What not to do 2 weeks after giving birth...

Disclaimer: No, I'm not talking about having sex. For that, I highly recommend getting a Doctor's note for a 2-year pass. This type of birth-control is 100% effective. Unless your name is Mary. Then who knows what may happen.

Recently, I dumped all my videos onto my computer...I came across a few little rubies, but this one in particular had me wincing with pain, in remembrance.

Let me set the scene: I had just given birth to my third child a couple of weeks prior to this video, and I was out visiting my parents in Manitoba. Jack was hollering from the bathtub to come have a look at something they were doing, which incidentally sounded like lots of fun, so I grabbed my video-camera and ventured in. Now, because I was filming upon entry into the can, I wasn't fully aware of where I was going to sit. I had quite a few stitches and was still a little worse for wear. So I spotted something blue out of the corner of my eye and thought, "Most excellent. That's the little blue stool Mom keeps in here for the kids." So I go to sit down. Hard. Because I know the height of these stools. And tell me it's not just me, but the force at which you go to sit on something is largely based on known height, firmness and strength of said object.

Well my friends, turns out that blue thing I spotted from the corner of my eye was a miniscule and flimsy plastic wetwipe holder - the ones that sort of look like a box and could pass for a stool if you're not looking directly at it. Needless to say, I misjudged the height and strength of said "stool", sat down way too hard and, with high levels of embarrassment I admit, I crushed that thing right to the floor. It was so fucking painful; I knocked my coccyx north of my esophagus.

Again, if pressed to identify the most disturbing aspect of this video, I'd be at a loss. However, it'd be a toss between the following:

1. Jack's interest in my well-being is absolutely zero; and he comes by this honestly. After witnessing a clumsy mishap, we're a family who laughs hysterically first, then asks if you're OK later. Much later. Like once-our-amusement-has-ended later, assuming we ever reach this point. Did I mention this affliction runs rampant in my family? Particularly my siblings - yes, I grew up with this sort of support. And I believe it's an actual medical condition. Yeah, it's called horribilus anus maximus - or simply asshole for short.
2. That I felt the need to shriek, "Mommy just fell!" Yeah, that's a No-Shit-Sherlock statement if I ever heard one.  Afterwards, I was amused to see that because the video camera handle had twisted in my hand, it ended up capturing Jack's absolute glee at my misfortune, as I lay dying on the floor. He's laughing so hard he can hardly breathe.
3. It's quite obvious I abruptly spliced the video at the end. In the interest of not having my blog receive an R-rating, I felt obliged to cut. Quite frankly, the multiple f-bombs that flew out of my mouth is embarrassing, and may reflect poorly on my application for Mother-of-the-Year award, which incidentally, I'm going to win. Clearly.

How to kill a mocking turd...

Warning: putting an end to a tyrant turd may require attempts to grab it out, or asking a bystander to go fetch a rope.

Let me preface this story by sharing some of the highlights of potty-training Son #1. His fascination with all things deposited in the toilet has no rival, and his running commentary leaves me breathless with anticipation. His comments have ranged from, and I quote (because yes, I've written these down): "Mommy, please move. I have to drop another bomber." to "Whoa. That's a big poop to put in a little bum." to "That poor little poop. He's so little. He's all by himself. He's going to fly back into my bum to find his family."  He's four. I suspect by the time he's a teenager, he'll be dictating novellas from the john.

And don't ask me where he gets his material. When gripped with need, my thought process rarely veers from (the ridiculously clever): "God, I need to hit the can."

And he always wants company. To him, privacy would be a waste of such fun. Without fail, within seconds of settling on the toilet for his daily constitution, he'll call from the bathroom: "Mommy! Come in here so we can have a chat." To which I inevitably wander in, take a whiff, keel over to the wall and say, "No, Jack. It smells like shit in here. Can we chat later?" He loves this line; it leaves him giggling with mirth, proud and ruthlessly unapologetic of his stench. He then gets all serious and says, "You can't leave, Mommy. I need to rest my head on your arm. It helps me." I suspect Freud, had he the opportunity to study my child, would have added an addendum to his theories on anal stage fixations.

The following video capture lands squarely in the "Whoa. That's a big poop to put in a little bum" category. I didn't measure it. And no, I didn't film the final kill shot. I'm not that sick. But believe me when I say, the end result was not something you'd expect a 4-year old to produce. The Loch Ness Monster perhaps, but not a child.

I'll admit, if pressed to disclose the most disturbing aspect of this story, I'd be at a loss. But it's a definite toss between the following:

1. That he admitted to trying to grab it out
2. That he suggested we get a rope (and that I do the tying)
3. That when summoned, I felt compelled to bring the video-camera.