Wild Dream!!!

I had the weirdest dream that I just had to share. Facts that are true,observations, and questions are put in parenthesis throughout the story.

I dreamed the Honeybear was taking me somewhere to meet my grandparents, and I don't think we were married, just dating. I was taking an airplane ride with them. We go thru this small broken down town, and I see and pass by 'Shirlann's Donut and Hamburger Drive In' (Yep, set up like a Sonic). Something told me that her house was not far from this, and that it was painted different colors that I would recognize. Sure enough, there was her house, being painted on the outside... blues, purples... yep, I recognized it all right! But we did not stop, we continued driving, and the town is virtually messed up... broken down houses and such. Many look like trees have fallen on them and destroyed them.

The next thing I know, I am out of the car, and I pass by this house that has a statue of I am guessing Mary. Instead of her classic hands down pose, she's got her hand on her forehead, and she's crying! I did a double-take look at her because her hands are moving, and she's talking to people. Honestly, she looks like she is having a major PMS moment. But I am fascinated, because how many times do statues talk, and what is it trying to say? (In reality, I was raised Catholic, and consider myself half Catholic. I go to Mass, but I am not hardcore Catholic. I don't believe in confession to priests, purgatory, or praying to all these statues.Mary has no real importance to me... its Jesus Christ that I believe in, and pray to. But, I find going to Mass a place where I can really concentrate on praying, and the idea of communion every week keeps me in line. I am a hardcore believer in communion.)

I keep moving, because I can't hear what she's crying about and saying to others. Somewhere, the Honeybear disappears, and I catch up with my sister, and she's a kid. (In reality, my sister and I aren't even speaking to each other.) She has this navy blue shirt on. I am guessing she is about 8 or 9 years old. We find Grandmother and Grandfather, and they look like they did back in the 1970's. (Grandfather died in 1982, Grandmother died in 2004 - why am I acting like I've seen them all the time, why aren't I extremely happy to see them? Esp. my Grandfather!!!) They hand us some tickets, and tell us that we're going to go see Uncle Jay. (also dead now... but when I was around 8, Grandmother and Grandfather took me -via plane- to Virginia to see him) We find seats, and we're sitting across from my grandparents.The plane is not crowded at all. It's somewhere around here that I discover that I am not a woman, but probably a teenager.An airline stewardess hands us some packaged crackers, but nothing to drink. I keep thinking, 'And we're supposed to wash this down, how?' I told my sister to start swallowing when we start down the runway so she doesn't hurt her ears. We gain altitude, but I notice we aren't ever above the clouds. Then, there are other planes around, and they aren't flying right either. I start having fun at my sister's expense, because I am trying to make her scared. "Look! It's gonna crash!" I said. My sister is like 'Stop it! Stop it!' Oh yeah, I am having fun now! Then our own plane gets really near this other one, and a real crash is avoided only at the last second! The pilot obviously gets orders to land our plane prematurely, and he does so on some sort of wooden deck. There are other cars on the deck, and it is near a wooden house. Most everyone gets off the plane including the pilot, and my grandparents. Somehow, after this, my sister manages to wreck the plane into one of the cars, and I tell her how she is going to get into such major trouble!!!

We get off the plane, and people are trying to make all the passengers feel better by feeding them swedish meatballs. I ask Grandmother if she is going to call our parents, and she says, "No!" I guess she doesn't want to tick Mom off. The dream comes to an end when I am trying to find the Honeybear's phone number on my cell phone to call him. I was never scared about the flight, just wanted to talk to him. And that's the end.

Potty Training

My oldest daughter commented that even though my youngest daughter is eighteen, if you say the word, 'poo poo', it will still make her laugh. Sherri is further convinced that Ashley will never get out of the potty humor stage, no matter how old she is.

It made us start thinking of potty training. I was a pretty confident new mom all of those years ago, except for when it came to one thing... potty training.

I got lucky with Sherri. Even when Sherri was a baby, she wanted to be older than she was. I found and bought a potty chair that had a tray that attached to it. I would sit her on it, let her watch tv, and anytime I heard her tee-teeing, I would praise the heck out of her. She liked the praise.

I also bought two different kinds of underwear. Some of it was character underwear, some of it was frilly girl kind. Then I bought ugly, terry cloth training pants. I would show her both kinds. I told her that if she was a BIG GIRL and tee tee'd and poo poo'd in the potty that she would get to wear these BEAUTIFUL, BIG GIRL PANTIES! But if she tee tee'd or poo poo'd in her pants, then she would have to wear these UGLY, AWFUL, BABY PANTIES!

It worked! And at only eighteen months, she was potty trained. It was a good thing too, because we were really scarce for money back then, and being pregnant with her sister, we just could not afford two kids in diapers!

When Ashley came around, I did not try to get her potty trained at eighteen months. I waited about a year later before even attempting the feat. She was the 'baby' of the family, and she liked her status of being so. (Still does...) We had also moved away when Ashley was potty trained, and the original potty chair that Sherri had was lost in transit. I had to get a different chair, and could not find the same kind of chair. None of them had that wonderful tray to keep them occupied while on the potty.

Unfortunately, sometime AFTER Sherri was potty trained, but sometime BEFORE Ashley was potty trained, this horrible product came out on the market: Pull Ups. I still want to punch whoever the person or persons responsible that invented this nightmare nearly twenty years later. I'd punch them right in the nose!

