The Princess and the Pee

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named The Princess.  She was super-sweet and unbelievably adorable, and she was diagnosed with autism at a very young age.

By the age of five, she was nonverbal and still wearing Pull-Ups.  Her momma and da knew it would be hard, but they were beginning to burn out on this whole potty training business after starting it when The Princess was about two years old.

And then one day, something clicked.  Momma put a pair of panties on under The Princess's Pull-Up, and she finally started to get it.  She still had accidents, but not nearly as many as before, and she seemed to be getting better and better as time went on.

This made her momma and da very happy.

Kindergarten started - The Princess's third year in school, if you can believe it - and she kept improving.  The Fabulous Mrs. G. didn't send home any wet pants or notes regarding misbehavior in the first two weeks.  In fact, the only note that she did send said that The Princess had taken herself to the bathroom twice during the school day, without any modeling, prompting or coaching from any of the staff members in the room.

Things were looking up.

Then, twice in one week, The Princess pooped in her little pink froggy potty.

And everyone lived happily ever after.  The end.

Cherish

"A friend is someone who knows us, but loves us anyway."

~Jerome Cummings

As I grow older, making my way toward the dreaded label of "adult" - which I'm sure I'll hit by the time I'm about 72 or so - I am amazed by the way things never really turn out how I think they will.  My perspective has shifted ever so slightly so damned many times in the last twenty years that I can hardly believe that silly little tween was me.

And so, at the ripe-old age of 31, I am here to share with you a small but very important portion of my infinite wisdom.  Pay attention, kids, 'cause here it comes.

Throughout my life, I've had many different sets of friends.  At times, I collected them like trophies to trot out and put on display for all to see.  When the going got rough, though, I always found out who was in it for the long haul.

There are plenty of people out there who are willing to call someone their friend.  Hell, these days it seems as though the majority of new friendships are started online - how sad is that? - and people don't even have to hold actual conversations.  Texting, facebook and twitter have replaced hanging out, talking on the phone until the wee hours of the night and riding your bike to your pal's house.  You can "like" something a person says or slam them without ever looking them in the face.

But when you get down to brass tacks, I'd be willing to bet you can count your true friends on one hand.  It's not a competition here, folks, and I know there will be exceptions, but I know it to be true in my own life and from observing those around me.

How many of your facebook friends would drop what they were doing and drive 30+ miles to bring you your spare set of car keys when you've locked yourself out of your car at a shopping mall in the dead of winter?

How many of your twitter followers would babysit your dogs while you deal with a family emergency?

How many people that you text with would stick out their neck for you?

How many of these "friends" would even pick up the phone if they saw your number on the Caller ID?

See?  Now I've got you thinking.  The gears are turning...I can hear them.  You're really not sure about most of those so-called friends, now, are you?

Do yourself a favor.  Go grab a pencil and a piece of paper - not a smart phone or a tablet...I want you to write this out for real.  I'll wait.

Now, write the names of your friends - not counting family - who you could count on to do any of the four things I mentioned above, no questions asked.

Look at the list.  Study it.  These are your real friends.  Slip this piece of paper into your pocket or your wallet, and revisit it every day. 

These are the people on whom you should be expending your energy.  These are the people who are going to be there for you when shit gets hard.  You need to do the same for them, or they may decide that somewhere down the line, you're no longer worth the time and effort...and these are not the people you want to lose due to neglect.

Nurture these relationships.  Cherish them.  Because when we're all old, grey and pruny, we want to be able to sit in a rocking chair on a porch, sipping sweet tea with our best friends, proudly looking back on our lives.  When I'm 72 (and, presumably, grown up), I want to sit there with T and reminisce about all the dumb shit we've done together...and all the dumb shit we're gonna do together in the next 41 years.

That's right, girlie.  This whole, big, rambling post is just another roundabout way to tell you that I love you. 

Happy birthday, T.  You're my bestie, and I plan on pestering you for a damn long time yet.

My Friend

I have this friend, arguably my best friend in the entire world...definitely in the top-most tier of buds, pals, what-have-you.  I've known him all my life, and he's always been there for me no matter what. 

1987: Sam, the family dog, passed away.  It was hard on everyone.  My friend showed up the next day with a little black puff of fur that won the hearts of the entire family.  Curly became our collective best bud, and he kept us company for eighteen wonderful years after that.

1988: I was seven years old when my best kiddo-pal down the block moved to Utah.  My friend understood and helped me to convince Momma Lady that I really could take care of my very own kitten.  That kitten and Curly became inseparable, and Kiki - I couldn't say kitty-kitty - became my personal protector.

1989: My friend showed up one evening with a pink Schwinn Fair Lady bicycle for my birthday.  It was perfect: vintage, a dark dusty rose color with a brand-new white banana seat.  I rode that thing for years, even blazing around the BMX track and completing my now-infamous no-footer over the plateau.  The boys never looked at me the same after that.

I could go on and on for days, weeks, years, telling you about some of the things he did for me while I was a kid.  Seeing as how none of us have that kind of time, I'll jump ahead to my adulthood.

2005: My friend made me giggle by being his usual goofy self during my wedding rehearsal, and that was all I could think about as he and I prepared to walk down the aisle the next day to meet my future.

2007: My friend became a grandfather, and he has devoted his life to adoring that little girl ever since.

