Right here.

I remembered an apple for me but forgot diapers for Charlie.

So Bruce Lee has hot feet, Jackie Chan is crying and Charlie is in daycare diapers and daycare shoes and her teachers are having a grand old chat about my grotesque lack of parenting skills.

And I had to hear another lecture about how I should bring extra shoes and leave them at daycare so I don't forget to bring them which is less stress in the mornings for me ... like I don't know ... like this isn't my third time down this particular road.

But ... I can't direct my anger at the staff ... they're just trying to help me out.  I think.

Today I'm taking some comfort in the fact that some of the problem is because my mind is still a little fuzzy from stuff that happened last spring that I can't change.

My dad passed away.

He died.

He is no longer with us.  Any of us.

It's taking some getting used to.

It's hard saying we're going to my Mom's instead of to my parents.  It's hard seeing pictures of him and thinking that it's been awhile since I last talked to him.  It's hard at holidays.  It's hard on my Mom.  It's hard explaining to the kids - particularly Bruce Lee who is old enough to know but not totally understand - that Papa won't come back.

That it was all very final.

That the stress and sadness I felt when he was sick but still alive might not be as bad as the stress and sadness I'm starting to feel at the fact that he is indeed - gone.

Because who do I talk to about hanging pictures on a wall?

Or what tires to buy for the van?

Or if we should fix the van or drive it into a lake?

Or Jackie Chan's report cards?

Or ... ?

We didn't talk a lot, my dad and I.  But he was always there when I did need to talk.

He was good at right answers.

And I miss him.  And Curtis misses him.  And the kids miss him.

And I think he would have found the "hot feet" day kinda funny.  And then he would have told me I should probably just leave shoes for the kids at school and daycare so I don't forget.  And that if I could plan to have the kids pictures taken in October I could have Christmas cards done too ... and that Mom would like it if I did.

And in his gentle way he would let me know that I'm a great Mom who just needs to put a little effort into planning and organizing.

Miss you Dad.  If you're watching ... and I know you are ... I'm trying.  Really hard.  It's just some days are hard.  Some days you just have to have hot feet ...