The Belligerent Butt-Wiper


Now that my kids are growing up, it's harder for me to blog about them. Primarily because - while they don't care what I wrote about their toddlerhood shenanigans - they don't want the world to know what their older selves are up to (spoiler alert: mostly video games). I can't imagine why they wouldn't want their mother to publicly spill the beans about their every adolescent issue, but they don't seem too keen on the idea. Bunch of blog-derailing spoilsports, is what they are.*

*Side note: is anyone else totally thankful that social media didn't exist when we were kids? Because OH MY GOD THAT WOULD BE SO EMBARRASSING.

Fortunately, I still have one left - one newly-minted four-year-old - who doesn't give a flying fig what I say about him. And so I'm going to say this:

I am so. So. SOOOOO TIRED OF WIPING HIS BUTT.

As we all know, getting your kid officially potty-trained is far from the end of your toilet troubles. It's not like you're off the hook as soon as they can make it to the bathroom. So, while Corbin has been potty trained for over a year now, he still has trouble in one key area: namely, getting himself clean.
When a kid wipes, it isn't a neat process. They smeeeeeeear. Then it ends up everywhere - their fingers, the toilet seat, the backs of their legs, and whatever they happen to touch. Before you know it your bathroom looks like a turd massacre. It's poopocalypse up in there. And, oh, your crapper is now clogged because they use approximately 3/4 of a roll of toilet paper (while making an even bigger mess. Oh, the irony!).

So yeah. I wipe my kid's butt until he gains the fine motor skills or whatever skills are required to not make a freaking disastrous mess while doing it.

If he pooped once a day like a normal person, it wouldn't bother me so much. But here's the issue we're running into: the kid refuses to poop more than one little rabbit-turd at a time. Do you know how many little turds make up one giant poop? Like, twenty. Consequently, he's in the bathroom a bazillion times a day. And I hear the question that haunts my dreams: "MOM, CAN YOU WIPE MY BUTT?"

I have tried patiently explaining it to him. "Hey buddy, can you sit there a little bit longer? Because if there's one piece of poop, that means there are more waiting to get out."

And he'll sit. And he'll sit. And the poop will dry onto his butt and require a chisel and a belt sander to remove. And still he'll say, "Nope! No more poop!"

... Yet ten minutes later: "MOM! CAN YOU WIPE MY BUTT?"

Y'all? It's driving me certifiably crazy. We are going through toilet paper like we're eating it (and it's actually not Cameron this time). I've purchased enough flushable wet wipes to pave a damp, squishy, fresh-scented path from here to Australia.

No matter how important a task I'm doing, I can almost guarantee that it'll be interrupted by the request from the bathroom. I keep trying to remind myself that this is a phase ... but the question is, how many more times can I drop everything and buff his booty-hole before I GO OFF THE DEEP END?! You may be witness to my descent into total madness.

Hopefully it will at least make for some good blog posts.


Yo, Y'all.

Hiiiiiiiiiiii! (do me a favor and read that in that voice you use when you haven't seen somebody forever and you run into them in the grocery store and you're like, "Oh shit, I should have given them a call or something.")

I seriously have missed you guys and judging by the LOADS* of concerned emails I've been getting, you've been wondering about me, too.

*And by "loads" I mean that one concerned email about whether I'm able to satisfy my partner without buying these herbal penis enhancements. Oh. Wait.

Ahem.

Anyway, I'm going to do a rundown of randomness right now because you've obviously been dying to know what I've been up to. And then you tell me in the comments what YOU'VE been up to, and we'll be caught up.

BUT FIRST. Just in case you do want to chat on a more regular basis (BECAUSE WHO WOULDN'T?!), you can follow me on Facebook here, on Twitter here, and on my personal favorite - Instagram - here, where I will follow you back if you're not set to private. Or just go to all these places and search for "@fightingfrumpy" if you'd rather. I'm not here to tell you how to live your life.

Okay. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, brace yourselves for the Bullet Points of Complete Randomness:

- The reason I have been writing less frequently here because I'm now an official staff writer for Scary Mommy, which has been one of my personal favorite blogs since, I don't know, FOREVER. (Jill Smokler - the Scary Mommy - commented on this post waaaaay back in 2009 when my third son was born and I nearly pissed myself.) So the chance to write for the site on a regular basis has been, as you can imagine, a dream come true. Read all my stuff here because it makes me look extra-valuable as a writer, mmkay?

- Speaking of nearly pissing myself. A while back I had the honor of being interviewed by a site called Thread M.B. (and you can read the interview here because it's awesome. I know ... links! Links everywhere!) Anyway, I subscribe to the Thread M.B. email updates and this is what I saw in my inbox when the interview went live yesterday:


And I totally squealed because HELLO THAT IS ME RIGHT BESIDE CHEF ROBERT IRVINE FROM THE FOOD NETWORK. He was interviewed by Thread M.B. too. I am in love with his shows and even my picture can't help but fangirl. See? (Fun fact: this photo was taken at the Center of Science and Industry, where I had literally just gotten shocked by a machine.) Anyway, I was so excited. BECAUSE ROBERT IRVINE.


There. Fixed it.

- Okay. So. It's summertime and I have four children home with me all day erry day and I'm trying to work and they're trying to be kids and it just doesn't mesh. (They are also apparently aiming for a world record at food consumption because OMFG.) I love them but I will be soooo glad when school starts in a few weeks. Holla if you hear me.