My friend, as you may have guessed, is my father, better known in these parts as Pop.  Now, I know it may seem odd for a grown woman to count her daddy among her very best friends in the world, but I say screw convention.  This dude is the life of the party, and I will be a daddy's girl until the day I die.

Happy birthday, Pop.  I love you, man.

Unexplained

The Princess calmly came home from school yesterday, as she does most days.  She walked in the front door, dropped her pants and shuffled over to the potty.  She had her snack, gave out a round of hugs and retired to her room.

Five or ten minutes later, out of nowhere, she began to cry.  Loudly, and with gusto.  The Hubbs peeked his head into her room to see what was wrong, and she began to cry louder.  She didn't seem hurt, and nothing was obviously out of place in her room.

Grabbing her daddy's hand, she directed him toward the kitchen and flung his hand toward the gate.  He obliged her request, opening the gate for her to go through.  The moment the gate was open, her face turned tomato-red, and her hands flew up to cover her eyes while gigantic alligator tears spilled out of her eyes.

She didn't seem to want more food, and she wasn't interested in a drink.

Very purposefully, my girl directed her daddy to the screen door, which he opened for her.  She then proceeded to yank on the handle of her car door, still crying but getting her point across nonetheless.  At The Princess's request, her daddy helped her into her car seat and fastened her seat belt.  A couple of minutes later, he brought her snack out in case she was interested.

Our girl then proceeded to happily eat her trail mix while strapped into her car seat, alone in the dim garage.

And here is where I start to have trouble putting things into words.  I know that I will never be able to fully understand every aspect of her autism, but this one truly baffles me.  I'm just glad we were able to accommodate her request.

It Gets Easier

Two and a half years ago, I put my three-year-old girl on a bus for the first time.  The first step came up past her armpits.  This was not one of my better days as a momma.  I remember crying as the bus pulled away and wandering around the house with her blankie the whole time she was gone.

It seemed far too early.  I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that my toddler was going to be away from home for hours every day.  I didn't know what to do.

It's gotten easier every day since then.  The Princess absolutely adores The Fabulous Mrs. G., and she does a happy dance every time the bus arrives at the end of our driveway.

By now, she's an old pro.  The bus is no longer scary, and there are no nerves whatsoever (for any of us).

Even on the first day of kindergarten.

As I sent my girl off to school this morning, I was struck by how easy it has become.  We've been blessed with an amazing staff of folks working with our girl through the special education district, and I wouldn't trade any one of them for all the tea in China.

I was also struck by the idea that many of my friends and family will be sending their little ones off on buses for the first time very soon.  I'm here to tell you that it gets easier.

And I'm here if you want to talk.  I've been there, y'all.  Forcing myself to stay home instead of following the bus all the way to school, blubbering on the couch that first morning, ecstatic to get a phone call from Mrs. G. telling me that The Princess was okay, I went through every emotion in the book.  I get it.  I do.  And I'm thinking of you and your little ones as you embark on this journey.

Who's Counting?

5 years, 3 months, 27 days: this is the current running count of how long we've been using diapers of some sort in this house.

1: this is the number of children in this house.

10: this is about the average number of diaper-type contraptions she's gone through on a daily basis for the last 5 years, 3 months, 27 days.

Some days, it gets so frustrating I could just scream.  There are those days when it seems like every time I turn around, she's wet.  No matter how many times she sits on her pink froggy potty (with this cute little face that mocks me relentlessly), she just can't seem to make it happen.

And then there are other days.  It's like a switch; we're going to have a good day or a bad day.  There is no in between.  Typically, the stellar days are followed immediately by the rip-your-hair-out fests that leave us all exhausted by dinner time.

We have a budget for Pull-Ups, which we routinely break, but somehow I just can't bring myself to raise that number.

44: the number of generic potty training pants in a package that should last us two weeks in between paychecks.

13: the number of generic potty training pants remaining after less than one full week.

These were the numbers running through my head as The Hubbs and I discussed where the extra "dipe money" was going to come from last week (for those of you who are interested, we raided our gas fund).

Something has got to give.  The Fabulous Mrs. G insisted at the end of last school year that our girl had no need for Pull-Ups at school anymore.  We didn't understand how.  Home has always been different somehow.  Home is the land of regression and slipping effortlessly into old habits.

We've tried everything at one point or another.  Everything. 

Somehow, it seems like we consistently try things too early, and if we have the presence of mind to revisit them at a later date, we're nearly always pleasantly surprised.

And that's the phase I'm in right now: pleasantly surprised.

4: the number of days our girl has been wearing panties (under her generic potty pants)

3: the average number of soiled panties/dipes per day since we started this time

3: the number of dry nights in a row, including last night

I'm aware of the fact that these things ebb and flow (pardon the pun), and that I just need to roll with it.  I'm aware of the fact that The Princess is not any of the other kids I know who were potty-trained at lightning speed during any part of almost four years we've been working on this skill in our little yellow house.  I'm aware of the possibility that typing this all out loud could very well invite a hair-pulling bad day back in where things have been going so well.

I'm aware of all these things, but I just had to share this with you.  Why?  Because I really think you'll understand.  Because, even though things are going well, sometimes it's easy to dwell on the negative. 

Because, without sitting down and putting this into words, I wouldn't be able to see the biggest number clearly.

5 years, 3 months, 27 days: this is the running count of how long I've been a momma, the running count of time since my world changed forever.  This is the running count of my new life, of time elapsed at the most important and fulfilling job I'll ever have.

But who's counting?