You guessed it. Ashley wanted some. Plain and simple, we couldn't afford them. They were hugely expensive, and they gave nowhere near the pull ups that a regular pack of diapers did. And then, even though there were always plenty of diapers in her diaper bag, somebody during Sunday School changed her, and put a pull up on. Horrors! I still would not relent! But my potty training confidence that I had acquired with Sherri was going right down the proverbial toilet with Ashley! She did not care about pretty, frilly panties or ugly panties or even 'Little Mermaid' panties. She did not want 'Big Girl Panties' at all. She wanted pull ups.

Needless to say, this child was four and a half before she was potty trained. Oh, she'd poo in the potty; but she'd pee everywhere but the potty it seemed. I worried that I would be sending her to school in diapers. I took her to doctors to make sure that she was ok in that department. She was. In a word, she was stubborn. She did not want to grow up. So, I had to get stubborn right there with her. Afterall, I was NOT sending this child, who was bright in all other areas, to school in a mere few months in diapers!!!

I gave her a cold bath everytime she wet her pants. Oh my gosh, I prayed that no one would think I was torturing my child, and that the neighbors would not start calling CPS when the screams and protests of a four year old began with each and every cold bath. 

Miraculously, the Cold Bath War only lasted two days, and she became officially potty trained. I had won that stubborn battle. (I've yet to win the Stubborn War with her... but that's for another time.)

It got me to thinking about times, and how they have changed. When I was potty training Sherri, we lived near our parents, and my mom started giving me a hard time about getting Sherri potty trained when she was just over a year old. I didn't think she was ready at all when my mother started her 'She's getting to be too old to be in diapers' bit. "Mom", I said, "She just started walking!" "It doesn't matter!", my mom countered. "YOU were twelve months old when you were potty trained!" "Twelve months old?!?", I gasped, thinking that I finally had her. "Mother, I didn't start walking until I was fifteen months old!" (I started out in life with a clubbed left foot) "Yes," she countered, "But you certainly knew how to say 'Potty Momma!!'"

I couldn't believe it. I certainly thought my mother had flipped. Until I read that back then, babies as young as six months old could be potty trained, and it seemed to be the norm back then. Mom had all of her marbles afterall! I guess it made sense. Back then, diapers were not disposable, and the mere thought of having to wash out all of those diapers on a constant, daily basis would certainly send me scrambling for a better way. Has disposable diapers made our generation a lazier bunch? When was the last time YOU heard of a potty trained baby at twelve months old? Would that make him or her a 'potty prodigy'? And on the flip side, has Pull Ups made our children... 'Pottily Challenged'? And at what costs?

Boy, the diaper manufacturers knew what they were doing... it kinda makes you want to punch all of the diaper people square in the nose, doesn't it?              

Age Is Relevant?

Here's a funny story I have to tell you. It's all about the age thing.

 When I was a little kid, I asked my Grandmother how old she was. She said '39'. OK. I was a little kid. To a 5 or 6 year old, 39 is old enough! lol So, then I ask my paternal grandmother (whom we all called 'Mom') how old she was. She said 42. Well, then, that made perfect sense to me. Neither of them had grey hair, so that was all the better for believing. I went on believing that for a few years... although my Grandmother made it hard to believe when she said she was '39' again. And then, right around the time (my gm) Mom and I had our birthdays (she and I were born in the same month. She on the 2nd and me on the 22nd) we were visiting, and she said she was born in 1913. I remember being 9 that year. So, I did the math. That was 64. 64 is a long ways away from 39. (Remember, this was coming from a 9 year old's point of view!) I got to thinking about it. My mom was 31 that year. That's kinda impossible for an 8 year old to have a baby! Not to mention that Aunt Gail was five years older than mom. A three year old??? Even if she wasn't 39, but 43 instead! That would put her having Aunt Gail at the age of seven! And I am even knowing that my Grandfather is 64 as well at this time... but I have to hand it to Grandfather, he never ever lied about his age. (He was four months younger than my paternal grandmother, and two years younger than my paternal grandfather, Pop.) So, Pop is 66, Mom and Grandfather is 64, and Grandmother is 39? 43?? Why would someone want to marry someone thirty years younger than he is??? I am frustrated, but I love my Grandmother, since she (and Grandfather) were closest to us. (They lived about a mile from us) And, of all things, Easter comes around. We had Grandmother and Grandfather over for Easter Dinner. I am in the back, and my Grandmother is talking to my mother in the kitchen. "I'll be 61 in June", I overhear her telling her. I turn away from going into the kitchen (I wasn't intentionally eavesdropping) and figure it all out. She's 61! That's old! She could die at any time!!! (remember, I am still 9 in this story!) And I do some further investigating that reveals she was born in 1916... which is a long way from 1977!!!  I felt a little betrayed that she lied to me all of this time... but she's my Grandmother, and I forgive her, and I continued to play along with her '39' story. Although the next time she tells me she's 39, (which happened to be on her birthday that year) I whispered her real age in her ear, but continue to go along with the story.

And now I am 39. For the first time. But I think that if any grandchildren ask me in the future, I'll be honest with them... no matter how many times I am 39 by then. Honesty really is... the best policy!