- As you know we recently moved to Ohio and our town is right on Lake Erie. Having spent the majority of my life as a landlocked Midwesterner, I don't have much experience with beaches. Now that we live close to one, my kids want to go there all the time. The first time we went I was WOEFULLY unprepared for the situation (wouldn't be the first time, heh!). I put sunscreen on them - they went into the water - then they rolled around in the sand. So sand was clinging to their bodies like sugar clings to a really good doughnut. But did I remember to bring towels? NO. And sand just doesn't brush off, apparently. So I made them strip down naked behind the door of our van and tried to use their clothes to get the sand off. And then their clothes were sandy. So they had to ride home naked and run from the driveway to the house naked and got sand all over the place. The moral of this story is that I hate sand and I hate the beach. The end.

- Also. I have been interrupted two separate times during the writing of this post by my newly-four-year-old, who is in the habit of pooping ONE. TURD. AT A TIME. Like eight times a day. Instead of getting it all out at once, he likes to stagger it and then yell - inevitably, from the upstairs bathroom - "MOM CAN YOU WIPE MY BUTT?" At least I'm getting a lot of steps on my Fitbit. Gotta look on the bright side. But I'm tired of wiping asses so pleeeeeease remind me of this the next time I so much as think briefly about having another baby. K?

- I'm going to be doing some giveaways in the near future - stuff to make you beautiful, because this blog is called "Fighting off Frumpy," after all - so keep yo' eyes peeled.

All right. I know it's hard to handle this much epic literary genius at once (links! Turds! Sand! Robert Irvine!), so I'm just gonna step back now and let you take it all in.

See y'all on Instagram!

The Perilous Pee-Hole

I am almost thirty-six years old with a deep, abiding love for carbohydrates and have birthed four children - the last one via an emergency C-section, which left me with an unfortunate flap of skin hanging over my scar. CUTE. Needless to say, my figure over the years has transmogrified into something less "girlish" and more "girthish." Not like when I was twenty-one and could pinch a one-inch roll of extra skin and thought it was fat.

*goes back in time to slap 21-year-old self*

So recently I had the pleasure of attending my best guy friend's fancy-schmancy black tie wedding. And after I consulted the Internet to make sure I did not, in fact, have to actually wear a black tie, I chose my dress. A floor-length, form-fitting dress. A dress that, while gorgeous, was not especially forgiving when it came to exposing my various lumps and bumps and flaps. So I did what any lumpy, bumpy, flappy thirtysomething would do: I bought a pair of Spanx.

Now, I've had shapewear before. But it was always cheap, like six-bucks-from-Walmart-cheap. And I've heard Spanx are on a whole other level when it comes to flesh compression. This fancy wedding called for some fancy underthings, y'all. So here's what I got.

Image via Kohl's.

(Side note: DOES THIS WOMAN EVEN LOOK LIKE SHE NEEDS SPANX?! There's, like, nothing to spank. It's like she's pushing her stomach out to make it appear as though she has something to hold in. Or is that a hipbone? Anyway ...)

I got the big, boob-height ones because I wanted to make sure all the fat didn't squish up and make some sort of weird roll around my rib cage.

When you buy fancy fat-squeezing pants, you apparently get extra amenities that knockoff Spanx lack: namely, A PEE HOLE. A convenient opening, right in the crotch, which would apparently enable you to pee without having to wrestle the Spanx down like a walrus in a wetsuit. I was intrigued. (Also: fresh air to the lady-parts. Thank you sweet baby Jesus.)

The day before the wedding, I shimmied (okay - more like grunted, tugged, and heaved) my way into the Spanx for a test run. I wanted to see how they felt - but more importantly, I wanted to see if the pee hole would make it easy to "go" while encased in my shapewear sheath. I briefly canvassed the Internet for tips, but oddly, there's a huge lack of advice out there for successful peeing while Spanxsed. Go figure.

I squat-straddled the toilet, widening my stance as best I could, and gingerly held one side of the pee-hole out of the way with a crooked finger. But something told me even that wouldn't prevent me from soiling my Spanx, so I wadded up some toilet paper and held it against the edge of the pee-hole just in case. As my bladder did its thang, I tried to adjust my position accordingly. One hip lifted, then the other; shoulders hunched at odd angles; neck craned awkwardly so I could see what was going on down there. Tilting this way and that, trying to aim the stream as best I could without a ... a ... what's that apparatus people use to direct their pee flow? Oh yeah. A PENIS.


I felt kind of like this, except, you know, not graceful or athletic. And on the shitter.

So here I am, hovering over the toilet in some weird contorted position, trying to keep the pee-hole pee-free, when all of a sudden ...

I felt a searing pain in my lower back, like someone was jabbing my spine with a cattle prod.

Yes, you read that right: I INJURED MYSELF TRYING TO PEE THROUGH A HOLE IN MY UNDERGARMENTS.

At that point I didn't care if I shit in my Spanx - I was in pain. So I finished up peeing and wiped without giving a damn and waddled out of the bathroom, still bent over and calling for my husband.

"Currrrtiiiiiiis?" I whimpered.

I couldn't see his expression when he discovered me there, hunched and hobbling, but I can only assume he was marveling at how amazing his wife is and reflecting on his incredible luck.*

*No, you're delusional.

Anyway, once he quit laughing he massaged my back until I was able to straighten up again. And after a few stretches and a fistful of ibuprofen and a whole bunch of whining, I was right as rain. Or at least able to walk normally.

I learned a valuable lesson during my trial run of the Spanx: peeing through the hole can be more trouble than actually de-Spanxing and peeing like a normal person. It might take a couple minutes longer (and you might end up out of breath) but at least you can walk upright when all is said and done. So that's exactly what I did throughout the reception whenever the alcohol - I mean, urine - needed to make an exit.

... Until I took those bitches off and twirled them around my head and wobbled in all my Spanx-less, gussied-up glory to a 7-11 at 2 a.m. and ending up sharing convenience store pizza with a bunch of homeless people across from Boston Common.

But that's a story for another time.

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