What Could Be More Fun?

Recently, a friend gave me an extra copy of a book about wrapping presents in creative ways. There are so many things wrong with this concept I'm not sure where to start.

Of course, there's the time factor. If it comes from my house to yours, you're lucky if it's not wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. Plus, that's the only wrapping material that my son can't easily shred.

And there's the eco-factor. All that crisp new wrapping paper likely came from what used to be a fresh pine tree that was cut from a plantation where native hardwoods used to be. We believe in hand-me-down gift wrap in my family. In fact, there's a gift box stored away amid my mother's Christmas stuff that has been in circulation for as long as I can remember. You get a present in that box, and you're getting the gift of history!

But as I flipped through the book, here's the sentence that irked me the most:

"What could be more fun than packing an individual lunch in an unusual take-out carton complete with a faux lobster tail artfully arranged and attached with a charming black ruffle-edged ribbon?"

Are you kidding me?

I can think of a million things that would be more fun. Like paying down my equity line. Fixing the new dent in my already-dented Subaru. Meeting my deadlines.

Or more importantly, actually interacting personally with the people I care about most, rather than "packaging" my feelings for them. I'd much rather bring you a brown bag of wine and spend time laughing over a couple of glasses with you than showing up late with a beautifully wrapped bottle.

I'm not saying that a beautifully wrapped package isn't a nice gesture — it's just not a high priority at my house. So as the holiday season approaches, I offer this consolation to my friends and relatives: it may not be pretty, but it will be wrapped with love. (And if you can't appreciate that, I've got another nice gesture for you.)

A new take on potty training

Amid the chaos of work and family life lately, I've noticed a little sub-theme emerging. And sadly, it's all about pee. Not mine, but my three-year-old son's. He's so close to being potty trained that my husband and I each have one thumb on the champagne cork, so to speak.

It's amazing what becomes cause for celebration once you have kids. It's also amazing how pervasive bodily functions become in everyday conversation. This was reinforced earlier this week when I called a friend - a mother of three - and overheard her saying in exasperation "there's no pee in the bathtub!" to her daughter before she could get the receiver to her mouth to say "hello" to me.

Potty training is the Holy Grail of early parenthood. But perhaps my husband and I have pushed the whole "potty training" obsession too far. We must have discussed the phrase one time too many within earshot of the boy. Here's why I say that:

The other evening, as we're wrapping up a family dinner with Grandma ("Ganna") at our house, I notice the tell-tale sign of something amiss — the boy is quiet. I spy him around the corner, leaning a little to the left and shuffling a foot.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Don't look at me," he says.

I know what that means. He's peed in his pants...again.

Daddy cleans him up and the evening continues, until I happen to notice Thomas the Train playing cards on the living room floor. In a puddle. Soaked. And it ain't water.

I grab the rag and cleaner and re-soak everything. My mother looks on in amusement.

Only later does it occur to me: He needed to go to the potty. He saw trains.
Maybe he was "potty training!"

Pop the cork, honey! That's good enough for me!

Naming the Next Wonder Drug

My husband and I frequently laugh about the names of prescription drugs we see ads for on television. Names like "Abilify" or "Boniva" or "Advair."

I picture a conference room full of over-confident, adrenaline-pumped young ad execs throwing darts adorned with parts of nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs to see which ones strike the bullseye. Or maybe they randomly draw letters out of someone's shoe until someone can make a word out of them. Or perhaps they just get really drunk, and then try to speak about the medication's properties and have one sober person write down all the slurred words.

But seriously, I'm sure there's a science to it - so to speak.

Why don't I have that job?

I could do it. Really.

In fact, I've already developed sophisticated names for drugs that I'm sure will one day be on the market:

Nopia - instantly potty trains your kids

Zombiza - transforms active, noisy children into quiet television watchers

Noitol - automatically provides correct and impressive answers the thousands of questions your kids, husband and colleagues ask each day

Pasdua - eliminates the pain and stigma of library fines

Pheedol - cooks dinner for everyone

Flaccinex - gets rid of that sagging skin below your jawline as you age

Noresta - a sleep aid, especially for "the weary"

And, my favorite:

Damitol - locks you in the bathroom with a tub of bubbles and a bottle of bubbly while the rest of the world fends for itself

Are you paying attention, high-priced ad execs? Anyone want to fly me up to New York for a well-paid brainstorming session?

- Betsey

Why NOT to yell at your kids

My husband sometimes says I shouldn't "scream" at our kids. Not that it's an everyday occurrence. I do raise my voice occasionally. Sometimes I may even yell. But as I once told my husband, "That isn't screaming. You've never heard me scream. You'd know it if you did."

Well, the young son heard it this morning. While daughter and Dad were away, in the midst of the get-ready-for-school rush, he pees in his pants not once, but twice. This from a kid who's pretty much potty trained, and who had told me only minutes before the second incident, "I won't do it again."

The first time just got one brief, exasperated outburst. But the second? Boy howdy. I let loose with a tantrum like the 13-year-old girl next door.

I let him know, loudly, that I was disappointed in his behavior. (Not him, but his behavior. See, I'm up on some of the modern parenting psycho-tactics.) I let him know that pee on the floor was gross. I plopped him into the bathtub to remove his second set of soiled clothes by himself. I stomped back and forth cleaning up the puddle.

And you know what that little booger did next? He giggled. Giggled! Apparently Mommy acting like a pre-teen is FUNNY!

I'd like to say that in that moment, I suddenly realized the humor in the situation, too. That we both collapsed on the floor in laughter, had a big TV-moment hug and went on with our morning.

Sadly, that wasn't the case. I continued my rant for a little while longer and we eventually got out the door and off to school. (But we did have a hug - always.)

Did I make my point and convince him never to pee in his pants again? Of course not. Did I feel better after losing my cool? Nope. Can I now see the humor in the situation?  Begrudgingly, yes.

Do I feel better sharing this with my fellow SLUTS? Damn straight.

Look for me in the kindergarten carpool line in a couple of years, ladies. I'll be the one laughing while I send my son into class with a bag of pull-ups.

- Betsey